Chapter Twenty-One #3
The young man squirmed, a futile attempt to escape. “You lie!”
“Yeah, he does,” said Cyrus fondly.
Max shrugged. “Believe me or don’t. It’s the truth.”
The pair glared, jaws set in matching stubborn juts. Not so dissimilar. Almost like another wrongdoer and champion Cyrus had
once known.
“Well, why don’t you stay here until you’ve worked it out,” Cyrus said lightly, as though they had a choice. He paused, considering
the vines. His magic would fade once he moved on. “Or, you know, one of you escapes and kills the other. I don’t really care.”
“Neither do I,” said Max. “Good luck.”
Cyrus flashed them a cheery thumbs-up, then grabbed Soulripper’s bridle and swung himself into her saddle. “Come on. Let’s
get out of here.”
Max mounted Gutgrabber, and they fell into step as they left the mountain behind.
They made camp beneath the stars again, as far away from the complications of other people as they could manage.
With the horses settled and the sprite dozing in a nearby pine, Cyrus and Max curled up together at the edge of a woodland with the moon waxing gibbous above them.
A chill breeze picked up as night drew in, chasing wispy clouds past the moon’s glow.
Cyrus pressed close to Max’s back, watching the clouds move without really seeing them, lost in his thoughts.
Max gave a soft sigh, leaning back into Cyrus. The noise was sleepy, but when Cyrus propped himself up on his elbow, Max’s
eyes were open. He was looking at the moon too.
Cyrus brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, then traced the outline of the bruise around his cheekbone. It was still stubbornly
purple, mottled at the edges. His finger trailed along Max’s temple to the crescent scar from Cyrus’s embers.
“Admiring your handiwork?” Max murmured.
Cyrus ghosted a kiss over it. Max’s mouth curved into a slight smile. But he was still watching the moon, pensive.
“What are you thinking?” Cyrus asked quietly.
“He was at the gate. Bal.”
Oh no. They hadn’t discussed this. Cyrus had been quite content to let that lie. He slumped back down and mumbled something
indecipherable in response, hoping that Max would take the hint.
“Right under that turret.”
Cyrus made a faint snoring noise. It didn’t sound particularly convincing.
“You saved him.” Max’s tone was wondering.
“I’m pretending to be asleep,” Cyrus said into the dark.
He felt Max’s shoulders shake with a huff of laughter. “Yeah, I can tell.” He settled when Cyrus poked him in the back and for a couple of minutes the only sounds were the soft rustling of nighttime wildlife and the stirring of leaves in the breeze.
Cyrus was beginning to think Max had fallen asleep when he spoke again, quiet. “Do you think Bal planned it? From way out,
I mean.”
Cyrus paused to consider, though he instinctively knew the answer. “No,” he said finally. “No, I don’t. At least, not the
way it happened.”
“I have to believe he was trying to help, in his own way,” said Max, his voice straining. “In fact, I know he was. All those
years we’ve worked together . . . he wanted me to succeed more than anything. He wouldn’t have done that unless he thought
it was the best for me.” He sounded like he was trying to reassure himself, but Cyrus thought he was probably right.
“He probably thought the Federation would reprimand you, not hurt you,” Cyrus said slowly. He could imagine Balthazar convincing
himself of that. That Max had done so much for the Federation over the years; his punishment would not be so very harsh. Not
when he had surely been lured into this foolish game by the wrongdoer. The Federation would take Cyrus away from Max and deliver
a slap on the wrist to their errant champion. Perhaps he would not be allowed Heliarth, not right away, but he could work
his way up again.
Whether Balthazar had truly believed that was the real question. Jealousy was a savage motivator.
“He probably thought he was saving me.” Max sighed, heartfelt. “Idiot.”
“Not about to disagree with that,” muttered Cyrus. He sensed Max’s smile in the dark.
“Thanks for saving him,” said Max sincerely. Maybe even a little proudly. Gross. “I know he hurt us. But for so long, he was
the only person I could rely on. I don’t know if I could have lived with myself if he’d . . .”
“You don’t have to,” Cyrus interrupted firmly. “He’s fine. Free to live his boring little life.” He paused. Perhaps it was
the dark; perhaps it was the fact that Max was facing away from him. Perhaps he was just getting better at sharing. In a softer
voice, Cyrus admitted, “I’d have saved him a thousand times over for you.”
“Spoken like a champion,” Max noted. It didn’t seem like a tease. He sounded reflective, more than anything.
Cyrus released a breath, letting his body sag against Max’s. “Yeah, well. We wanted to shake things up, didn’t we?”
“Mm. I’d say we succeeded there.” Max leaned back into him, amusement colouring his tone. “Sleeping under the stars with a
wrongdoer. I knew I was signing up to try something new, but . . .”
Something new. That was what it came down to, in the end.
That same notion had been lingering at the edge of Cyrus’s thoughts during their journey north from Durov.
Accepting that Ranragh wasn’t home anymore meant cracking open a new future.
As they travelled, Cyrus had been trying to imagine what that might look like.
A quiet life, one where it didn’t matter what anyone thought of them.
Maybe Max could try his hand at woodwork again.
Maybe they would get a dog. Something small and yappy and evil; he wasn’t an entirely reformed man.
Or a cat; yes, that would suit him better.
A little black one. He could start afresh with a vegetable patch.
Maybe—maybe he could sell some of it.
The tentative sketch of their future he’d been trying to draw in his mind solidified, colour creeping in. Athaca was large,
but it was only one island. There were other places they could go. Unseen places to explore, to forge a different path unbound
by the constraints of any Federation or Guild with other people’s rules and regulations. They could be whatever they wanted,
together. A little good, a little bad. Something new.
Cyrus raised himself back onto his elbow and looked at Max, stretched out beside him. The moonlight threw a silvery glow over
his familiar features, now so beloved to Cyrus. The truth was right there in the way it made him feel, just looking at Max.
A tenderness so gentle it ached. Cyrus did not care where they went or what they did, so long as Max was by his side.
“We can leave all this behind,” Cyrus said quietly. “Leave Athaca. Get a boat, go to one of the other islands. We could . . .
have our own little adventure. If you wanted. Start again.”
Max rolled over, propping himself up and meeting Cyrus’s gaze. “You’d do that?”
Cyrus nodded. It didn’t require words.
Max studied him, his gaze soft. He tilted his face up to look at the sky again, eyes skimming across the stars.
Then he grinned suddenly, that wicked little smirk that Cyrus had noticed all those months ago when they fought for the first time.
He jostled Cyrus’s shoulder with his own.
“Not sure Athaca’s big enough to contain you, anyway.
How about Melaki? I heard it’s got plenty of woodland.
You’re playing nice with the sprites now, you could see about starting your army. ”
Cyrus elbowed him back. Max turned to face him, still wearing the grin that Cyrus loved.
Loved. That was the simple truth, and he was no longer afraid of it.
“I hate you,” Cyrus said, because contrariness was in his blood.
Max just smiled. “Love you too,” he said, easy as breathing, and when Cyrus dipped his head to kiss him, he was smiling.
A ship crossed to Melaki from the port just south of Eborre once every two weeks. It wasn’t a popular route, because Melaki
was rugged and wild and remote.
It was perfect.
They would board separately to avoid suspicion. They had dark clothing to avoid catching attention and hoods to obscure their
features. The ships were large enough to secure a berth for the horses, and the sprite was under strict instruction to stay
hidden inside Cyrus’s pocket unless they were alone.
The sea stretched out before them as they emerged from the tree line. They had kept to the forest as they picked their way to the west coast, shielded from prying eyes by the twisting trunks and great canopies of ancient oaks and beeches and cedars. The trees would not let them lose their way.
Now, at the edge of the forest, they stood at the top of a grassy hill sloping down to a rough pebble beach. The sea glittered
like jewels in the early-morning sun, the retreating tide snatching at smooth stones and trying to spirit them back to the
depths. Further along the coast, the port was visible: far less busy than its southern equivalent near Heliarth, little more
than a short stone jetty jutting into the water and a small uneven square for loading carts. When Cyrus squinted, he could
make out an old, weather-beaten sign advertising wildlife trips to Melaki, propped up by a mooring post.
He closed his eyes and breathed in. The cold air was fresh and invigorating. It tasted like freedom.
“Well,” said Max. He had a hand on Gutgrabber’s bridle, his expression pensive as he looked out across the sea. Melaki was
a faint green smudge on the horizon, barely visible through a distant haze. “This is it.”
Cyrus glanced at him, at the forest behind: the last of Athaca they would know. A pop of colour by their feet caught his eye.
On a whim, Cyrus thrust Soulripper’s reins into Max’s free hand and crouched, pressing his fingers to the damp earth and calling
to the bedraggled weeds that sprouted up past the dewy grass.
It took barely a thought; his power flowed easily. Cyrus’s eyes glowed a vivid purple. He felt the burst of magic as the plant
responded to him, transforming into something lovely.
He stood, cupping the plant protectively. Max looked at him quizzically. Cyrus held out his hand and uncurled his fingers. “For you,” he said simply.
A little sprig of flowers sat in his palm, five delicate petals framing a bright yellow centre ringed with white. The petals
were as blue as the sea where it reflected the sky. Blue as Max’s eyes.
Max stared down at the flowers, his expression morphing from touched to affectionate. He leaned in for a kiss. It was a chaste
thing, a brush of lips against his own, but it ignited every nerve ending in Cyrus’s body. He knotted his free hand into Max’s
sleeve, pulling him in for another kiss, and Max laughed softly into his mouth.
When he pulled back, Max looked down at the forget-me-not still bobbling between them before his eyes flickered to Cyrus’s
face.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
It was beautiful. Like Max, and the life they could forge together. Somewhere quiet, secluded, with wisteria growing up the
walls. A bed with the fluffiest pillows they could find. Plenty of sunshine, but enough rain for Cyrus’s plants. A workshop
for Max, and a little black cat. Perhaps Cyrus would take up floristry after all.
A life with a little right, a little wrong. Good and bad, and always, completely, theirs.