Full-Blood Half-Breed

by Cleve Lamison

  A surge of anger shot through Paladin’s body, making him shudder, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

  “… Still,” Rebelde said, “with a little dedication and hard work, perhaps the boy will soon earn my trust. Assuming he survives the youngling trials.”

  The gladness drained out of the room like piss from a full bladder.

  “Muumba’s Ninth Arm, Rebelde,” Jambiax said. “When did you become such an aondoshaji furaha?”

  Rebelde glowered at Jambiax. Paladin spoke more than a little Kikwetu, but he had never heard this expression. Neither had Suki, apparently.

  “A what?” she asked. “What is ‘aondoshaji furaha’?”

  “A killjoy,” Jambiax said, grinning his wolf’s grin. Suki chuckled.

  Rebelde waved the remark away. “It is time the boy took his future seriously. He is nearly a man grown, after all.”

  “If you believed that,” Paladin said, trying to keep anger and hurt from his voice, “you would trust my judgment.”

  Rebelde shrugged as he took out his pipe. “I did. You betrayed that trust.”

  “I didn’t betray anything,” Paladin said. “And that’s not how it works, anyway. Did it ever occur to you that I might have a good reason for enrolling in the games?”

  “I know your good reasons, boy,” Rebelde said, ticking them off on his fingers “Glory. Acclaim. Fame. It is all you talked about your whole life.”

  “You don’t know everything, Papá.”

  “Enlighten me,” Rebelde said. “What reason could be good enough to imperil your life and defy my rules?”

  Paladin clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. A thousand sassy retorts ran through his mind, competing to be first to spring from his lips, but he kept his mouth closed. Rebelde was being stubborn. Anything Paladin said now would just make things worse.

  “Can we not finish screaming at each other on the morrow?” Jambiax said. “It is late. I have traveled far. And I am tired.” He yawned for emphasis.

  “I agree with the silly south-man,” Suki said. “Let us to bed. This arguing has given my head such ache!”

  “Of course, Okasan,” Walküre said. “You and I will share the bedroom upstairs; Jambiax and Rebelde will take Paladin’s bed in the back room.” She gave Paladin a toothy grin with just a touch of lighthearted mischief. “And you, niño, will sleep here, on the floor by the hearth.”

  Awkward good-nights were exchanged, and Paladin found himself alone with the dying fire.

  He threw a handful of kohl onto the smoldering embers and stoked them, thinking fondly on the gifts from Walküre, Suki, and Jambiax, and lamenting Rebelde’s repossession of the sword. Gods be good, he could have at least allowed him a peek.

  He heard Rebelde’s giant footsteps behind him and rolled over to face his father. Rebelde tossed bedding carelessly on the floor at Paladin’s feet and walked away. He got as far as the corridor by the stairwell, then stopped, turned, and glared.

  In a quiet, careful voice, he said, “Even in a city with as many different kinds of folk as Santuario del Guerrero, there are many who hate us because we are blended. The pura-sangre may smile to my face when they want a Darkdragón sword, but they laugh behind my back and call me the híbrido blacksmith knight. They will call you worse when they see your blended martial system.

  “I killed my best friend in Torneo, and I hate the games because of it, this is true, but that is not the reason I disallowed you from competition. I forbade you from Torneo because I knew you could not help but employ the blended system, and may the gods bear witness to my words, if you use that martial form during Torneo you will be despised by all who witness it. Muumbans, Schöpferites, Creadorians, and Seisakushans will all condemn you as a profaner. You will become a pariah.” He exhaled, easing the tension from his knotted shoulders. He grimaced. “My anger will pass. I love you dearly, and will forgive your willfulness in time, doubt it not. But the hatred you will bring upon yourself with the blended system will follow you to your grave, Paladin. I wish you victory in your trials, but I cannot bear to watch you bring such woe upon yourself. I will not go to Torneo this year. I will not watch you destroy what little future you have left.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Falling

  Fox the Runt stood just outside the Temple Seisakusha’s doors and stared into the street beyond. “Are you sure it is safe?”

  Pía nodded. “Have faith, Zwergfuchs. Prelado Scrupulous himself has handled the matter. You have been absolved of all wrongdoing.”

  He nodded, trusting that he had been cleared of any crime, but still hesitant to leave the temple. He would miss the stingy old monks. But Pía flashed him a dazzling white grin and he somehow knew that everything would be all right. He did have faith. In the Prophet and The One God. And Pía.

  He surrendered to that faith and gave her his hand. Her grip was firm, protective, as she led him away from Temple Seisakusha. They ducked beneath the branches of the sakura trees, heavy with white blooms. He grimaced. He would never see the beautiful grove again. He nodded a final farewell to the temple guards and stepped out of the compound gates. As much as it pained him to leave the only home he had known since coming to Santuario del Guerrero, he did not look back. The carnival-like atmosphere generated by Torneo blurred around him as he recalled the many kindnesses Sensei Quicksteel and the other monks had shown him. He felt Pía next to him, her golden, concern-filled eyes fixed on him. But she respected his contemplations and kept her peace.

  He would be staying at the Painted Lady Inn, sleeping on the floor of Karl’s room until he could make other arrangements. He carried his meager belongings in a sack slung over his back. He owned little more now than when first he had come west: a single change of clothes, a winter cloak of Seisakushan blue, his bow, and two quivers of arrows. He had left his copy of the Seisakushan holy book, the Nyusu, with Sensei Quicksteel. He would have no more need of it. He had thought of selling it. Books fetched high prices, especially religious tomes, but it would be sinful to profit from the sale of heretical lies. A few coppers in his pocket would not be worth the knowledge that he had helped deliver some poor soul to hell.

  He would never forget the look of shock on Sensei Quicksteel’s face when he had announced he was leaving Temple Seisakusha to join the Santosians. The monk had taken Fox the Runt’s enlightenment as a personal affront. In a way, Fox the Runt supposed, it was. But he had not meant it to be so. Despite everything, his respect for the sensei bordered on genuine fondness. Both he and Pía had attested to the truth of the Prophet and The One God in an attempt to save the monk’s soul. But Sensei Quicksteel would hear none of it. He had spat at them and sent them away.

  Fox the Runt would continue to pray for the monk’s edification. Only the devoutly wicked could hear the truth of The One God and turn their back, and Sensei Quicksteel was not wicked. He was just another dupe of the Three, doomed to hell if he did not come to The One God’s light.

  As they approached the Painted Lady, Fox the Runt saw that the folk gathered outside were rowdy and drunk, so he and Pía stopped a few viviendas away and stood within the darkened doorway of the tenement house to say good-night. He regretted his confrontation with Sensei Quicksteel, but the smile that stretched Pía’s lips and twinkled in her eyes lifted his spirits.

  “There is no shame in grieving the loss of Temple Seisakusha and the monk Quicksteel,” she said.

  He sighed. “Sensei Quicksteel was the closest thing I have ever known to a real father, and Temple Seisakusha was the closest thing I have ever known to a home. But is it not offensive to The One God that I am saddened by the loss of them?”

  “You are like Prince Regio,” Pía said.

  He frowned. “Prince who?”

  “Prince Regio. King Ironbear’s firsborn son.”

  “You mean Prince Veraz?”

  “No,” Pía said. “Veraz is the king’s second son, born to steal Regio’s heirdom. Prince Regio Del Ironbear of House Bernardo is the r
ightful heir to the throne of Prosperidad and one of the greatest Santosians ever to have lived.”

  Fox the Runt felt a strange sense of pride that the heir to the throne of Prosperidad should be a Santosian, even if he had never heard of Regio. “King Ironbear’s son is one of us?”

  “Indeed,” Pía said. “Which is why his father disinherited him. When I was but a bebé, Prince Regio was a champion for the Santosians. He stood against his father when the king sought to corrupt Prosperidad by legitimizing the sham religions. It was bad enough that the kingdom accepted the inaccurate interpretation of Creadorianism put forth by the misguided Creadorians. At least we all worshipped The One God. But King Ironbear insisted that the sham religions be allowed to flourish. He even allowed foreigners and heretics into the ranks of la Orden Majestuosa de la Lámina Incendiaria. Prince Regio protested and proclaimed himself Santosian.

  “King Ironbear demanded the prince renounce the teachings of Vicente Santos. That was thirteen years ago. Prince Regio refused, of course. He and many of his followers, my family included, left Prosperidad and traveled east in pilgrimage. We followed the path Vicente Santos took thousands of years ago, searching for his lost writings and the holy knowledge said to be hidden in the Malaroca Mountains, knowledge that would aid us in our holy crusade to save the duped folk of the Thirteen from their own ignorance.”

  Pía stopped speaking abruptly, as if her passion had led her to say more than she meant to. “Perdóname, Zwergfuchs. My anger makes me prattle selfishly when you are upset about your old friend Sensei Quicksteel. I only meant that you are like the great prince, Regio. He chose righteousness over his misguided father. You chose righteousness over your misguided mentor.”

  Fox the Runt nodded. “It was not much of a choice. I pray that Sensei Quicksteel finds enlightenment. I fear for his soul.”

  “I will pray for the monk as well.”

  “Thank you, Pía. Gracias.”

  They lapsed into silence, and he contemplated kissing her. He was desperate to taste her lips, and searched her face for clues as to how she might respond. He thought she might be open to it, but he had no idea how to proceed. He had never kissed a girl before. Did he ask permission or simply lean in? If he did lean in, should he pause for her to pucker or simply press his lips against hers? And if he didn’t pause and she didn’t pucker, then what? He would look like a fool with his craned neck and pursed lips kissing at nothing but the rotten-smelling air. Creador’s balls! It was a wonder anyone ever got kissed at all. His face heated from both embarrassment and want.

  “Well,” she said bashfully, her tone indicating the moment had passed, “buenas noches, Zwergfuchs. I know you must rise early for Torneo.”

  He signed the Santosian holy symbol before his heart. “My soul belongs to the Prophet.”

  She seemed pleased by this, and returned the gesture. “My soul belongs to the Prophet—”

  He turned to leave.

  “—but my heart is for you, Zwergfuchs Von Hammerhead of Großemänner’s Line.”

  He turned back to her, not sure if he had heard correctly. The heat in her face confirmed that he had. He threw his arms around her and their lips crashed together, clumsy and sloppy and perfect. It was a better first kiss than he ever could have imagined. Pía was a full head taller than he, and had to bend forward while he stood on the tips of his toes to reach her lips. They stood for many minutes awkwardly groping and slurping each other. The kiss ended much too soon for his liking.

  As they leaned against each other, trying to calm their shaky breaths, Pia asked, “May I ask you a question, Zwergfuchs?”

  “Anything.”

  She paused, choosing her words with care. “You were born to be a Santosian. You grasp the precepts taught by Vicente Santos so naturally. I cannot help but wonder why you chose Seisakusha. Why did you not seek out the Schöpferites, or the misguided Creadorians, or the Muumbans?”

  He could feel himself blushing. The truth was embarrassing. But he thought he might be falling in love with Pía and could deny her nothing. “I chose Seisakusha because of the martial system, Ashi-Kobushi. I hated Schöpfer. She is called the goddess of justice, but I knew that to be a lie even before I found out the truth of the gods. Her martial gift, Eisenfaust, is for the big and the strong, and I am neither. I could not be a Muumban because I despise magic. I have always felt affection for Creador, but The One God’s gift of Combatedanza does not suit me so well as Ashi-Kobushi. The dance of Fist and Foot was created for the slight people of the Higashi Shima. I am not Shimabito, but I am as small as one, smaller than most if truth be told.”

  She said, “You have a giant’s soul and a warrior’s heart. I think you would be surprised how well Combatedanza might suit you.”

  “Perhaps, Pía,” he said, desperate to change the subject. “I would like to ask you a question now.”

  Her eyes sparkled in the moonlight. “Anything.”

  “Why me? You are from a Great House; I am from a mere Sept. You are respected at temple and I am but a recent disciple. You are beautiful, but I am …”

  “You are beautiful to me, Zwergfuchs.”

  “But why?”

  She smiled again. “The One God has blessed me, Zwergfuchs. I am a Talentosa, a Gifted, similar to a mancer but my gifts are of The One God. There is no Muumban taint. Most of the women in the Ximena Matriarchy are gifted. My aunt, Yesenia, is a powerful Intérprete, someone who predicts the future by consulting with spirits of the dead …”

  “A Hearkener?” he said.

  Pía shuddered in disgust and made their holy sign before her heart. “There are no Santosian Hearkeners, for the holy text of El Libro Sagrado de Verdades teaches us to ‘beware the portents of the Hearkener.’ A Talentosa who communes with spirits is called an Intérprete. Interpretaciones are not tainted, and more accurate than Hearkenings. And when I was but a little girl, my tía, Yesenia, told me of the man to whom I would give my heart, and the moment I saw you in the arena, I knew that man was you. I have seen your face in my dreams since I was but a niña, and now that I have met you, I see more than just your face. I see your soul. I see the wounds to your spirit and the many hurts you’ve suffered. I see the strength it has taken to survive those hurts. And I see your potential greatness. I see kindness and generosity within you as well as the fiery passion of a warrior born, a true servant of The One God. I know you are a good man, just as I know you will one day father my children. The One God wills this.”

  He felt light-headed, as though he might faint. Pía had filled his head with too many concepts and questions for his mind to latch onto one successfully. His shock at her words must have been evident in his face, because she laughed. It was musical and joyous, as naked and honest as her words. It was happening so fast. He had only met her that morning, yet she was speaking of having children with him! But the truth in Pía’s amber eyes was as veritable as steel. Their meeting was indeed the will of The One God, and he could doubt her words no more than he could doubt the veracity of the words of the Prophet.

  He recognized another indomitable truth as well. Her presence somehow filled the deficiencies of his incomplete soul and brought joy to his scarred heart. He was not falling in love with Pía Del Whitewraith of House Ximena.

  He had fallen.

  He took her into his arms and kissed her again, more happy than he had ever thought possible. In but a few short hours, he had experienced his first kill and his first kiss.

  He liked them both, he realized.

  He liked them both a lot.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gifted

  Paladin lay awake, writhing on the cold and unyielding floor in an effort to find comfort. But the chill bred by the ceramic floor tiles chewed through his meager blankets and gnawed on his bones, denying him sleep. The hour was late and his mind and body required rest for the morrow’s archery trial. He tried to think of things more pleasant than his parents’ anger or the cold, hard floor. He fixed an image of Esmera
lda in his mind. What would it be like to hold her hand? Or kiss her? But thinking of her pouty lips and hypnotic eyes only reminded him of how she had fluttered those eyes and quirked those lips at Isooba, which of course led his thoughts back to Torneo and the grudges he would settle with both Isooba and Fox the Runt.

  He could defeat Isooba, even if he limited himself to one martial system, but Fox the Runt was among the most skilled fighters in the world, youngling or adult. Sensei Quicksteel himself had said Fox the Runt was more adept at Ashi-Kobushi than Makoto the Legionslayer, generally acknowledged by every discipline as the greatest fighter in the world. If Paladin didn’t employ his blended martial system against Fox the Runt, he would lose. He would be wasting precious energy and concentration on restraint instead of committing every thought and action to victory. But if he didn’t limit himself, he might be universally shunned as Rebelde had predicted. And so his thoughts circled one another until he could stand it no more. He cleared his mind of all things Oestean and imagined what it would be like to study elemancy in Mji a Dhahabu with his babu.

  Those musings put a smile on his weary face, though few of his imaginings involved actual study. He fantasized of life in the Nchi ya Kusini as a respected elemancer, surrounded by adoring legions of tall, sleek, dark-skinned Kusini Watu women.

  Or he would become a fulgimancer. House Kamau had produced some of the most powerful wielders of mance-lightning in history, including Rebelde the Darkdragón. Paladin placed his hands behind his head and grinned so hard his ears were pushed out of place. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself battling hordes of the Nchi ya Kusini’s cruelest villains. The wicked rogues would attack as an army, and he would blast them to bits, hurling thunderbolts as if they were javelins. Feasts would be held in his honor. He would be celebrated and revered. He would be the hero that hundreds of girls dreamed about every night—beautiful women with full bosoms and round backsides. Gods be good, what a life he would have!