3

It took another three days before he was satisfied with Cyrus' healing for them to leave the house. The day was sunny and moderately warm for the fall. As Greyson strode down the trail, Cyrus moved to his right, which made his heart beat slightly faster because he disappeared from sight. Clearing his throat, Greyson nudged Cyrus with his staff toward his left side.

"Stay on this side," Greyson ordered.

"Why?"

"Because."

Cyrus' eyebrows scrunched together, but he complied.

Greyson led Cyrus through the village, head swiveling back and forth. The villagers gawked at Cyrus, who obviously did not belong with his bright blonde hair and warm sandy skin. All of Greyson's people resembled him: pale, gray-tinged skin and dark hair. No one said anything, nor did he explain.

Cyrus smiled at everyone, chipper. Greyson didn't know what to do with a happy Cyrus. It wasn't what he was used to. A ghost of a memory surfaced. Cyrus with his arms crossed, face a hard mask as he stood beside Emperor Caspian, his sky-blue eyes never straying from Greyson. He peeked at the Cyrus next to him; the two versions of him were so different. It was hard to reconcile the disparity.

They headed south past the village to where he'd found Cyrus among the trees. Greyson doubted he would've wandered far in his injured condition. Cyrus looked around with a relaxed expression, his stride long and loose. The birds chirped, and the pine needles squished under their boots while the fragrant scent of pine, mixing with the smell of wet dirt, tickled his nose.

Surprisingly, it was pleasant enough to walk next to Cyrus, especially when he remained quiet. Cyrus seldom stopped talking. Greyson shook his head; he would've never guessed. Unbidden, he peered at Cyrus.

"Do you recognize anything?"

With a slight frown, Cyrus said, "No."

Cyrus should have known this region, as he'd fought several battles in this area. "We're close to where I found you," Greyson said.

"Okay," Cyrus replied with a warm smile.

Clearing his throat, Greyson faced forward. They wound among the soaring pines until they reached the place where he'd found Cyrus. "Do you know where you came from?"

Lips pursed, Cyrus said, "I remember heading north."

"So we go south."

Scouring the ground with his good eye, Greyson searched for any sign of someone moving across the forest floor, but the storm had destroyed any trace. It took about half an hour before they entered a glade. The moment he stepped into the open field, his heart clenched.

The first battle of the short rebellion had happened on this ground. This is where he and Cyrus met in battle for the first time. Greyson had known the golden boy of the empire before that day, but this had been the defining event of their relationship.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he buried the rage that sprang up in his stomach like a persistent weed. He viciously wished he'd let Cyrus die, but the rain had made him weak. Greyson remembered what it was like to be injured, cold, and wet, all the while longing for someone to help him.

His gaze shifted to his staff. If someone had performed magic here, he could potentially sense or track it, but the rain had probably washed any remnants away. Nothing scrubbed nature clean of the taint of magic better than rain. What to do? On the one hand, it most likely wouldn't result in anything. On the other, what if it did?

In the end, it was better to check than not.

He drew on his magic; it bubbled under his skin, ready as always. The wooden staff grew warm beneath his fingertips, vibrating with power. It had been a while since he'd last used magic, but it came to him as if no time had passed.

Greyson moved the staff in a slow, clockwise circle as he channeled his magic down his arm, through the staff, and into the surrounding area. His eyes fluttered closed as he waited for the spell to blanket the glade, searching for any residue of magic. Nothing flared. Trying again, he drew out the circle, going slower with exaggerated movements to allow time for the spell to charge and give it more power. Still, nothing happened. He loosened his hold, and the magic slid like water between his fingers. The staff cooled as the magic dissipated.

With nothing else to do, he searched the clearing for any sign of disturbance. When there was none, he was unsurprised.

Coming to a sudden halt as something glinted among the damp weeds, Greyson nudged it with the end of his staff, freeing it from the tangle of grass and flowers. "Over here."

Cyrus, who was on the other side of the clearing, jogged toward him. "What?"

Prodding a sword on the ground with his boot, he said, "This is yours."

Squatting, Cyrus picked up the blade. The second he grasped the hilt, his brow furrowed. His breathing slowed as he gripped the sword. Greyson's hand tightened around his staff, waiting. If anything would stir Cyrus' memory, it would be his blade.

"Do you remember anything?" Greyson asked.

"No," Cyrus said. "I had a familiar sensation, but it left as soon as it came."

There was no indication that Cyrus was lying with his open expression, staring at the trees while he loosely held the sword. Then again, Greyson wasn't well enough acquainted with Cyrus to know for certain.

When Cyrus said nothing more, appearing lost, Greyson continued, "There's nothing here for us."

"Okay."

"Come on." He strode out of the clearing, longing to be free of it. Once they stepped the treeline, his shoulders relaxed and some of the tension left.

"What now?" Cyrus asked.

"Now, I will contact a friend to find out if he knows why you wandered all the way from the capital to out here in the middle of nowhere."

"A friend of mine?" Cyrus' eyebrows raised, expression expectant.

"No." Greyson had already decided to stay as close as possible to the truth. It would be easier to keep the lie straight. "He's my friend, not yours, but he might know something."

"Okay."

"You trust me, don't you?" he asked, stopping to face Cyrus.

"Of course. I told you that when you found me. I don't know why, but deep down I have this feeling that I'm supposed to trust you."

"Good," Greyson said as he started home. Bad mistake, Cyrus. Probably the worst of your life.

Imposing trees pressed around them, not quite blocking out the sun. Birds sang, pine needles squashed under their boots, and the day seemed beyond peaceful. Cyrus kept watching Greyson from the corner of his eye, unable to pull his gaze away for more than a few seconds at a time. He completely trusted Greyson. They were friends after all. His friend, though, seemed much quieter than him.

"Who is this friend you"re writing to?"

Sighing, Greyson looked heavenward. "He's a mage from here who now works as a royal mage for the emperor."

"Will he help?"

"Yes."

"Will he know anything about me?" Cyrus asked, anxious for the conversation to continue.

"I won't know until I write to him," Greyson ground out.

"Will you write to him when we get home?"

"Yes."

Lips pressed together, Cyrus tried to remain silent. Pressure built in his chest, slid up his throat, and compelled him to keep talking, but he swallowed it. He didn't know if it was in his nature to speak so much, but the silence grated on him. Maybe it was because he couldn't remember anything. He could recall things like the ocean, a sunrise, maps, and anything that didn't pertain to him as a person. Like when he held the sword, he'd known how to grip it, the muscles in his arm already responding. But Cyrus couldn't remember sword lessons or the like.

It was infuriating to know nothing.

He peeked, yet again, at Greyson, who didn't even glance in his direction. There was something about Greyson's serious features that appealed to him. Greyson's gaze finally darted toward him, expression pinching.

"What?" Cyrus asked.

"Is it possible for you to remain quiet?"

"I don't know, is it? At this point, you know me better than I do."

Greyson stopped. He swallowed, throat bobbing, and nodded with a scowl. "I suppose that's true."

He didn't know why, but he liked that scowl. It was familiar. "Do I always talk?"

"I suppose so." Greyson started to walk again.

Cyrus paced along beside him. "How did we become friends?"

"Disagreeable happenstance."

He moved in front of Greyson and walked backward. "It couldn't be. You said we're friends."

"Watch out," Greyson said, grabbing him, staff digging into his shoulder. "You almost crashed into a tree."

Long fingers gripped Cyrus' shoulders as Greyson practically growled at him. Cyrus' stomach clenched and his eyes drifted up. Greyson towered over him, squeezing his shoulders, their bodies close together. Something about this position felt right.

Greyson shook him, frowning so deeply two lines appeared between his eyebrows. "Now you choose to stop speaking. You need to watch where you are going before you damage yourself further."

Smiling, he shifted even closer. "You're worried about me."

"No," Greyson said in a clipped tone. "I don't want to play nursemaid again."

"Hmm."

"It's true." Greyson released his shoulders.

"How did we become friends?"

"I met you in the capital about eight years ago," Greyson said as he started moving again. "I was with the spokesperson from the Griseo Mountains. We mine for a rare gem here, venetus. The emperor was demanding an exorbitant amount of it. My people had wanted to be paid more and to have smaller quotas."

"And we met at the meeting?"

"Yes. You were there. That's how we met."

Cyrus nodded, brow furrowing. "How did it end?"

"What end? We're still here…friends."

"Not that, the meeting. How did it end?"

Eyes narrowed, Greyson said, "Not well. Years later, it ended in a rebellion, which my people lost."

"You said we were in the army together. We lost together, then."

"I suppose."

"Misery loves company."

Greyson snorted. Cyrus grinned.

Cyrus did his utmost to remain quiet, but it was difficult. They strode through the forest until they reached the mountain village consisting of a smattering of homes and buildings. A stone well sat in the center of the town with a worn red roof that was covered in moss and a bucket hanging from a rope. The wooden homes were small, and flower boxes hung beneath their windows, each one bursting with plants. Everything seemed well-cared for and full of life from people going about their chores to the chickens clucking in the middle of the dirt road.

As they approached, people gawked at him again. The villagers stopped whatever they were doing and gaped at him. No one moved toward him or returned his smile.

Touching Greyson's elbow, he asked, "Did I ever visit because people keep staring at me?"

"I only saw you in the capital. People here are not used to strangers."

"Maybe I need to make friends with them."

Greyson sneered. "I don't think so."

He ignored the comment and rushed toward an old woman who attempted to draw a bucket of water from the well. Cyrus hoisted it, the rope rough in his hands.

"There you go."

The old woman with gray hair, innumerable wrinkles, and kind brown eyes said, "Thank you."

"You"re welcome. I'm Cyrus."

Before she responded, Greyson came to his side. "Widow Abney, I hope he's not bothering you."

"Of course not," she croaked and patted Cyrus' cheek with a gnarled hand. "He's a good boy."

"Yes," Greyson said, planting his staff into the ground.

She patted his cheek one more time. "Come see me sometime, Cyrus."

"I will."

"Good boy," Widow Abney said in her gravelly voice, then ambled to a house that had colorful flowers bursting from the window boxes.

"If you're done making friends, I should get back to write that letter. It takes a considerable amount of time for mail to reach the capital," Greyson said in a hard voice.

Cyrus followed after him, jogging to catch up with his much longer strides. "Maybe we can come back later, so I can meet more people?"

His eyes turned heavenward once again. "If we must."

"It'd be nice," Cyrus said, swiveling in front of him so he could see Greyson's face.

Growling, Greyson hauled Cyrus back to his left side. "Watch where you're walking."

"Sorry." He liked that growl. Just like the scowl, Greyson's growl was familiar and calmed him. Continuing, Cyrus said, "I would like to meet more people."

"I haven't decided if it is a good thing or not for you to meet people. A mage might have scrubbed your mind clean, and we might not want to run into them."

"You'll protect me," Cyrus declared immediately as he peeked at him. Greyson's eyebrows drew together, forming a slash across his forehead. "You will, won't you?"

Greyson stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, Cyrus. I will protect you."

A huge smile stretched over his lips. "It shouldn't matter, then."

"Nonetheless, let me think about it first. And you are no slouch with a blade; you should be able to protect yourself," Greyson said, starting toward home.

He glanced at the sword on his hip, the weight and feel familiar. Cyrus followed Greyson, grinning at his back. He should worry about the mage who'd attacked him, if it was a mage, but he couldn't. Right now, Cyrus was completely content. Jogging, he caught up to him and stayed by Greyson's side.