Chapter Twenty
Cyrus came to wrapped in Max’s cloak, his head nodding forward with every motion of the horse beneath him and a warm presence
pressed close behind. Familiar cologne clung to the fabric of the cloak, rising valiantly above the smell of dry earth and
horse sweat. A breeze teased his temple, trying to rouse him. Strong arms bracketed him on either side.
He didn’t remember obtaining a horse. He did remember staggering away from the remains of the castle, his legs weak beneath
him. Without the presence of his magic to prop him up, exhaustion had returned with force. He’d stumbled along with Max’s
help, making the most of the chaos and confusion to disappear into the shadows. The last he remembered, they’d been in Durov’s
outer town, Max’s face pinched with stress and Cyrus’s back sinking against the rough wall of a narrow alleyway when his legs
could carry him no further.
Cyrus groaned, shifting in the saddle. Max immediately tugged on the horse’s reins to slow down—not that they were going very
fast to begin with.
“Cy? Are you awake?”
“Mmm.” Cyrus brought a hand up to massage his head. He no longer felt like he might keel over, but he was still tired, each
blink an effort.
But he was here, alive, and Max was with him. Lifting his head to squint around, Cyrus saw barren grasslands pocked with small
hills and mounds, bathed pink in the light of dawn. There was no civilisation in sight, just a sparse woodland stretching
out to the west and the faint burble of a river somewhere nearby. He didn’t recognise any of it.
“Where are we?”
“Not far north of Durov,” Max answered. Sensing Cyrus’s spike of alarm, he added, “We’ll keep putting distance between us
and the Federation. I’m taking the long way round, following the river north rather than using the main track through the
Beks. And I’ve kept an eye out. We haven’t been followed.”
“How long was I out?” Cyrus asked.
Max exhaled. It stirred Cyrus’s hair.
“You were unconscious for nearly twelve hours,” he said quietly.
Of course. It was dawn, and Max’s voice was worn with exhaustion. He must have wondered whether Cyrus was ever going to wake
up.
“And the horse?” he asked, reaching out to run a hand along coarse hair. Piebald, black and white splotches creeping up his
neck. His ears twitched at Cyrus’s touch as he plodded tiredly on.
“Stole him from a stable in Durov. Could only get one, you were out of it.”
Huh. Max could add “horse thief” to his growing list of crimes. “Maybe those champions were right. I am a bad influence on you.”
He expected a snort, but Max didn’t answer right away. “I just wanted to get out as soon as possible,” he muttered.
Cyrus stroked the horse again. He didn’t acknowledge the pang in his chest at the thought of Soulripper abandoned in the paddock
where he’d left her. It was silly. She’d be fine, she’d get herself free or someone else would take her on. She probably didn’t
care one bit.
Max stifled a yawn. “You should rest,” Cyrus said, preempting any argument with a pointed, “I think the horse needs a rest
too.”
There was a pause as Max absorbed this. Then he sighed.
“Fine. There are some trees up ahead. We can stop there.”
In the shadow of the small copse of maple trees, Cyrus slid gingerly from the horse’s back. His body ached all over, however
long he’d slept. He paused to pat the animal’s neck and stroke the velvety nose as Max searched through the saddlebag. The
horse harrumphed at him and nudged Cyrus’s shoulder.
“I’ll grow you some grass,” Cyrus told the horse in an undertone. Warm brown eyes regarded him solemnly. “Nice and lush.”
If he could. The intuitive way the ivy had responded to him back in Durov was still so clear in his mind, but so too was the
memory of kneeling in that courtyard feeling drained to his very core. Cyrus could sense his magic, not unreachable, but quiet.
Distant, somehow. What if he had damaged that connection somehow?
Max interrupted the thought, turning to survey their little clearing. “I’ll make a fire,” he said.
Cyrus glanced at his tired face. “You sit down for a bit. I’ll get the firewood.”
He ventured a little further afield, glad of the chance to stretch his legs. Dry wood was easy to find, twigs snapping hard
and brittle beneath his boots. Stooping down, Cyrus gathered an armful, only to jump when he lifted a piece of wood and a
sprite darted out from beneath it. It flitted back to its companions, clustered in the shadows of a maple tree’s hollow. Cyrus
straightened up, staring at the sprites as they observed him.
Strange, the way their kind had leapt to his aid in Durov. He’d known of their affinity for woodland flora, of course, but
he hadn’t realised that the species’ connection to him ran more deeply than the gratitude of a specific family of sprites
for saving a particular glade.
But then, he supposed, he’d never really given his magic the chance to show him all it could do. He’d been too embarrassed,
angry to be lumbered with a power he viewed as weak.
Cyrus looked around. His eyes fell upon the remains of an ancient trunk, moss and green shoots clambering over it. The tree
itself had fallen long ago, half moulded into the earth and thick with fleshy oyster mushrooms.
He hesitated, worry creeping back to the surface as he thought of the falling turret, the ivy straining against it. What if
he’d pushed his magic too far?
Well, he would never know if he didn’t try. Taking a breath, Cyrus squatted beside the trunk. He stretched his free hand out
to hover over the trunk and closed his eyes.
He didn’t need to nudge his magic; it was there in an instant, power surging to his fingertips.
The startling strength of it made him topple backwards.
His armful of wood scattered. Cyrus blinked at the shoots with glowing eyes as they leapt up towards him, growing fast and strong.
His hand had fallen to his side, but the plants pushed forward, insistent.
Tentatively, Cyrus stretched his fingers out again and felt another powerful surge.
One of the sprites flew over from the maple and landed on the trunk. It plucked at the shoots, now standing three times as
tall as the creature itself, then hopped up onto Cyrus’s hand with a burst of high-pitched chatter. He couldn’t understand
a word of it, but somehow he felt the sprite’s pleasure. It was as though the events in Durov had toppled some great barrier
between himself and his magic, forced open a dam he hadn’t even realised was there.
Another sprite joined the first, familiar humming by his ear preceding its arrival. This one grabbed a shoot and used it to
catapult itself across the trunk, then looked at Cyrus as though expecting applause. The other chirped something and pounced
on its companion, play-fighting amongst the moss. Despite himself, Cyrus wanted to smile.
His magic still tingled at his fingertips, prickling heat where he was used to tepid warmth. Cyrus exhaled as he straightened
up, nudging the magic back and making a conscious effort to break his connection with the trunk. He felt powerful enough to
grow an entire tree with another surge, only that was probably not—
Well. Maybe it was possible, now.
Back at their makeshift camp he found Max setting out his finds from the saddlebag. He held a sizable lump of cheese aloft, still half wrapped in wax paper. Cyrus’s stomach growled.
“Couple of apples and a waterskin. Not much, but it’s something,” Max said distractedly, upending the saddlebag just in case.
Cyrus picked up the waterskin and an apple, sitting on a fallen log. The water was tepid but brought immediate relief. He
drank half, then stoppered the skin and threw it back to Max, biting into his apple.
“We’ll have to go near a town for provisions later,” he said, his mouth half full. “Once you’ve had a rest. There are some
mushrooms back there, and I can probably grow us some more apples using the pips, but without any other seeds . . .”
Max lowered the waterskin, wiping a hand over the droplets caught in his beard. After a beat he said, “Or we could rob some
travellers, if we see any. Threaten them into handing their provisions over. Maybe another horse too.”
Cyrus glanced at him. Max had leaned over to snag his own apple. His expression was indifferent, but carefully so.
“Could do,” said Cyrus, cautiously. Neither needed to point out that Max was not a champion anymore, but it was still surprising
to hear him so openly suggest a wrongdoer’s alternative. Cyrus let a few seconds stretch by before he said, “You know you
don’t have to prove—”
“I know,” said Max. His voice was difficult to read, for once. Cyrus searched about for the right words to say, but nothing
seemed to fit.
He watched Max surreptitiously as he finished the apple, logging every bruise and cut and smear of blood. His face was pale, the shadows under his eyes too prominent. Exhaustion pressed his shoulders down.
It made fierce protectiveness well up within Cyrus. He stood and moved closer, sitting beside Max.
“Give me that,” he said, indicating the waterskin. Max glanced at him but did as he was bid.
Cyrus cast around for something suitable. Finding nothing, he tore a scrap off his cloak and turned the waterskin over it
to shake out the last of the water. The river was not far; they could easily replenish. Maybe, he thought tentatively, he
would even be able to call water from a tree. He’d never tried that before, but the plants round here felt friendly, eager
to help. Like he was kin.
He tugged the collar of Max’s shirt aside to touch the wet rag to the groove of his collarbone, wiping away old blood. Max
watched in silence, holding still as Cyrus moved from his chest to his wrists and hands, then his face. He needed to bathe
and rest and eat well. But here and now, Cyrus would do what he could.
The rag lingered over a bruise curling up around his cheekbone, the swell of angry red giving way to purple. Max let his eyes