Chapter Twelve
The church on the hillside was not a holiday home for a city official. It had been repurposed as Heliarth’s gaol, tucked up
on the tallest hill where miscreants could be dealt with far away from the sprawling city below.
Cyrus wavered on his feet by the time he reached it, sweating and cold all at once, his bandage already soaked through. He
was marched around the back of the building, following a path that narrowed until it was little more than a thin dirt track
leading to an iron gate topped with spikes. His guards had not spoken to him throughout the journey, other than to deliver
brusque commands to keep going whenever he slowed. They kept their silence now, as did Balthazar. He’d barely glanced at Cyrus
the whole time.
They passed through the gate and into the church, the temperature immediately dropping.
Cyrus shivered, clammy and uncomfortable as sweat cooled at his nape and the small of his back.
The air tasted of old stone and rain. Their footsteps echoed as they took a winding staircase to a floor that was colder still, the only light provided by guttering lamps bracketed on each wall at regular intervals.
Cells were marked by iron gates, only a few occupied.
A bored-looking attendant stood up from his slouch on an upturned crate and stretched, the ring of keys at his belt jangling noisily.
He eyed Cyrus with surprise, then alarm.
“Oi, doesn’t he cause—”
“Yes, he can bring about earthquakes,” Balthazar said shortly. His hand was already outstretched for the keys. “No, he is
not about to bring the building down. He’s injured. Maximillian stabbed him.”
Cyrus gritted his teeth. He wished, more than anything, that Balthazar wasn’t right about his magic. As they passed through
the city, jeering faces turned greedily in his direction and chants of Maximillian’s name chasing after him, he had tried
to reach again for the power he’d felt surge so instinctively when Maximillian wounded him. But now that the initial shock
had passed, his magic had retreated into some deeper part of him, coiled up where he could not access it. His strength was
too depleted. There was no power to call to his fingertips, not until his body recovered.
“Why didn’t he finish him off?”
“It is not up to you to question our city’s champion. The keys.”
The gaoler pursed his lips, hitching the ring up and prising a key from it. “He can have the cell round the corner, at the
far end,” he muttered. “Don’t want him nowhere near me.”
One of Cyrus’s guards pressed a hand to the small of his back to get him to move. The door of the far cell screeched as it opened, the spikes at the bottom scraping along well-worn grooves in the stone slab. Balthazar stood aside. “In,” he said.
Cyrus summoned the darkest look he could muster. He longed to resist, even if only to make Balthazar lose his cool. But the
wound burned and throbbed and he knew he would not win. He stepped stiffly inside, his teeth grinding so tightly his jaw ached.
The cell was small, a bare dirt floor with a narrow wooden bed along one side and a slit for a window, too high to reach and
crisscrossed with thin metal bars. On one wall an engraved sun rose, and on the opposite it set, a throwback to more pious
times. Had these cells always been tucked away beneath the church, a place to throw those who did not pray hard enough?
He turned back towards his captors. Balthazar had not yet fully closed the door. They stared at each other for one long, tense
moment. Cyrus wordlessly held his wrists out.
Balthazar looked down at the rope, each rough knot spitting coarse fibres. They were tied too tightly, bloodless white ridges
biting into the skin below.
Balthazar surveyed this in judgemental silence. Then he stepped back, turning his face away from Cyrus. Under a burst of irritation,
Cyrus was grudgingly impressed. He hadn’t counted on Balthazar being quite so petty.
“I will speak to a physician and fetch a tincture to ensure he causes no trouble,” he told the gaoler. “Do not speak to him.
Ensure that nobody goes near him. Under Maximillian’s orders, only I will interact with the prisoner.”
He didn’t look at Cyrus again before he turned and walked away, the guards at his back.
“Here.”
Balthazar took longer to return than Cyrus anticipated. He had started to wonder whether his absence was the only lifeline
Cyrus would be offered; whether he was expected to rescue himself.
Now Balthazar stood at Cyrus’s door, frowning down at him. A bundle of fabric was tucked under one arm, and he held a metal
plate and cup.
Cyrus looked at him critically, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall of the cell, his legs stretched in front of
him and his bound arms held awkwardly to his chest. Sitting down had helped clear his head, which also meant he was swiftly
reminded of every ache and sting from each bruise and cut on his body. Not pleasant, but he would take the pain over foggy
thoughts and a sense of slipping control any day.
“I’m not in a position to come and take them from you, if that’s what you’re waiting for,” Cyrus drawled. “Somebody forgot
to untie my wrists, see.”
Balthazar’s frown deepened. But he bent and placed his items on the ground, fishing out the key to unlock the door. Cyrus
watched in silence as he scooped his items back up and brought them closer, trying not to look too interested. The bread and
cheese he could take or leave, though he’d eat for strength. The water lapping at the metal rim of the cup had never looked
so enticing.
Balthazar knelt beside Cyrus and looked at him, waiting. When Cyrus didn’t offer his wrists, Balthazar huffed and pulled his arms firmly down from his chest, his fingers making quick work of the knots.
“Ow,” said Cyrus. Balthazar ignored him.
The rush of blood as the rope came free hurt almost as much as the stab wound. Cyrus exhaled sharply, pulling his arms away
from Balthazar and rubbing at them. His wound throbbed petulantly with each movement.
“Now for that,” Balthazar muttered, his eyes on the soaked bandages. Cyrus held reluctantly still as the bandages were unwound
and his cloak eased from his shoulders. He couldn’t hold back a slight flinch as Balthazar picked up the ripped edges of his
shirt and tore it further to expose the wound beneath.
He didn’t look. Looking made it feel worse, he’d learned that long ago. He wasn’t exactly riddled with scars from his days
as a young wrongdoer, when he’d still been actively seeking champions to fight, but there had been a couple of close calls.
The downside of avoiding champions with magic was that champions without magic tended to take their weapons training more seriously.
But it had been a while. Years. Maybe even close to a decade. Cyrus had forgotten how much a wound could burn.
“Not too bad,” Balthazar said under his breath. His mouth pursed at Cyrus’s scoff. “I mean, it doesn’t look too serious. As
long as it’s clean and the bleeding’s stopped, it should be fine. Which you should be pleased about, not offended by.”
Cyrus didn’t respond. He could choose his battles.
Balthazar reached for the fabric he had brought—muslin cloth and fresh bandages—and from his waistcoat pocket withdrew three small glass vials.
He flicked the stopper out of one with his thumb and used the liquid to wet the cloth.
A vinegary scent rose from it, astringent and sharp.
The cloth was pressed to the wound, the sting intense and immediate. Cyrus gritted his teeth, blinking back traitorous tears.
If Balthazar dared comment, Cyrus would let him mastermind an escape and then push him into the sea.
But Balthazar stayed silent. He cleaned the wound quickly, then tied fresh bandages around Cyrus’s waist with nimble fingers.
An image sprang to mind: a younger Maximillian, smooth-faced and brash, fidgeting under Balthazar’s hands as his assistant
patched him up following a fight. A younger Balthazar too, strange as the notion was. He would be quick, because Maximillian
was impatient, but gentle; efficient but caring. Was that how it used to be between them?
Balthazar moved backwards. He wiped his fingers clean, then picked up the second glass vial, setting it on the plate. He pushed
it closer to Cyrus.
“To help with the pain,” he said. “White willow bark and clove. It’s not poison.”
Cyrus knew it wasn’t. Balthazar wouldn’t disobey Maximillian like that. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous in his own
way.
“You planned this,” he stated. He’d had time enough to piece that together, sitting down here with only his thoughts for company.
Balthazar glanced up, halfway through tidying the used bandages into a neat bundle. “You ending up in the gaol? It’s not my
preferred outcome, but—”
“Fighting in Heliarth,” Cyrus interrupted. “Where he wouldn’t be able to hold back.”
Balthazar eyed him. There was a hint of wariness there, which should have been gratifying. He had schemed against Cyrus. He
had tried to get him killed. Cyrus had sought revenge for far less.
But, galling as it was, he needed Balthazar right now.
When Cyrus didn’t spit a deadly threat or attempt to throttle him with the bandages, Balthazar looked away. “You’re bad for
him,” he said.
Maximillian’s mad-dog grin danced through Cyrus’s mind. The way he’d looked, exhilarated, with wine drenching his clothes
and chaos reigning around him.
“Maybe he wasn’t entirely good in the first place.”
He expected protestation. Instead, Balthazar indicated the vial. “If you drink that we can get on with the plan,” he muttered.
Cyrus would tell himself that was a suggestion, not an order. He tipped the contents of the vial into his mouth, the sweet
spice of cloves biting through the willow, before turning his attention to the food and drink. The water was fresh and cold,
gone too swiftly, but it soothed his throat. When the cheese was eaten and the bread with it, Cyrus slanted his eyes to Balthazar.
“Now what?”