The Wish Granter (Ravenspire Book 2)

by C. J. Redwine

  Anger blazed through Ari’s fear, leaving her with nothing but a terrible need to hurt the one who’d laid his hands on her friend. Without a second thought, she balled up her fist and plowed it straight into the middle of his face.

  Blood spurted from his nose, and he reached for her, but she’d already grabbed Cleo’s hand and started moving. Together they ran out of the shop and straight into the chest of a thick barrel of a man with graying black hair and close-set eyes.

  He grunted and shoved them back into the hands of the two men who’d exited the shop on their heels. “They look like someone would pay their ransom. Teague will be pleased with this catch. Tie them up, put them in the wagon, and then finish collecting the protection fees. We don’t have all day, boys.”

  “Teague?” The name left the bitter residue of fear on Ari’s tongue as the young man who held her dragged her away from the spice shop.

  “You’re in it now, miss.” The shorter one spat blood on the ground and dug his nails into her arms.

  No, she wasn’t. She was the princess and somewhere at the front of the shop, she had a pair of trained guards waiting for her. She just had to make them hear her.

  Dragging in a deep breath, she screamed, “Guards!”

  Cleo joined her efforts, but the men laughed. The shorter one leaned close enough that Ari choked on the fetid stench of his breath and said, “Haven’t you heard? The city guard has to stand down where Teague’s business is concerned. King’s orders. No one is coming to rescue you, miss.”

  She hadn’t been screaming for the city guard, but it didn’t matter. Her guards were too far away to hear her. She’d been a fool to make them stand outside the shop so that they wouldn’t overhear her conversation.

  Ari met Cleo’s wild gaze and tried to come up with a plan, but panic clawed at her.

  No one was coming to save them.

  They were on their own.

  EIGHT

  A HUSH HUNG over the steep hill that held the pauper’s cemetery in Kosim Thalas. Somewhere below, merchants hawked their wares and ferrymen dipped oars into the city’s canals and bumped their narrowboats against the landing platforms scattered throughout the market, but high on the windswept, grassy hillside, there was only the occasional caw of a seabird and the profound silence of the dead.

  Sebastian climbed the narrow stairs that were carved into the ground between row upon row of small, plain stones and glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was still alone.

  Not that he worried his mother would drag herself out of her drug-induced stupor to visit her eldest son’s resting place. Or that his father would return from Balavata and take it upon himself to examine the results of his handiwork. Still, Sebastian felt exposed on the open hillside with his back to the road, and he quickened his pace.

  Thirteen stairs between each flattened terrace that wrapped around the hillside. Five hundred fifty-nine stairs to reach the forty-fourth terrace. Ninety-eight gravestones to the right, just beyond the gnarled trunk of an olive tree that had long since stopped producing fruit.

  Grief was a dull blade pressing relentlessly against an old wound. Sebastian rubbed his hand against his heart as if he could somehow ease the ache.

  Crouching beside his brother’s grave, he traced his fingers lightly over the name he’d clumsily carved into the stone six months ago in the days between his brother’s death and the graveside memorial that only Sebastian had attended.

  Parrish Vaughn, Beloved Brother

  He’d left off the words “and son.” His brother deserved to be buried without the taint of their father touching his final resting place.

  “I got a job,” he said quietly while the wind whispered through branches of the olive tree and the sun baked its heat into the gravestones. “I know it sounds crazy, but I’m working for the king now. I live at the palace—well, actually, I live in a little room attached to the king’s arena. I’m the weapons master.”

  If he concentrated, he could almost remember what his brother’s laugh had sounded like. What it had felt like to have Parrish loop an arm around Sebastian’s neck and ruffle his hair while he teased him about being smarter than the other kids on the street. So smart, Sebastian. So stubborn. If anyone makes it out of these slums without first working for Teague, it will be my little brother.

  It was cold comfort to prove his brother right.

  Another glance over his shoulder confirmed that he was still alone, and he brushed loose grass from Parrish’s stone. “I’m earning a decent wage now. I have to deal with the nobility to get it, but they aren’t all bad. I met the princess, and she’s nice.”

  Nice wasn’t the right word for Princess Arianna, but he wasn’t sure what would fit better. How did you describe someone who dressed like she didn’t want to be noticed but looked everyone in the eye? Someone who treated a servant like an equal but commanded the nobility with the confidence of someone who hadn’t spent a second’s time worrying about the consequences of displeasing them?

  It didn’t matter. He had more important things to discuss with his brother.

  A faint sound reached him, and he twisted to see a pair of women in faded blue shawls slowly climbing the stairs.

  Turning back to Parrish’s stone, he said, “I can’t stay long today. The princess has me making weapons, and she didn’t give me much time to do it. I just wanted you to know that I’ve found a good place to settle for now. I’m safe. I’m still bringing food to Mother each week, though I don’t stay long. You know what she’s like.”

  His voice faded as his heartbeat thrummed in his ears. Parrish would care about Sebastian’s safety and Mother having food to eat, but he knew what his brother would really want to hear.

  Taking a deep breath, he said, “Father is still in Balavata collecting for Teague. I don’t know when he’ll return. And I don’t know if I’ll still be here when he does. My new job pays me triple what I was making working odd jobs for merchants, and within a year I’ll have enough saved up to buy a cottage far from here.”

  It was hard to force the next words past his lips. Hard to keep the rage that bubbled within him locked away when he thought of his father’s role in Parrish’s death, but he had to. It was the only way to save himself from becoming what he feared most. “I know I said I’d punish him for killing you, but . . .”

  The scars on his back tingled and ached.

  But—one little word that held the balance between who Sebastian had been raised to be and who he was trying to become.

  But he didn’t want to be in Kosim Thalas when Father returned.

  He didn’t want to stare into Father’s eyes and throw the truth of Parrish’s death into his face.

  Not because he was afraid of his father’s fury, though he was.

  Not because he knew there was no speaking the truth to him without suffering the consequences, because that lesson had been absorbed with every lash of his father’s whip.

  He didn’t want to confront his father because deep inside him, beneath the scars and the shame, a vicious pit of rage bubbled silently, waiting for a crack in his defenses so it could pour out of him and lay waste to anyone in his way.

  What if he was no better than his father?

  What if once the crack split him open, there was no pulling back? No shoving his fury back into its cage?

  His heart thundered at the thought, and his throat closed around a breath of warm, grass-scented air, but he fought the panic before it could take hold.

  He wasn’t his father. He refused to be.

  He was safe for now, and he had a plan.

  Parrish would understand. He’d wanted nothing more than for Sebastian get away from east Kosim Thalas, their father, and the long arm of Alistair Teague.

  Pressing his hand against the gritty headstone, Sebastian said, “I’ll visit again as soon as I can. Rest well.”

  There were a few others climbing the steps as Sebastian made his way down the hill, but none of them spared him a second glance. In mo
ments, he’d left the cemetery behind and was hurrying along the edges of the merchant district toward the distant palace.

  It would be faster to cut through the market and pay a few kepas to take a narrowboat to the landing platform closest to the palace, but it was Thursday. Collection day. The market would be crawling with Teague’s people, and Sebastian wanted nothing to do with them.

  He could make it back to the palace on foot quickly enough, and he could use the time to plan his approach to the rest of the iron weapons the princess wanted from him. She’d ordered one for herself and one for the king, but she’d given him enough iron to make at least three weapons, maybe four. He’d already fashioned a throwing star, but it still needed to be balanced. He’d drawn a model of a simple dagger, but he’d need to use the smithy’s fire for that. What else could he make out of iron that wouldn’t be too heavy to easily carry?

  “You’re making a big mistake!” A girl’s voice cut through the air, and Sebastian stopped with a jerk. “Let us go this instant, or suffer the wrath of the king.”

  He pivoted toward the merchant district and scanned the streets. The voice sounded like the princess, but that didn’t make sense. What would the princess be doing in the market on a Thursday? Even if she remained unaware of the true owner of Kosim Thalas’s streets, her guards knew it was unsafe. He’d seen the pair she’d recently been assigned—two men fresh from the streets themselves, though they’d cleaned up well. If they were truly committed to protecting the princess, they should’ve stopped her from leaving the palace.

  He caught movement to his left and whirled to find the princess being dragged out of the merchant district toward one of Teague’s wagons by a thug who worked for a street boss in east Kosim Thalas. Another of Teague’s men pulled a shorter girl with curly hair behind the princess. Both girls shook with terror.

  Sebastian’s jaw clenched, and he leaped over the low stone wall that separated him from the merchant district and headed straight for the princess.

  “Get off me!” The princess’s friend clawed at the man who held her, and he shoved her to the ground. She landed in an ungainly sprawl with a sharp cry of pain.

  Sebastian’s pulse thundered, and he broke into a run as the princess swore like a servant and twisted toward her friend.

  The man holding the princess raised a fist and sent it flying toward her face.

  Sebastian launched himself forward and slammed into the man, breaking his grip on the princess and sending him crashing into the side of the wagon.

  “Daka!” The man swore as viciously as the princess had and reached for his dagger, but Sebastian was already there. Pinning the man’s wrist beneath one boot, he snapped his other foot into the man’s face.

  Blood gushed from the man’s nose, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

  With one man down, Sebastian pivoted, expecting an attack from the second. Instead, he found the shorter man fending off the princess.

  Her form was amateurish—she had no idea how to harness the power of her height—but her determination was a thing of beauty. She kicked, scratched, and dove at him with her fists flying.

  The man, momentarily taken aback, had gone on the defensive, but he was recovering quickly. Sebastian leaped to the princess’s side as the thug yanked a blade from his hip sheath.

  “Left!” Sebastian barked, and the princess dodged the man’s blow.

  Sebastian pulled his cudgel from his vest as he lunged for the man. He absorbed one solid blow to the face before swinging his weapon into the man’s stomach. The man folded, air rushing from him in a painful burst. Sebastian reached for his knife hand, but the princess was already there, applying painful pressure to the small bones of his wrist until the weapon clattered onto the road.

  “You . . . fool.” The man gasped as Sebastian scooped up the knife and then shoved the man to his knees. “Do you have . . . any . . . idea who . . .”

  “You’re the fool,” Sebastian snarled. “How dare you lay your hands on the princess?”

  “He works for Teague.” The princess’s voice was flat. “Don’t say your name. Don’t say anything. No one is going to suffer for helping us.”

  She reached for her friend and gently helped the girl to her feet.

  The need to punish the man was fire in Sebastian’s blood. He stood over him, flexing his fists.

  A warm hand brushed lightly over his arm, and he jerked away from the touch. Turning, he found the princess, her hair disheveled, her dress torn, looking at him with steady eyes.

  “Leave him,” she said quietly. “I need help getting Cleo home.”

  Sebastian drew in a deep breath and felt the fire inside him flicker and die. Quickly, he offered his arm for Cleo to lean on and joined the princess on the long walk back to the palace.

  NINE

  ARI GRABBED A plate, took one of everything from the breakfast laid out on the serving bar, and sank into a seat at the (blessedly empty) dining room table, her body aching from fighting Teague’s men at the market the day before. She took a bite of coddled egg and considered the results of the previous day.

  She had a tiny jar of bloodflower poison. She had the rare Book of the Fae on order. She’d learned that Teague had a system of street bosses and runners collecting fees from the merchants—coin they paid to have Teague’s disgusting henchmen leave them alone for another week. She had the bruises to prove that Teague’s employees meant business. Cleo did too, which had required an elaborate story to satisfy Mama Eleni, who had spent the morning muttering dire threats against Lady Zabat’s maids for daring to spill milk and cause her daughter to slip.

  But most important, she’d learned that the terrifying nursery tales of the Wish Granter were based in truth—a thought that still made her heart race and her hands go cold. Nanny Babette had always started each story about the Wish Granter with the adage “He’ll grant you the deepest desire of your heart, but in ten years he’ll return for your soul.” Ari had always thought the adage had to be an exaggeration meant to frighten children away from the belief that they could use the powerful fae without enormous cost. Now her stomach sank as she remembered Thad telling Teague he had nine years and eleven months left. If he’d made a wish, he was in more trouble than she’d thought. Whatever price he’d agreed to—and surely it wasn’t his soul; her brother was far too smart for that—the stories always made it clear that the wish was never worth the price. The Wish Granter always won.

  She was determined that this time he would lose.

  Ari spread a generous dollop of creamy butter over her slice of raisin bread. She’d also learned that the new weapons master was more than a match for Teague’s men. He was as strong as a smith but as quick as a stableboy. It was an interesting combination.

  And it was a stupid thing to think about when Ari had real problems in front of her.

  Thad didn’t owe Teague for another nine years and eleven months. That was plenty of time for Ari to learn how to use an iron weapon or, better yet, find a secret weakness hidden in the Book of the Fae. Something that wouldn’t depend on her (questionable) coordination. Something that would intimidate Teague into letting her brother out of his contract without killing him.

  It would help if they knew where Teague lived so that when they were ready to renegotiate the bargain, they could find him, rather than waiting for him to show up unannounced. Maybe the location of his home was something she could uncover.

  She licked a crumb from her finger, drank some orange juice, and made a plan for the day. She’d go to the arena to practice with her new iron weapons and thank the weapons master again for his courage yesterday. Also, she was going to take his advice (she’d been too upset by her confrontation with Teague’s men to get the weapons master’s name) and tell her pair of guards to look for other employment.

  She raised a fork full of lamb sausage and froze at the sound of voices rapidly approaching the dining room.

  Stars, the nobility, who’d come from the outskirts of
Súndraille for the coronation and were still in residence, were coming to eat their breakfasts and here she was sitting in her stained, almost-too-small kitchen dress looking absolutely nothing like a proper princess.

  Ari’s pulse kicked up, and she hastily put her fork back onto plate while she scrambled to catalog her options.

  She could remain where she was, but the thought of trying to finish her breakfast under anyone’s prying eyes was nearly enough to ruin her appetite.

  She could race out of the dining room using the servants’ entrance, but it was at least two hundred paces in the opposite direction, and there was a decent chance she wouldn’t make it before they came into the room. Then she’d be stuck explaining why she’d been fleeing, and, stars knew, she had no desire to do that.

  Plus, running away meant abandoning her breakfast, and Ari had a full day ahead of her. She needed her strength.

  That left her with only one remaining choice. As someone pulled open the wide double doors that led into the room, Ari grabbed her plate and dove under the table.

  The tablecloth settled in her wake. Ari scooted toward the middle of the table and prayed no one would sit close enough to her to accidentally kick her. Having to justify why she was hiding beneath the table would be mortifying.

  Also she was pretty sure “diving under tables with plates full of food” was another item on Thad’s ever-growing list of things proper princesses didn’t do.

  She held still, balancing her plate in her lap, and listened as at least two people filled their plates from the serving bar. They spoke quietly, and Ari recognized the voices of Thad and Ajax, Thad’s head of security. Strange that Thad would invite Ajax to dine with him, but they’d been inseparable lately. Maybe keeping a man with Ajax’s skills close was Thad’s way of dealing with the threat of Teague returning to the palace.

  Unless Ajax had an iron weapon and some bloodflower poison, his skills weren’t going to be much help.

  They were nearly to the chairs when Ari realized she’d left her cup of juice on the table.