14

Cyrus headed down the mountain path with a lump of ice in his chest. The cold wind didn't even bother him, as he stared unseeingly in front of him. He was numb, utterly numb. Something had happened in the space of a few hours, and he didn't understand what.

This morning, he woke up alone. Cyrus had searched, not leaving the area around the cabin, but Greyson was nowhere to be found. As it approached the afternoon, Greyson had finally appeared, he was distant. He wouldn't even look at Cyrus, and when he attempted to hug Greyson, he slithered out of his embrace. He tried to press Greyson for an explanation, but he wouldn't answer.

Eventually, Greyson said they couldn't be together and that Cyrus had to remember.

Shaking his head, Cyrus paused as his face lifted to the clouded sky. He didn't understand. Everything had been perfect, and he'd been hoping to recreate that magic today, though, apparently, Greyson didn't feel the same.

His feet continued on the path toward the village, sliding every couple of steps in the mud. The pine trees creaked in the breeze, and the clouds covered the sun, blocking out the light. His boot slammed into a deep puddle, and water splashed over the edge of his boot, soaking his foot. Cyrus froze, tears prickling. He didn't understand. He would never understand it.

Cyrus plodded down the muddy lane until he reached Widow Abney's home. She opened the door and frowned. "Why do you appear so down?" Widow Abney asked in her croaky voice.

The words couldn't escape his tightened throat. Widow Abney drew him inside, and they sat at the table. She poured him a cup of tea and nudged a plate of scones forward. Cyrus ignored the food, tracing the whirl patterns in the wood of the table.

"Cyrus?"

"I told Greyson how I feel," he said, voice dead. "At first, he seemed happy about it, then he suddenly changed his mind."

Her lips pursed. "Did he say why?"

"No. He just said I have to remember and that we can't be together."

She nodded, taking a scone and tearing it apart. "Do you want to be with him?"

"Yes," Cyrus said, arms crossing on the tabletop. "I don't know much right now, but I know I love Greyson."

Widow Abney offered him a scone. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know, but I can't give him up. Last night was perfect." Cyrus slumped, head plunking onto the table.

"Hmm," was all the old woman said.

Greyson strode through the village, shoulders slumped. The sun had begun its descent, and the air grew cold, nipping at his exposed skin. As he started toward his cabin, a voice called out, "Greyson."

Widow Abney came toward him, cane in hand. "I would like a word."

"Of course. What's going on?" he asked.

She linked an arm through his, directing him toward her home. "Cyrus told me what's going on between the two of you."

A sigh escaped his lips before Greyson could stop it. He steeled his heart. Cyrus, the real Cyrus, would not choose to be with him. He and Greyson had too much baggage between them to even have a chance at a future. Greyson had done the right thing by putting some distance between them—distance he desperately needed or he would relent and do something they'd both regret in the end. Cyrus' sad, puppy-dog expression flashed in his thoughts. Greyson pinched the bridge of his nose. He was trying to do the honorable thing. He and Cyrus could not be together.

"Did he now?"

"Yes," she said, tugging him along to her house with a surprisingly strong grip.

"I know you have an opinion on the matter, so you might as well speak your peace," he ground out. Widow Abney had an opinion on everything; besides, this situation could not get any worse nor would he change his mind.

Widow Abney patted his arm, not speaking. Even now, he could see the bright flowers in front of her home, bobbing in the slight breeze. He glared at the orange puffballs, uncomfortable, as a vision of a smiling Cyrus bloomed in his mind. Greyson snorted, banishing the wayward thoughts. The flowers would be dead in a matter of days when the icy weather of winter came upon them, and they would no longer bother him.

When they reached her door, she waved him inside. Greyson did not want to go in nor did he want to hear what the woman had to say. With no other option, he followed her. Widow Abney sat, motioning to the chair opposite of her. Stiffly, he sank down.

"You rejected him," she said bluntly, taking a scone off the plate in the middle of the table.

"Yes. Cyrus would not care for me if he had his memories."

"That is a possibility," she said with a nod.

Greyson scoffed. "It's a fact. You know who he is. You know we're not friends."

"Yes. He's the emperor's nephew, who you hate."

"He's the one who brought troops to our mountains and killed your sons," Greyson spat out.

A guttural laugh burst out of her throat. His mouth fell open. Widow Abney took a bite of a scone, a smile pulling at her lips. "Cyrus is no more responsible for Emperor Caspian winning the war than you are for us losing it. He was the face of the army as you were the face of our rebellion. Cyrus didn't even lead the troops as you did not lead ours."

"You don't blame him for your sons' deaths?"

"No."

"You blame the emperor, then?"

"No."

"I don't understand."

She patted him. "There is no one to blame for Caleb and John's deaths, just as there are no words to describe the pain of losing them. They died protecting our people. There was no winner or loser in that war. Both sides had their reasons, and everyone lost someone or something."

He shook his head. "The emperor had no reason beyond greed."

"That is a very simplistic way of looking at it. Did he want all the venetus because of greed? Maybe. Venetus gems are used to create magical artifacts, tools, and so many things that help our lives. But they're also used to make weapons. Before the emperor demanded the entirety of what we mined, we would sell to other nations, who could make weapons that they then could use against us. Should the emperor have paid us more? Yes. But I think many factors went into the war on both sides."

The chair scraped on the floor as Widow Abney rose and came around the table. She placed a hand under his chin and forced him to meet her gaze. "Cyrus protected his people much as you did yours. You both did your duty to the best of your abilities. I no more blame him than I would you. Besides, he endeared himself to me forever on two counts.

"After we unconditionally surrendered, the emperor wanted to take the venetus for no money, but Cyrus fought for us. The only reason we are being paid now and have reasonable quotas is because of him. More importantly," she said, firmly gripping his chin, "he saved your life, Greyson."

Greyson wanted to look away, but she would not let him.

"The emperor wanted to execute you for being the face of the rebellion, and Cyrus convinced him not to. He saved you, Greyson, and I will forever be grateful."

"So you think I should accept him because he saved my life?" he asked, his voice hard.

"No," Widow Abney said, stroking his cheek. "You don't have to accept him or return his affection. That's up to you. But give him the respect of believing what he says to be true. Just because he doesn't remember everything doesn't make his feelings any less valid. Right now, Cyrus cares about you. Whether that feeling will fade with time or the return of his memories, I don't know. But at this moment, he cares for you, and you should believe him."

"But he's so different. How can I believe what he says when he acts nothing like the man I remember?"

"If the burdens of the past and responsibilities were suddenly gone, you would be different too. I think what we're seeing is the real Cyrus that hid beneath all of the responsibilities he shouldered and the memories he had to bear."

Of course, Greyson would be different if the weight of the past, the responsibilities of the present, and the fears of the future didn't rest upon his shoulders. Could Widow Abney be right? There were times when he caught glimpses of the Cyrus he remembered.

"You think he actually likes me?"

"Yes. I do."

Greyson did not want to believe that Cyrus' feelings were real because it would make it harder to reject him.

She started to speak again, drawing his attention to her heavily wrinkled face. "Whether you return or reject his feelings is up to you. But I want you to think about something. Maybe just maybe, all that anger and hatred you feel for Cyrus is nothing more than the fact that you stood on separate sides of the negotiation table. And maybe, you both deserve to set the past aside for the chance of a better future, together."

Cyrus turned from the fire as Greyson walked into the house. He'd been gone most of the day, though when he was here, it hadn't mattered. He treated Cyrus like a ghost, ignoring him or pretending he couldn't see him. It twisted his chest and stole his breath.

He tried to smile, but it was forced. Greyson's blank mask didn't alter as he strode directly toward him, and a sudden spark of hope burned Cyrus. Maybe he'd changed his mind?

Crouching, Greyson said, "This is what's going to happen. First, we wait for Widow Abney to finish your fur-lined clothes. Second, we'll travel to the coast. Third, we try to find the mage who stole your memories. Last, and most important, we stay only friends, nothing else."

"Why?" Cyrus asked, squeezing Greyson's arm.

He wrenched out of Cyrus' grasp. "You wouldn't want this, Cyrus."

"You don't know that!"

"Yes," Greyson snapped, standing as he fisted a hand in his hair. "Yes, I do."

Cyrus shook his head. "I don't believe you."

Greyson continued like he hadn't spoken, "This is what we"re going to do, or I can take you to Lord Darius in Woodhurst who can arrange for you to go to the capital for treatment. Those are your choices, Cyrus."

"Fine," Cyrus replied as he turned back to the flames. "Let's go to the coast."