Chapter Twenty-One
Putting distance between them and the Federation inevitably meant heading further north. They had not yet talked about where
exactly they would end up, probably because neither had a solid answer. Somewhere away from the Federation; away from people
who might recognise them and bring trouble down on their heads. The quieter north, with its thick woodlands, was enough of
an answer for now.
But soon enough, it became clear that they were going to pass close by Ranragh.
Returning to the town where everybody knew to find him—and by extension, Max—was obviously dangerous.
Still, Cyrus’s bruised body longed for his home comforts.
Avoiding towns meant sleeping on hard ground, putting up with rain, and making do with freezing dips in the Roasham river.
It was not the lifestyle to which Cyrus was accustomed, and thoughts of his luxuries taunted him as they travelled.
A hot bath, peppermint oil rubbed into aching muscles by Max’s sure hands.
His finest pillows, the ones that cradled his neck just so.
Max didn’t comment as the terrain around them grew more familiar, swapping barren grasslands for lush woodland, dry dirt tracks
for wetter, muddier ground. Cyrus sometimes caught him glancing around with a furrowed brow. Usually, his eyes would slide
towards Cyrus, as though wondering when that argument was going to happen.
He didn’t need to wonder. Cyrus was under no illusions; returning to his—their—old life was not an option. He didn’t have
the answer for what they would do instead, or where they would go, but he would not tolerate leaving Max so vulnerable to
the Federation’s revenge.
Still, as they skirted Arclee on foot and continued north, temptation reared its head in the form of Cyrus’s mountain, looming
into view in the distance. He stopped beside the horse (Gutgrabber, so named at Cyrus’s insistence) and stared up at it, unable
to deny a burst of longing as he thought of his soft bed, the wardrobe of clothes that wouldn’t feel stiff and gritty after
being washed in the river.
“I think we should check,” Cyrus stated. Max had stopped behind him. Cyrus didn’t need to see him to sense the coming objection,
hastening to add, “I don’t mean to stay. But we need supplies. We can get some of my things and then keep going, in and out,
nobody will know we were there. And then we—we can think about what happens next.”
Max hesitated. He wanted to say no, Cyrus could tell.
But their supply rations were pitiful. Cyrus had been growing what he could, but he was restricted without access to seeds and cuttings, and force-growing from scratch never tasted quite right.
Max disliked their limited diet and rough sleeping nearly as much as Cyrus did.
“Fine,” he said at last. “We’ll check. Carefully. And then move on.”
Although it had been his idea, Cyrus had the creeping sensation that something was off from the moment they reached Ranragh’s
outskirts. It was probably just paranoia, because every time he looked over his shoulder, nobody was there. Nobody standing
in the open mouths of the alleyways that pocked Ranragh’s flank, nobody watching from the shadows. Ranragh sounded as it always
did: a hum of chatter from the centre, gulls spying for easy pickings over the harbour, fishermen shouting from boat to shore.
The only eyes on them belonged to a straggly-haired child peeping from a window and a stray dog tracking their progress without
bothering to lift his head from his paws.
When they reached the wooden bridge cutting a shortcut through the marsh, Cyrus inspected the ropes carefully before he stepped
onto the planks, just in case he’d inspired any young up-and-coming wrongdoers among Ranragh’s population. Max glanced at
him inquisitively, but Cyrus didn’t feel inclined to explain.
Up the path they went, tiny stones crunching beneath their feet and under Gutgrabber’s hooves, their breathing laboured.
The mountain always felt particularly steep when he was tired, but Gutgrabber was tired too.
He’d carried them far enough. Cyrus let Max take the lead, keeping his eyes fixed on his own boots as they plodded along, not wanting to see how far they still had to go.
He mentally sifted through the items he wanted to pack, trying to prioritise.
He wouldn’t have space to take everything, but he thought he could probably convince Max that at least three of his best copper pans were a necessity—
“Erm,” said Max. “Cy?”
Cyrus looked up. His heart jolted. There, grazing at the side of the path and pointedly ignoring them, was Soulripper.
For a moment there was only blank disbelief. Then he rushed forward, forgetting that he was supposed to be cool and unattached
and unsentimental, and buried his face in her shoulder. She lifted her head and flicked her ears, still grinding grass between
her teeth.
“She found her way home,” Cyrus said thickly, withdrawing to beam at her as he twisted a hand in her mane. Soulripper gave
him a dirty look, but he could see right through it. She hadn’t removed his fingers for the audacity of stroking her; that,
for Soulripper, was practically affectionate. “She came back to me.”
“I don’t know about that.” Max stepped closer, letting Soulripper nose at his fingers. She harrumphed, pushing back against
him. “I think she came back for me.”
He was probably right, but Cyrus wasn’t going to let the little fact of Max’s disgusting lovability spoil his moment. He pressed
his face into the horse’s neck, breathing in the familiar musky scent as she turned her attention to Gutgrabber and examined
him in silent judgement. He hadn’t been looking to find a companion when he stole Soulripper, but he’d found one all the same.
Max’s hand ghosted over his back, gentle. Well, yes. He’d found two.
They walked the final stretch up the mountain path to Cyrus’s door, Gutgrabber plodding placidly beside Max. Soulripper meandered behind, keeping enough distance that she could ostensibly pretend she wasn’t with them. Cyrus’s mood was buoyant as they rounded the final corner.
Max stopped. Cyrus bumped into him. He gave Max a little push, but Max didn’t move. Frowning, Cyrus stepped around him.
“What are you—”
He fell silent as he saw the reason for the halt. The usual offerings left outside his door had been kicked and stamped to
obliteration. The sour stench of spilled milk rose from a carpet of squashed cake and torn bread splattered with congealed
egg yolks. Stamped berries formed a bloody pulp. The remains of Max’s tour poster had been tacked to the door, bedraggled
and curling at the edges, and a single word was scrawled across it in angry red paint.
TRAITOR.
Cyrus stared at it, too stunned to register anything else. He took it all in again, as though it might be easier to believe
the second time round. It wasn’t, but a grim realisation came to him as he read that word, over and again.
The people’s anger towards Max outweighed their fear of Cyrus. They had read of Cyrus’s true magic and knew now that he had
been lying to them. They also knew that the lies didn’t matter much, in the end, because he still had the power to bring a
castle tumbling to ruin.
Nevertheless, their rage towards the traitor champion who had turned on them was greater than their fear.
Cyrus glanced at Max. He was still staring at the door, silent. Cyrus stepped past him and pushed the door open. He already knew what he would find.
Sure enough, his lair had been turned upside down. Every bottle and glass had been smashed. His brooding chair lay on its
side, each leg snapped off. The couch had been gutted, feathers sprouting from every knife slash and more littering every
surface. Everything on the walls had been dragged down and stamped on, his artwork lying in tatters. With a pang, he realised
that his beloved vegetable patch had likely suffered the same fate. The sprites had probably fled in terror.
“Cyrus,” said Max from behind him, pain in his voice, “I’m so—”
“We only came back to pick up a few things,” Cyrus said. “We were going to move on anyway.”
He sounded calm. It was, he was surprised to realise, genuine. This would have been enough to cause a meltdown of mighty proportions
not so long ago. Now, instead of vengeful rage, there was a sense of something falling into place; a finality that came, unexpectedly,
as a relief. This wasn’t their place anymore.
“It was your home,” said Max quietly.
Cyrus just looked at him levelly. “Used to be.”
Max stared back at him. Then he gave Cyrus a small, understanding smile.
“We should grab what we can,” he said after a moment. “Not that there’s much, but . . .”
But whatever they could lay hands on was better than nothing.
A few jars in the kitchen had escaped the attack, the ones stowed at the back of his shelves.
They went into Gutgrabber’s saddlebag. The pots of herbs had been thrown to the floor, but Cyrus scooped them up, tucking the little plants carefully back into their bed of soil.
Whilst Max rescued a quilt and a couple of shirts from the corner of the wardrobe, Cyrus salvaged what he could from the vegetable patch.
Someone had trampled over it, the tomatoes splattered like a murder scene, but the root vegetables would survive.
Small mercies. They would eat well enough for the next few days off this, whilst they figured out what to do next.
As he knelt among the carrots, tugging them free of the clinging soil, a familiar whirring reached his ear. Cyrus looked up.
It took him a few seconds to spot the sprite watching him from behind a splintered bamboo cane, its tiny face creased with
anxiety. Once he focused on that one, he saw the others clustered behind, hiding among squashed tomatoes and snapped stems
and drooping leaves.