Chapter Eighteen
The day of the election dawned bright and blustery. Durov’s position by the southern coast was about as far from Ranragh as
was possible whilst remaining on Athacan land, nearly four days by horse. The city shimmered against the fierce blue of the
sky, carved into the land from the silvery stone native to this part of Athaca.
Durov Castle sat atop a sloping hill beside the city, guarded by a wide courtyard and great stone wall, with a track winding down the hillside and into the outer town that sprawled alongside.
Cyrus’s eyes traced the outline of the castle, the noble turret protruding self-righteously next to the keep bordered by four grand towers.
A large flag billowed from the centre of the keep, a crimson smudge against the blue expanse.
Durov’s was the only castle in Athaca, constructed under order of the Federation’s founder a century ago.
They had cleared woodland to make room for it, but nature remembered its home.
The castle was shrouded in greenery, ivy twisting into any gap or crevice it could find until Durov’s pale walls were swathed in dark glossy green.
Cyrus resisted the urge to tweak at the ivy with his powers, just to see what would happen. He was here to behave himself today.
Soulripper shifted beneath him, restless, and Cyrus soothed a hand over her neck. On the road into the city, travellers thronged
about them, their chatter an indecipherable rumble. Anticipation was high in the air, eagerness in the faces around him. He
caught only snatches of conversations, but the election was everywhere—a champion’s name, betting odds, a town where the vote
could slide one way or the other. A cart trundled by on uneven wheels, sacking thrown haphazardly over the peddler’s wares.
Cyrus caught a glimpse of hand-painted figurines, champions clutching needle-sharp swords. Tempting, to sneak a hand in and
try to find a figurine with coppery hair and bright blue eyes. But he needed to keep his head down.
He looked back to the castle. An encampment had been set up in the courtyard, protected from the curious masses by the stone
wall, where the champions nervously awaiting election results had made their base. If he squinted, he could just about make
out the tips of their tents, deep red against Durov’s silver and green. He would find Max there.
Max, who was probably going to pitch a fit when he realised Cyrus had decided to come along. But Cyrus would be careful, and
given Max’s realisation would only occur once the election results had been called, it wasn’t like he was causing any additional
stress.
Balthazar had been right; Cyrus supposed it had to happen from time to time. He wasn’t one to sit obediently at home awaiting
Max’s return.
He nudged Soulripper onwards. Most travellers peeled off when they entered the outer town, disappearing into crooked side streets and towards the booming calls of stallholders manning rickety tables heaped with election merchandise—beaded bracelets spelling out champions’ names, shirts with team names stitched across the back, unofficial election guidebooks collating all the best gossip about those in the running.
The merchants of Durov were keen to capitalise on the draw of the election.
Cyrus slipped from Soulripper’s back and guided her through the crowds, peering out from under his drooping hood. Posters
of champions covered every post and pillar. With a jolt, he recognised a poster of Max, tacked onto the side of a butcher’s
stall. Somebody had drawn a dreamy little heart around his face. Cyrus stopped to stare, uncertain whether he should commend
their taste or hunt them down and remove their eyes.
A wrinkled hand came into his line of vision, reaching hopefully towards Soulripper’s mane with a palmful of bright beads.
Soulripper spied an opportunity, whipping her head round. The screech as the merchant toppled backwards, clutching his hand,
signalled that it was time for Cyrus to move on.
He found a paddock where he could leave Soulripper and set off along the dusty path leading through the main city and towards
the castle. The winding uphill track to the portcullis was not as crowded as the town itself, though the stalls had spilled
out onto either side of the path, hoping to catch a sale from someone with the connections to attend the results announcement.
Cyrus lingered by a stall halfway up the hill, pretending to examine piles of shiny bracelets. The portcullis at the top was
manned by two bored guards, blocking entry to the castle courtyard and the champions’ encampment. As he observed, two women
shook back their sleeves to display red ribbons tied around their wrists. The guards let them through with a nod.
Someone jostled Cyrus as they passed by. Without thinking he delivered a swift elbow to the ribs in retribution, eliciting
a wheeze from a wrinkled old woman. Then he remembered he was supposed to be lying low. He hunched over to make sure his hood
hid his features, mumbling a vague apology. He eyed her wrist hopefully as he did, but it was bare. She sniffed at him and
hobbled on.
No matter. He would find someone easily enough.
Cyrus lurked, keeping an eye out for a flash of red as he pretended to peruse a stall selling extremely bad poetry about each
champion (nothing rhymed with Maximillian, as it turned out, and for the last time, Max did not have a belly button piercing). His victim arrived soon enough, a young man huffing along the path with a self-righteous expression
and sweat patches under his arms. He moved like he was somebody important, but he was probably just Balthazar’s ilk, there
to ride on some champion’s coattails. Cyrus waited until the man came closer, then pounced.
His hands fisted into the lapels of the man’s shirt, eliciting a yelp. Cyrus dragged him backwards before he could cause a
scene, behind the poetry stall. The man squawked again, at first in surprise and then in anger, his hands coming up to try
and prise Cyrus’s fingers off him.
“How dare you! Unhand me!”
The moment he let go, the man tried to push past him. “I said unhand me, scoundrel, I—”
Cyrus stepped into his space again and pushed his hood back from his face.
He watched the man’s eyes go wide with horror, the sudden drain of blood from his cheeks. His mouth opened, attempted to form
a name, and failed.
“Yeah,” said Cyrus. “Thought that might shut you up.”
The man just croaked in response, the bluster squashed out of him. Oh, but that was satisfying. Cyrus allowed himself a moment
to enjoy it before he indicated the man’s wrist.
“I’ll be having that.”
“M-m-my hand?”
Cyrus frowned. “What the fuck would I want with your hand?”
The man opened his mouth, looking even more terrified, and Cyrus rethought the question. Fair enough—there was a lot he could
do with a severed hand. But he didn’t want to waste time here. He indicated again, impatiently. This time the man understood.
“My wristband?”
“Yeah. Whatever. The ribbon. Pass it over.”
For a second it looked like the man might argue—or at least like he wanted to. Then he remembered who he was talking to. His
fingers scrabbled at the ribbon around his wrist. His silence was sulky as he held it out to Cyrus.
“Ta,” said Cyrus, looping it around his own wrist. “You know the drill, I’m sure. Mention this to anyone and I really will come and cut your hand off. Maybe a foot too. Just so you don’t look unbalanced.”
At the portcullis Cyrus offered his wrist with the ribbon in place, affecting a bit of a limp and hunching his shoulders to
make himself look older. He needn’t have bothered; the guard just grunted and waved him through.
From the portcullis, he took a wide path leading to an enormous metal gate, flung wide open, and into a square tucked in alongside
the castle turret. Huge intricate tapestries draped over the city walls, obscuring the rich green of ivy and enveloping the
courtyard in the Federation’s red. He truly was in enemy territory. At the centre of the square stood a wooden platform complete
with a podium, a path from the castle steps left clear and cordoned off. The champions would be waiting inside the castle
itself, ready for the results to be announced. Cyrus spared a moment’s sympathy for Max, stuck in there with his competitors.
At the very least, perhaps being surrounded by do-gooders would make him miss Cyrus more.
A good vantage point was needed. He eyed the red-swathed walls, debating whether he should linger close to the back. A familiar
movement caught his attention, something small travelling so swiftly it was almost a blur. Sprites, quite a few of them, flitting
about the wall and trying to find their way past the tapestries that had been flung over their ivy.
Below, scribes from Athaca News watched them idly.
They had congregated by the wall, sheaves of parchment and spare quills poking out of their satchels, most accompanied by ravens observing the darting sprites with a little too much interest. They would be looking for the biggest stories to come out of this election. He’d be best to avoid them.
Cyrus moved closer to the front and settled down to wait. As the sun crept overhead, the courtyard filled and the volume of
chatter rose. He caught wisps of conversations. Every time he heard Max’s name, it was an effort not to look up.
At last the immense metal gate to the courtyard heaved shut with a thud that set the ravens flapping in irritation. The chatter
across the courtyard fell to an excited hush.
The doors to the castle swung open and a woman stepped out into the sunlight. Cyrus had not seen the Federation’s president,
Cresida Forwick, in person before, but he recognised her from the news, a large woman with knowing dark eyes and tightly plaited
hair worn in intricate coils around her head. Forwick strode forward and stepped up onto the podium, surveying the gathered
crowds with a tight little smile.