Chapter 41: Conditioning and Contingencies
"Well, that's more like it," Cyd said, wiping a faint sheen of sweat from his brow. It wasn't from exertion—his body was a furnace of its own, barely taxed. It was from the sheer, visceral satisfaction. There was a primal, undeniable pleasure in unleashing controlled violence on something that absolutely deserved it. Hitting things that can hit back… feels pretty damn good.
"They look more dead than compliant," Medea murmured, unable to look directly at the two fire-breathing oxen now lying slack-jawed and frothing on the shattered flagstones.
"That's why I told you to bring the healing potions," Cyd said, spreading his hands. "Hurry up. I'd hate for our star performers to actually expire."
"I thought that was the plan," she grumbled, but she was already moving. From her seemingly bottomless pouch, she produced two larger vials filled with a viscous, iridescent green liquid that smelled of crushed mint and wet earth—a high-grade regenerative draught she'd painstakingly brewed for emergencies (specifically, the emergency of Cyd being reduced to a charred skeleton). With a resigned sigh, she uncorked them and poured the contents over the bulls' heads.
The effect was immediate and dramatic. The pink, bruised flesh rippled and smoothed. The glazed-over eyes snapped back into focus, regaining their fiery inner light. Deep, rattling breaths heaved their massive sides. A faint, dangerous glow began to rekindle around their horns and hooves.
THWUMP. THWUMP.
Without a word, Cyd's foot shot out—a quick, sharp, piston-like kick to each bull's temple. The twin impacts echoed in the magically silenced yard. Both heads were driven back into the fresh craters they'd just vacated.
"YAH!" Medea shrieked, tumbling backward onto her rear. "What was that for?!"
"Reinforcement therapy," Cyd explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He reached down, hauled one bull's head up by the horn, and produced the now-infamous, potion-stained scrap of Jason's tunic. The bull's eyes, which had been flickering with renewed rage, widened in pure, unadulterated terror at the sight of the cloth. Cyd calmly draped it over its snout. "Pavlovian conditioning. Just in case. You did bring plenty of those healing potions, right?"
"I… I brought a lot," Medea admitted weakly, patting her pouch. She'd packed enough to rebuild a man from ashes three times over, anticipating Cyd's fiery demise. Now it seemed her entire stock was destined to become bovine first-aid supplies.
"Excellent." Cyd's smile returned, wide and unnervingly cheerful. "Then we'll just continue the lesson… until we run out."
---
Half an hour later, the courtyard looked like a warzone dedicated to the repeated near-death and revival of two very unfortunate creatures.
Medea poured the last vial—a precious, shimmering golden elixir she'd been saving for a true crisis—over the head of the bull currently lying in a puddle of its own drool. Its companion huddled miserably a few feet away, whole-body tremors making its scales clatter.
"That's the last one," she announced, her voice flat with exhaustion and a strange, professional fascination. She'd never had test subjects this… resilient.
Cyd cracked his knuckles, the sound like breaking twigs in the sudden quiet. He studied the two bulls, who were now huddled together for comfort, their massive bodies quaking. The fire around them was completely extinguished, leaving them looking like oversized, scaly, and profoundly traumatized cattle.
"Alright. Final exam." He clapped his hands once. "On fire."
The bulls flinched. Then, with a synchronized, pitiful whuff, feeble orange flames flickered to life across their hides and horns. It was a sad, subdued display, like a candle guttering in the wind.
"Good. Off."
The flames vanished instantly, snuffed out as if doused by an invisible blanket.
"They're… obedient," Medea observed, a hint of awe breaking through her fatigue. Her father had spent fortunes and lost good men just to contain these things in their pen. This pale stranger had, in less than an hour, broken their will and installed on/off switches.
"Almost perfect." Cyd produced the cloth scrap again, holding it between thumb and forefinger. "One more association test. Here, smell~"
He wafted the fabric toward the nearest bull's nostrils.
The reaction was instantaneous and catastrophic.
MOOOOOOOO—EEEEEEEEEE!!
A sound that was equal parts bovine bellow and soul-rending shriek tore from both creatures. They didn't just flinch; they convulsed. White foam erupted from their mouths anew. Their legs buckled, and they crashed to their sides in a synchronized faint, twitching uncontrollably.
"Huh. Response is… stronger than expected," Cyd mused, tilting his head. It seemed the bulls had developed a phobia of Jason's scent that now surpassed their fear of him. A useful, if unintended, side effect.
"They spent the worst half-hour of their lives smelling nothing but that cloth and your fists," Medea said dryly, eyeing her collection of empty, priceless vials with a pang of loss. "It's a miracle they didn't just drop dead from terror."
"Don't pout. If we hadn't used them, they'd be as useful as well water." Cyd bent, picked up an empty vial, and tossed it underhand to her. "Now, phase two."
She caught it reflexively. "What 'phase two'? The bulls are broken. Jason can walk them in circles all day. But the dragon teeth… the Spartoi that sprout from them will rip him to pieces before he can take three steps."
"A valid concern." Cyd began walking toward the royal arena, a vast, open-air structure of tiered stone seating circling a sandy fighting pit. "If it were you, princess. How would you handle an army of magical warriors sprouting from the ground?"
"Taint the teeth, of course," she said, falling into step beside him, her mind engaging with the puzzle. She snapped her fingers, and behind them, the shattered flagstones of the courtyard groaned and shifted, knitting themselves back together. The twisted iron gate righted itself and re-fused with its hinges. By dawn, it would look as if nothing more than a particularly rowdy night had occurred. "Enchant them so the warriors turn on each other the moment they rise."
"Clever. But what if your father examines the teeth beforehand? 'These are cursed! The trial is void!'" Cyd pushed open a heavy bronze door leading into the arena's undercroft. The air inside was cool, dusty, and smelled of old blood and sand. "Why would some Spartoi rebel and others not? It would raise suspicion."
"Hmm." Medea's brow furrowed. "Father is proud, not paranoid. He might not think to check…"
"We can't rely on 'might not,'" Cyd said, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. He paced the perimeter of the sandy floor, his eyes scanning the stonework. "No. The warriors need to come up exactly as expected. Fierce. Bloodthirsty. A horde of nightmares clawing from the earth, straight for Jason."
He spread his arms wide, addressing the empty arena. "The more ferocious they are, the more confident your father will be. The less he'll suspect interference. You can manage a wide-area enchantment here, yes? Something to… agitate them? Make them excessively aggressive?"
"A mass-rage induction field over the entire arena? Child's play." Medea's lips curled in a smirk. She drew her short wand and tapped it against the ground. A complex, pulsing sigil of violent purple-red light flared across the sand for an instant before sinking into the earth, leaving a faint, acrid scent of ozone. "Done. But are you sure you don't just want to see Jason turned into mincemeat? Because that's what's going to happen."
"Positive." Cyd reached over and plucked a specific vial from her pouch—one she'd brewed earlier under his strange, specific instructions. It was filled with a clear, violet liquid that smelled sharply, unpleasantly acidic. "This is the secret sauce."
Medea stared at the vial, then at him, utterly baffled. "That? That's just… acidic water. A concentrated vinegar with a splash of dissolving agent. It's not even proper alchemy! It'll do nothing but make the soil sour for a day or two. I only made it because you were so insistent!"
"This 'vinegar,'" Cyd said, unscrewing the cap, "is exactly what will make Jason untouchable amidst a horde of enraged Spartoi." He began to pour the liquid out in a slow, deliberate circle around the center of the arena.
"I think you're just messing with me now," Medea said, crossing her arms. "Or you have a very dark sense of humor and want to watch him die screaming."
"Care to make it interesting?" Cyd tossed the now-empty vial back to her. It spun end-over-end before she snatched it from the air. "A little wager?"
"A bet? On my potion's effects?" She raised a delicate eyebrow, a competitive spark lighting in her violet eyes. "I know every component, every reaction. It can't do what you say."
"If I win," Cyd said, leaning against a stone pillar, "you make me some more… specialized supplies. Potions that aren't for healing. Tools. Tricks." His mind went to Chiron's warnings about his body's unique vulnerability, to the lion's teeth he still carried—useless raw materials without a craft he didn't possess. He needed an edge that wasn't just blunt durability.
"And if I win," Medea said, her smile turning sly and suddenly, dangerously charming. She took a step closer. "You stay. Here in Colchis."
The offer hung in the dusty air. It wasn't just a request for company. It was a claim, a desire to keep this fascinating, impossible puzzle of a man within her reach, under her observation, in her world.
Cyd looked at her—the brilliant, lonely princess surrounded by magic and isolation. He saw not the future witch, but the present genius craving a worthy subject. He smiled, a gentle, knowing thing.
"Deal. Though I'm afraid you've already lost." He tapped the side of his nose. "You may know the potion, but you don't know the enemy. And you definitely don't know Jason."
He knelt, running a hand through the sand now tinged with the faint, sharp scent of his "vinegar." "The Spartoi spring fully formed from the earth, yes? Armor, weapons, bodies… all conjured from the magic in the tooth and the substance of the ground itself."
Medea's eyes widened as the implication slammed into her. The pieces clicked: the acidic agent, the arena soil, the instantaneous creation of a body…
"If the earth itself is compromised," Cyd continued, his voice low and conspiratorial, "if the very stuff they're made from is weak, brittle, corroded… then what climbs out won't be warriors. It'll be crumbling puppets. Walking statues made of sand and rust."
He stood up, dusting his hands. "Jason won't need to fight an army. He'll just need to stand in the right spot and watch them fall apart around him. Your father will see a furious, terrifying horde emerge, just as he expects. He'll see them charge. And he'll see them disintegrate the moment they try to swing a sword. The perfect, unsuspicious cheat."
Medea stared at him, her earlier smugness utterly evaporated. He'd outmaneuvered her not with greater magic, but with simpler, crueler logic. He'd used her potion, her arena enchantment, to create a trap within a trap. It was diabolical. It was brilliant.
A slow, genuine smile spread across her face, one of pure, unadulterated admiration for the artistry of the deception.
"You," she breathed, "are a very dangerous man to make an enemy of."
"I prefer to think of myself as a very useful man to have as a friend," Cyd replied. "Now… about those tools and potions I'll be needing…"
Medea's smile turned into a playful glare. "Oh, you haven't won yet! The bet's still on!" She raised her wand again, and with a flourish, layered another enchantment over her rage-inducing field. This one glowed a sullen, oppressive yellow. "A growth augmentation! Let's see your 'crumbling puppets' try to crush him underfoot when they're twice as big!"
Cyd just chuckled, the sound warm in the cool, subterranean air. "You're going to make him look even more heroic when they collapse. But by all means, princess. Give him a show."