The Wish Granter (Ravenspire Book 2)

by C. J. Redwine

  He walked past the couch and checked the tiny room that doubled as a makeshift kitchen and bedroom. It was empty.

  The ache in his chest eased. His father was still in Balavata. If there was any justice in the world, he’d never return.

  “Who’s there?” his mother asked, her voice husky with sleep and the lingering effects of apodrasi.

  He moved into her line of sight, and she pulled herself up to a sitting position.

  “Come to rob me?”

  He sighed, a headache beginning to spike. “I never come to rob you.”

  “Ungrateful boy, leaving me just like your father.”

  It was ridiculous that even after years of shoring up his defenses against her, she could still find a way to hurt him.

  He held up the sack. “I brought food for the week.”

  “Did you bring coin too?”

  He turned to unpack the sack’s contents into the single cupboard that hung over the slab of wood that served as a countertop.

  “I asked you a question.”

  A question he was sick of answering. “No.”

  He ignored her string of curses and put the bread, figs, lamb strips, and potatoes into the cupboard. The oranges went into a cracked bowl on the countertop. Then he turned and interrupted her tirade.

  “If you didn’t buy apodrasi with any coin you got your hands on, I might bring you some.”

  “You know nothing.” She gave him a smug little smile and shoved her tangled gray-black hair out of her eyes. “Your father makes sure I get what I need.”

  His hands clenched into fists, and his heartbeat roared in his ears.

  “Does he?” Sebastian snapped. “Is that why your cupboard has nothing in it until I bring you food each week?”

  She recoiled from him and bent to fumble along the floor for the pipe she’d dropped. When she sat up, she was holding her pipe and a tiny glass vial with a few iridescent drops of apodrasi left inside.

  Mumbling something under her breath, she upended the apodrasi into the pipe and reached for the candle. When she discovered that there was no flame left to light her pipe, she turned beseeching eyes toward her son.

  Sickness crawled up the back of his throat at the need on her face, and the answer to the question she’d always refused to answer was suddenly clear.

  “Teague takes some of Father’s pay and gives it to you in apodrasi, doesn’t he?”

  She lifted a shaking hand toward him. “Candle?”

  He worked to unclench his fists. To draw a breath past the band of tension that felt like it was crushing his chest. When he was sure he’d erased all outward signs of anger, he approached her, blinking against the stench of her unwashed body mixed with bitter pipe weed and the sickly sweetness of apodrasi.

  “You need help,” he said quietly. “A new place, far from here. Some time to come down off the drug and start over fresh. Hiding from your life in the bowl of a pipe isn’t the same as making a true escape.”

  Her lips quivered, and her voice lashed out bitterly. “Like you did? Like Parrish? Leaving me here. Never coming back. Just like your father.”

  He closed his eyes and crushed the fleeting longing that once—just once—she would speak to him like he mattered.

  “I’ll be back next week. Don’t forget to eat.”

  “What about a candle?” She lunged off the couch as he strode toward the door, her voice rising. “Sebastian! A candle? Please?”

  He closed the door behind him and closed out the sound of the vicious words she hurled at him as he hurried down the stairs and out of the building. His hands were fists again, his stomach jittery as he walked toward the gate. Why was it that even after eighteen years of learning to expect nothing better, he was still disappointed every time he saw her? What was wrong with him that a tiny piece of his heart clung to the devastating need for her to see him as someone worth loving?

  It was useless to think about. Useless to let it burrow under his skin and slice him raw. Instead, he had to focus on getting through east Kosim Thalas in one piece so that he could show up at the palace in the morning, apply for a job, and hope the king gave him a chance.

  Picking up his pace, he moved through the city and tried to convince himself that by the time he reached the stables where he’d been sleeping, the memory of this visit with his mother would no longer ache.

  SIX

  IT HAD BEEN nearly five days since Sebastian had been hired as the palace’s new weapons master, and the job was nothing like he’d thought it would be. All he wanted was to manage the king’s arsenal of weapons in peace and quiet, saving his coin until he could afford a solitary cottage somewhere far from Kosim Thalas on a cliff overlooking the Chrysós Sea. Somewhere his father would never find him.

  Instead, he was trapped inside the training arena on the palace grounds, polishing swords and listening to a cluster of nobles in fancy clothing speculate about which jewel-encrusted dagger would match their summer wardrobe best.

  Not trapped, he reminded himself before his lungs tightened and desperation to fight his way out of the crowded space pushed every other thought from his head.

  He wasn’t trapped. He wasn’t caught between the monster who’d raised him and the viciousness of the streets outside his front door. He was performing the duties of his new job—a job a boy like him was lucky to have—and he could walk away whenever he wanted to.

  Not that he would. Not until he’d saved enough coin to buy his cottage and his solitude. Enough to lift his mother from the filth and poverty of her life and set her up somewhere else.

  Maybe a fresh start would be enough to save her from herself. Sebastian had long since given up believing it would be enough for him. He wore his grief, his shame, and the imprint of his father’s rage deep beneath his skin, where all the coin in the world couldn’t scrub it clean.

  He leaned over the whetstone that rested on a wooden crate and patted it with an oiled cloth.

  A hand descended onto his shoulder. “Are these all the daggers in the king’s collection?” one of the noblemen asked.

  Sebastian jerked upright and took a quick step back, breaking the man’s hold on him.

  The nobleman, a tall, lanky man wearing a fitted linen suit that would restrict his range of motion in a fight, stood loose and relaxed in front of Sebastian, his brows climbing toward his hairline as he waited for the weapon master’s response.

  Not a threat. Just another in a long line of young nobles flocking to the palace to curry favor with Súndraille’s king. Or, based on a few conversations he’d overheard inside the arena, to keep an eye on the king and report any failures to their fathers.

  The man broke eye contact with Sebastian and looked at the other members of his group. “Did Thad hire a mute for a weapons master?” He laughed, and several others joined in.

  Sebastian forced his hands to relax instead of forming fists, and took another small step back so that the entire group was in his line of sight while the wall that lined the arena was to his back.

  “All the weapons available for visitors’ use are there,” Sebastian said quietly, nodding toward the display of jeweled daggers and ornately handled swords that lined the table to his right.

  “He speaks!” The nobleman threw his arms wide, and Sebastian clenched his jaw as he held himself still.

  Not a threat. Not trapped.

  “Leave him alone, Makario,” said a young woman with friendly eyes and the impossibly small corseted waist that seemed to be popular among the nobility for reasons Sebastian couldn’t fathom.

  Who would agree to cinch themselves too tight to be able to draw a full breath? How would they run or fight if necessary?

  Of course, nobles didn’t have to run and fight. They didn’t look over their shoulders for threats in every shadow or worry that if they were caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, the city’s guard would beat them and throw them into prison to rot.

  Makario shrugged and wandered toward the display table. “Ju
st making sure the king put out enough weapons for us to enjoy our practice today. And making sure that in his haste to replace the previous weapons master he didn’t hire an imbecile to be in charge of sharp objects.”

  “Makario!” the woman snapped. “He can hear you!” She gave an apologetic little shrug in Sebastian’s direction. He wanted to tell her that words meant little when they came from a man who wouldn’t follow them up with action, but it didn’t matter. She pitied Sebastian because she saw him as a victim.

  He would never be anyone’s victim again.

  Sebastian waited, watchful and still, as the group bickered good-naturedly over which of them would throw daggers and which of them would parry with swords whose tips were capped with cork to prevent injury to their opponents. When teams had been chosen and weapons assigned, Sebastian skirted the arena to check the targets and arrange the sparring areas to the group’s liking.

  He had just finished securing a new sheet of canvas with a bull’s-eye painted in the center to the enormous stack of hay bales at the south end when the woman who’d pitied him approached.

  “Here.” She fished a silver coin out of the little pouch that hung from the glittering woven metal belt that wrapped around her waist. “For your troubles.” She pressed the coin into his palm and squeezed his hand with hers. He jerked back as if she’d burned him.

  The coin landed in the sawdust at his feet, and a delicate frown etched itself between the woman’s brows. “It’s okay. Thad won’t mind if we reward you for good service.”

  His scars ached. It took everything he had to calmly bend down and scoop up the coin as if the unwelcome touch from another person hadn’t set off a reaction inside him that felt like the entire Chrysós Sea was trapped within, tearing at his skin as it sought release.

  He nodded to her as he pocketed the coin and hurried back to his corner of the arena where he could sit with his back to the wall and polish swords in peace.

  Not trapped. No threats in sight. Just doing his job until he could buy his freedom.

  He repeated the words to himself over and over again as he oiled the whetstone and slowly passed the sword over its surface, back and forth until the blade gleamed in the sunlight that filtered in through the windows that surrounded the upper deck of the arena.

  The laughter and shouts of the nobility faded into background noise, their movements flashes of color he tracked with his peripheral vision while he focused on the task in front of him. He was finishing the third of five blades when the arena suddenly fell silent.

  He lifted his head, his hand gripping the sword’s hilt while he scanned the arena for the cause.

  A girl who looked about his age stood at the entrance taking in the scene with avid curiosity, a partially full burlap sack hanging from one shoulder. Her sun-streaked brown hair was pulled back in a braid, and a simple silver armband gleamed against the golden skin of her right arm. Unlike the others in the room, her clothing was plain, her sandals sensible. If Sebastian had to guess based solely on the lack of corset and the simple linen sheath she wore, he’d say she was a member of the merchant class. Nobility didn’t fall silent for merchants, though, and there was a familiarity to the line of her jaw and the shape of her dark eyes.

  “Your Highness.” Makario bowed low, and the rest of the group followed suit.

  Sebastian came to his feet in one fluid motion, and the girl’s gaze instantly landed on him.

  He bowed quickly, though she was already waving her hand in the air as though she was shooing a cloud of gnats.

  “No bowing. Just . . . as you were. Go back to throwing shiny things, or whatever it is you’re doing.”

  “Would you care to join us, Princess Arianna?” someone asked.

  “Trust me. You don’t want to hand me a dagger and tell me to throw it. Somebody will need medical attention.” She aimed a smile at the crowd in the arena, but her eyes were still on Sebastian.

  He watched as she approached and remembered at the last minute to loosen his grip on the sword he held, though the air of confidence surrounding the princess said she was the one person in the arena who would follow her words with decisive action.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing your work,” she said as she reached him.

  He blinked and glanced at the whetstone beside him. Since when did nobility care if they interrupted anything?

  “You’re my brother’s new weapons master, aren’t you?” she asked.

  He nodded cautiously and waited for her to tell him to fetch a jeweled dagger to match her dress.

  “I assume that means you’re an expert at both using and creating various weapons?”

  He nodded again and began praying inwardly that she wouldn’t ask for something awful like a weapons demonstration in front of the gathered crowd. He’d do it—he didn’t dare turn down the princess—but the thought of being on display in front of dozens of people wrapped a fist of panic around his lungs.

  The people in the arena had yet to continue their games, and the princess lowered her voice as she asked, “Would you happen to have some free time to make me a few weapons and then teach me how to use them?”

  He stared at her. Weapons for a princess? She’d want pretty daggers or finely wrought swords—both of which were beyond his skill level. What would she do to him when she found out he wasn’t fully qualified for the job he’d taken? The silver coin in his pocket felt like fire against his thigh as he drew in a deep breath.

  He had to earn enough coin to pay for the freedom he so desperately wanted. If that meant he needed to figure out how to make a set of jewel-crusted daggers for the princess, then that’s what he’d do.

  Somehow.

  “Is it . . . Did I ask for the wrong thing?” the princess said quietly, and Sebastian was hit with the terrible certainty that she was paying attention to him. Not to his role as a servant of the king but to the stillness of his body, the watchfulness of his gaze, and the muscles that bunched in his shoulders.

  “We’re operating under the assumption that he’s an imbecile,” Makario said. “He barely speaks. Of course, you can’t always assume the same intelligence in the servant class as you can in the nobility.”

  The princess’s spine snapped straight, and fire lit her eyes as she whirled to face the rest of the arena. “You forget that until my brother was crowned king, I was a member of the servant class. Are you questioning my intelligence as well? Or are you simply confusing idiocy with his choice to not spew every thought that crosses his mind? Because, I can assure you, you would do well to keep a few of your own thoughts private, Makario.”

  The fist around Sebastian’s lungs unclenched.

  “I can help you,” he said softly, and hoped it was true.

  The princess stared at the crowd. Several of them glared back. “Games are over for the morning. There are peach tarts, biscuits with fig butter, and freshly squeezed juice set out in the dining hall. Feel free to help yourselves.”

  Her tone was a clear dismissal, and no one hesitated to return their weapons and file out of the arena, though there were murmurs of discontent to go with the sharp looks aimed at her. When there was no one left but Sebastian and the princess, she turned back to him and held out her hand.

  He stared at it. Did she want to try one of the weapons he’d set out? Which one? Was he just supposed to read her mind?

  “I’m Ari,” she said, and his cheeks heated as he realized she was simply offering him the customary hand-clasp greeting used between those of equal class.

  It would be a terrible insult to refuse to touch her. He didn’t think she was the type to dismiss him from his post over it, but it wasn’t worth the risk.

  Quickly he pressed his palm to hers, surprised to feel calluses on her fingertips, and then pulled his hand away.

  He curled his fingers into a fist, and then flexed them again in an effort to look unthreatening.

  “What kind of weapons do you want?” he asked, his voice louder than it should have been because
she was watching his fingers curl and flex, and he couldn’t shake the sense that she was seeing far more of him than he wanted her to.

  She tossed the burlap sack to the floor between them. It landed with the sharp clink of metal striking metal.

  Her voice was firm. “There are large pieces of iron in this bag. I need them turned into weapons. Something for the king, and something for me. Something I can keep with me at all times. Nothing that’s too hard to carry. I don’t want it to kill me when I trip on the stairs.”

  “When you trip?” He raised a brow.

  “It happens with alarming frequency.”

  “You might be better off with a metal that’s lighter than iron.”

  She went still, her eyes boring into his. “I want iron.”

  He inclined his head. “As you wish. Just know that the weapons will be heavy, and that can have a detrimental effect on your ability to use them. If you incorporate silver—”

  “Silver doesn’t work. They must be completely made of iron.”

  He held her gaze and said slowly, “There’s only one use for weapons made of iron.” And stars only knew what the princess of Súndraille was doing arming herself against the fae.

  She locked eyes with him, and silence stretched between them for a moment. He had the clear impression that she was assessing his character and deciding if she could trust him. He did a quick inventory: sword held loosely, blade pointed down, free hand uncurled and relaxed, boots solidly on the floor, no fighting stance visible. Keeping his eyes on hers, he waited.

  Finally, she said, “How long until you can have my weapon ready and begin training me to use it?”

  “Two days. Three at the most.” If he gave up sleep and pushed himself.

  She nodded. “I’ll see you in two days.”

  “Or three.” Panic was a quick skitter of nerves up his spine. He had to figure out how to balance the weapons. How to make them both deadly and light enough to carry comfortably.

  Scraping the iron into shape was going to be the easy part.