Chapter 192: Child’s Choice (1)

Three days before the Crown Trials, Misha discovered that Sebastian could make a child sweat without raising his voice. He stood in the courtyard with his sleeves folded neatly below his elbows, watching Carl nearly knocked over the water pitcher on his first retreat.

On the second, he remembered it was behind him and stepped sideways instead, which brought him directly into Sebastian’s waiting staff. The wood tapped his shoulder, and Carl stopped with the spear extended, staring at the place where a blade could have reached his neck.

Misha lowered the biscuit she had been about to eat.

"Again." Sebastian withdrew the staff and lowered its end toward the paving stones. "Watch where you’re going."

"I was."

"You were watching the pitcher."

Misha reached over and moved it beneath the table. "There. One opponent eliminated."

The corner of Carl’s mouth lifted, though he tried to conceal it by looking down at his hands. He was already sweating through the collar of his shirt, and a loose strand of hair had been plastered against his forehead.

Sebastian waited until he had settled his feet. Then the staff was raised again, its worn surface resting lightly across both palms.

Carl thrust toward his chest. Sebastian turned the point aside and stepped forward, forcing him to retreat before he could recover the spear. The same mistake followed. Carl’s feet came too close together, his weight shifted backward, and his arms went rigid as he tried to keep the weapon between them.

"Move your rear foot first." The staff touched the stone beside Carl’s heel. "You’re pulling yourself backward with your shoulders."

Carl adjusted his stance. His lower lip was drawn between his teeth, and he released it only when Sebastian stepped away.

Misha had intended to spend the morning reviewing the Arena regulations, but Carl had appeared outside her door carrying a practice spear and an expression of hopeful determination that had made refusing to watch him feel unnecessarily cruel.

Now the regulations lay unopened, and her attention had been held by a twelve-year-old trying very hard to look as though he had carried a weapon all his life.

The boy had asked Sebastian for lessons himself. Misha knew that because the butler had informed her, politely, as though the request concerned handwriting or table manners. She had approved of it since children should learn to protect themselves here, and Carl possessed abilities that needed more guidance than she could give him.

The approval had been easy, but watching him lunge at a grown man with a spear was proving less so.

Carl tried again. This time, his feet moved before his upper body could drag them along, and Sebastian allowed him enough room to finish the retreat.

"There." Carl looked up. "Was that right?"

Sebastian inclined his head. "Keep the point a little higher."

Misha watched a grin spread across Carl’s face. It was quick and openly pleased, gone almost immediately when he remembered he was supposed to look serious.

He did the movement again without being prompted. Sebastian let him repeat it twice before changing the exercise. And of course, that was enough to make the boy ambitious. A single successful retreat had apparently convinced him that the entire business of combat was becoming manageable.

He thrust harder on the next attempt. Sebastian caught the shaft beneath his arm, twisted it just enough to disturb the boy’s grip, and stopped.

Carl stared at his empty forward hand.

Misha covered the lower half of her face with her hand before her smile could be noticed.

"You reached too far." Sebastian released the spear. "Keep enough control to bring it back."

"I thought I could get past."

"You may, eventually."

Carl looked at the staff, then at Sebastian’s hands. He seemed to be searching for the exact moment at which the man had cheated.

MIsha knew that look. Caleb had worn it whenever a game defeated him in a way he had failed to anticipate, usually followed by several accusations against its developers.

Carl settled for a quiet, resentful breath. It was a considerably more dignified response, although he still kicked a little gravel out of his way before returning to position. The lesson continued until his movements began to slow. His elbows sank, the spear’s point drifted, and he recovered his feet a fraction later each time.

Sebastian lowered the staff. "We’ll stop here."

Carl’s head came up. "Already?"

"You’re tired."

"I can still do it."

Misha looked at his hands. He had started adjusting his grip between every attempt, rubbing the wood against his palm as though the friction itself could persuade his fingers to behave.

Sebastian took the spear without argument. "Tomorrow, then. We’ll continue while you can still learn from the exercise."

Carl stood for a moment with nothing to hold. Then he dragged his sleeve across his forehead and approached Misha’s table, trying to make his breathing sound ordinary.

She moved her cup away from the water glass. "Sit before you fall over."

"I’m not going to fall."

He sat anyway. The chair was pulled close enough, and he reached for the water without looking at her.

Sebastian collected the staff and laid both training weapons beneath the awning. After reminding Carl to drink slowly, he withdrew through the nearby doorway to attend something inside.

Misha watched the boy take another three careful swallows. "You did well."

Carl glanced toward her. "I dropped it..."

"You also picked it up."

Carl looked back toward the spear. His lips curled into a small, pleased smile that he no longer seemed interested in hiding. "I like it better than a sword."

Misha rested her forearms against the table. "You’ve only had one lesson."

"It reaches farther."

"That seems to be the general idea."

He ignored the remark. His gaze remained on the weapon, following the length of the shaft to its blunt metal head.

"I wouldn’t have to get so close." His fingers turned the glass slowly against the table. "If something came at us."