Chapter Seventeen
Earthshaker: Athaca’s Greatest Menace?
Cyrus smirked out from the front page of Athaca News. Dark blond hair, painstakingly inked, fell into perfect waves about his face. His grin was self-assured, a touch of menace
about the curl of his lip. His eyes sparked purple fire.
Flesh-and-blood Cyrus stared down at the parchment, standing in the doorway of his lair.
The daily news had been dropped off with the latest offerings from his townsfolk, stacked against the side of the mountain.
More milk than he could drink in a week, four different types of bread, sweetmeats and berries and six small cakes slotted side by side in a crate.
The baker had taken to experimenting with different flavours in the desperate hope of winning approval.
Today he offered cardamom, lavender, rose, ginger, caraway, and orange.
Apparently, the bakery had never been more successful. He had Cyrus to thank for that.
He looked back at the parchment. It included a lengthy write-up paying homage to his style of wrongdoing. He spotted the word
flair twice. Someone had taken the time to compile statistics from the past few months, from the number of towns where he’d wreaked
havoc to lists of his alleged victims. Cyrus didn’t recognise half of them. The tavern owner from Arclee was there, and the
winemaker from Dorre. Apparently he’d traumatised one of the bakers from the village near Cepha into giving up his business,
too afraid that Cyrus might return and bake him into one of his own pies.
Earthshaker does not rely on simple violence, the journalist warned, but in many ways, this makes him more dangerous. He is unpredictable. He could come for your home or your livelihood or your
family, as his villainous whims take him. He is best avoided, and should be treated with extreme caution.
Finally, the appreciation he deserved.
And yet, in truth, Cyrus wasn’t sure how he felt. This recognition had been everything he wanted, the evidence right here
in his hands. He’d reached it: the pinnacle of wrongdoing.
But where did he go from here?
A croak interrupted his thoughts, a raven landing atop the crate of food.
It shook its leg at Cyrus, impatient. The scroll bore Max’s name, inked out in spidery writing and presumably forwarded on from Balthazar.
He was the only other person who’d know to find Max here, which was a blessing, because Cyrus had no intention of letting a champion’s fan mail pile up outside his front door.
He grimaced, contemplating how the admiring messages would probably double once Max won reelection.
If he had to read some drippy peasant’s sonnets about Max’s beautiful blue eyes or that damn dimple, Cyrus would not be held responsible for his actions.
“Letter for you,” he called over his shoulder, the scroll balancing atop the baker’s crate as he moved it to his kitchen.
Max shouted vaguely in confirmation from the bathroom.
Typical of Balthazar to fuss about getting a raven to deliver it when he could have fetched it himself. He was staying in
lodgings a short ride away from Ranragh, and he and Max had spent the last two evenings with their heads together, poring
over the final letters of commendation from Heliarth’s council indicating which way they would lean in the election. At Balthazar’s
urging, Max had also reluctantly drafted a winner’s speech for his assistant to look over. A strange use of a wrongdoer’s
lair, and one which Balthazar had objected to (Cyrus was almost touched; he decided to take Balthazar’s horrified “Not here” as a mark of respect for his sacred space, not an utterance of disgust). But Max had insisted.
They were due to leave for Athaca’s capital tomorrow. Durov, nestled into the rocky southern shoreline, hosted the championship
elections every three years, with results counted within the city walls and announced live in the castle courtyard. Cyrus
wasn’t going. Durov would be teaming with champions.
From the depths of his lair, Cyrus heard the slosh of bathwater, then a faint groan as Max stood and stretched. It was still early, but Max had been up for hours.
Cyrus didn’t really know what to expect from the election. Max didn’t either, flipping between apparent confidence and sudden
withdrawal as it drew closer. The debate in Heliarth had gone well enough; there were some difficult questions about where
a champion ought to spend the bulk of their time, and the benefits of new blood, but Max was prepared and ever charming. They
had to hope it was enough.
Setting the bottles of milk in the kitchen, Cyrus returned his gaze to the news parchment. His own face smirked back, formidably
wicked, and optimism pushed quietly forward. If Earthshaker was considered Athaca’s greatest foe, then respect for the champion
who’d battled him across the land had to be significant.
“Cy?”
“Here.”
Footsteps behind him, then warm hands on his waist. “What’re you looking at?”
Cyrus showed him. Max leaned over his shoulder to look. He was clad only in a black towel slung around his hips, and his hair
was still wet, droplets trickling from his hairline. Cyrus allowed himself a moment of appreciation before he pulled the parchment
out of Max’s way.
“Don’t drip on it,” he admonished.
Max moved away, spotting his own letter and picking it up. “You’ll be sticking that up on the wall, then?” he asked absently
as he started to read.
“Maybe,” Cyrus muttered. “If it doesn’t clash with my art.”
“I’m sure it won’t.” Max’s attention was on the scroll, which drooped towards the floor as he unfurled it. Cyrus turned to watch as the little crease in his brow evened out, his eyebrows raising slightly. Then his face broke into a relieved smile.
“It’s a report from our canvassing. It says that talk on the ground in Heliarth sounds promising. It sounds like we’ve done
enough to win.”
Cyrus hadn’t expected his own relief to be quite so intense. But there it was, a sudden rush that felt like breathing in new
air.
“Told you,” he said. “I’m never wrong.”
Max’s grin softened. He discarded his letter, leaning in to press a quick kiss to Cyrus’s cheek. “We did good. Both of us.
Congratulations, greatest menace.” He glanced at the front page. “Though I don’t think they really did you justice.”
Cyrus’s mind unhelpfully conjured an image of Citrus the one-toothed wonder. “I’ve had worse.”
“I know,” said Max cheerfully. Damn him, of course he’d seen.
He turned his attention to the latest offerings, making a pleased noise under his breath at the fresh bread. Already he was
brighter, humming to himself as he slathered honey over a thick slab of rye. Cyrus leaned over and helped himself to the punnet
of berries. Tart juice burst over his tongue.
“I could get used to this. Beats what they used to give me.”
Max swallowed his mouthful and smirked. “You can get used to it. Heliarth’s champion and the most feared wrongdoer in the land. We’re all set.” He held the bread out. “Want
some?”
Cyrus took a bite, offering the berries in return, and set some water to boil.
He turned to the little herb pots he’d lined up by the window.
His back to Max, he touched a fingertip to one of the seedlings, urging leaves to sprout forth with a burst of their cool, crisp scent.
It was nice not to have to hide this from Max anymore, but still, it felt strange for anyone to see the true nature of his powers.
He could sense Max watching, interested, though he didn’t push. Cyrus turned and showed him the pot.
“Not bad,” Max commented, taking the pot to examine it. He traced the delicate veins of a mint leaf. “Handy trick. You’re
making tea?”
“Not bad?”
“Sorry, sorry. Here, I’ll make it up to you.” Max leaned in and kissed him. His beard needed a trim; the scratch against Cyrus’s
skin sent a shiver rattling through him. He tasted of honey, counterpoint to the sharp berries.
Max pulled back and grinned. A smudge of purple juice from Cyrus’s mouth had stained his bottom lip. “Better?”
“Nope,” said Cyrus. “Still horribly offended.”
“Fine.” Another kiss, and another. Max abandoned the pot of mint in favour of crowding into Cyrus’s space until they were
pressed up against the worktop, Max’s strong arms winding around him. He breathed in woody cologne and lavender oil, and wherever
he looked there was warm golden skin, still scattered with water droplets. Cyrus wanted to bite him.
A sudden noise from outside: loud buzzing from the sprites, the kind they made when they all barrelled out of their trees to greet him, except this time it was accompanied by a burst of noisy chirping rather than their usual eager chatter.
Cyrus recognised the pitch of it. Questioning, agitated.
He turned his head sharply to the door just as another noise reached their ears—an indignant squawk, closely followed by a familiar voice.
“Get off me—get off, I said! Ouch! No wonder he keeps you around, dreadful pests—”
The buzzing increased in volume as the sprites followed Balthazar to the open door. He came into view with a hand raised to
ward off the creatures still swarming around him.
“Maximillian, I need to talk to y—oh!”
Balthazar stopped dead, his eyes wide as he took in the scene: Max’s towel slung low, his arms looped lazily around Cyrus’s
waist, their bodies pressed so close. Their mouths, berry stained.
“Bal,” Max murmured, without letting go. Nor, after a cursory glance in Balthazar’s direction, did he take his eyes away from
Cyrus. “You wanted to talk to me?”
Balthazar was still staring. He had forgotten the sprites. Cyrus lifted an unimpressed eyebrow until Balthazar flushed, mottled
red creeping up his neck.
“I, er—”
Cyrus looked back to Max. Tempting as it was to put on a show that would have Balthazar shrivelling into his prissy boots,
it was more tempting to have Max to himself. “I think we’re in danger of breaking him,” he whispered. Max’s mouth twitched.