Full-Blood Half-Breed

by Cleve Lamison

  “So, you want to become a mancer, do you?” Jambiax’s voice startled him and he cried out like a kicked puppy. He wondered if perhaps Jambiax was called the Phantom because of this uncanny ability to move with such stealth. Asking would be a waste of time. Jambiax would reveal that secret at his leisure. Which very well might mean never. Mbarika sat silently on Jambiax’s shoulder, holding Paladin in her ruby gaze.

  “Sí, Babu,” he said when he caught his breath. “Were you reading my mind?”

  “Do not be foolish, boy. Such a thing is impossible.” Jambiax took a deep pull from his pipe of dark wood. “For the most part.”

  The pipe had been given as a gift from Walküre, meticulously carved in the image of a Kusini Watu woman that, regrettably, had neither a full bosom nor round backside. But she wore a beguiling smile on her upturned face. The carved figure held the pipe’s bowl in her outstretched hands and sat cross-legged on a bed of her own impossibly long lionlockes. The hair flowed behind her, creating the stem of the pipe. Jambiax exhaled a long plume of iron-gray smoke and said, “Your father told me about Temple Seisakusha, and all the temples before that. What in the world would possess you to blend the disciplines?”

  “The chupacabra attack,” Paladin said. Remembering made him shudder. “The night it killed Ladrillo.”

  Jambiax nodded. He had been told the story a year or so after it had happened. “You are lucky to have survived that, Mjukuu.”

  “I know it. After I escaped the monster, I prayed to become a great warrior that I might one day avenge Ladrillo.”

  “Which god did you pray to?”

  “All of them,” Paladin said. “I’m descended from them all. I venerate them equally. I wanted all their help. That’s when I knew I must combine all their gifts.”

  “Such a simple idea,” Jambiax said. “In hindsight, it’s hard to understand why no one has ever blended the systems before now.”

  Paladin shrugged. “Not so hard. It’s caused nothing but trouble, Babu.”

  “Then it must be truly revolutionary,” Jambiax said. “Stupid people despise innovation, and most people are tremendously stupid.”

  Paladin chuckled. “Perhaps I’ll be an innovative mancer as well, Babu. Will you take me to Mji a Dhahabu? Will you sponsor me at Temple Motojicho?”

  Jambiax grinned and shrugged his bony shoulders without committing. “We will see, Mjukuu. If you possess the faculties of an elemancer, and if your parents approve, I will be happy to take you to Mji a Dhahabu. But know that it will be no easy task, mastering the elements. Only a small fraction of those who take up the studies ever graduate to become mancers. Most become cripples. Or corpses.”

  “I would be careful, Babu,” Paladin promised with all his might. “I know elemancy is perilous.”

  Jambiax eyed him in silence, taking his measure. After a moment’s deliberation, he seemed to resolve something in his mind. He tamped out the pipe in the hearth and took a seat at the table. Paladin joined him, watching quietly while Jambiax took a packet of oiled parchment from one of the pockets in his robes and carefully unwrapped it. It was filled with stinking flecks of some dried-up plant.

  “What is that, Babu?” Paladin said, moving close to inspect the pungent grayish-green herb.

  Jambiax held up a hand and motioned him away. “It is precious. So stand back. I do not want your excitable youngling breaths scattering it to the ether. In Kikwetu it is called maizi. It grows naturally only near Fantasmaderas. This ugly-looking weed is difficult to foster and as prized as the most expensive gems.”

  “Maizi,” Paladin repeated. “Why is it so special?”

  Jambiax used an old cloth to clean his pipe thoroughly. “It unlocks the soul element in someone like you, allowing someone like me to measure it and thereby judge the strength of your pneuma.”

  “My pneuma?” Paladin frowned. “But that’s the soul element. I’m not interested in animancy. I want to learn pyromancy. Or fulgimancy like Papá. Or—ow!” Paladin rubbed his head where Jambiax had thumped him with his pipe. “Why did you do that, Babu?”

  “Because you talk like an Oestean fool. Western mancers learn pyromancy before they learn anything. Their entire discipline revolves around Creador’s element, which is why they are so ineffectual. Their method of study cripples them. All mancers are animancers first and foremost. The mancer uses the soul element to summon the other elements, to bind and weave them. You cannot be a strong mancer if your pneuma is weak. Your father is a mighty fulgimancer because of his vast spirit. His is a mighty pneuma. Few mancers even attempt to tame the lightning. It is the single most difficult and dangerous field of elemancy. Rebelde is a master of mance-lightning because he is a master of the soul element.”

  Jambiax leaned back in the rickety old chair, losing himself in memory. He grinned with pride for his son. His dark eyes gleamed with it. “Ah, Mjukuu, they still marvel at your father’s accomplishments in Mji a Dhahabu. The mother of fulgimancy, Nthanda Wingu-Zitole, was in her forties when she put forth the Theory of Manced Lightning, and it took her nearly thirteen years to prove it. Rebelde mastered Wingu-Zitole’s theory at but fifteen years of age, the youngest mancer ever to do so.”

  Jambiax came out of his reverie and began packing the maizi herb into his pipe. He glanced at Paladin and said, “Do you know Motojicho’s Laws of Elemancy?”

  The look in his babu’s eyes dared him not to know. Paladin thought he might get another thump on the head if he were ignorant of Motojicho’s Laws, but he had learned the rules of elemancy before he had learned to count. He held up a finger and said, “One: elemancy is the manipulation of the elements fire, turf, air, water, and spirit. To master these elements is to master one’s self.”

  Paladin held up a second finger. “Two: an elemancy exertion is equal to or greater than its physical equivalent. The limits of one’s body are the limits of one’s elemancy.”

  Holding up a third finger, Paladin gave his babu a cocksure smile. “Three: there is no elemental law that cannot be broken, without consequence, by the creative mind.”

  “Very good.” Jambiax nodded, his wide lips stretching across his face. “Motojicho created his laws before the truth of almazi crystals was discovered. The use of crystals to store elemental energy proves the third law. Without the crystals, fulgimancy would be impossible. The amount of physical energy required to mance even one small thunderbolt would kill the mightiest of mancers, drain the pneuma right out of them. But the crystals not only store elemental energy, they help focus it. If you are as strong in spirit as I suspect, I will get a set of almazi crystals for you, and you may begin to collect energy.”

  “Thank you, Babu! Asante sana!” The offer was beyond generous. Almazi crystals were the most expensive gems in the world. Paladin wondered if his babu had hidden a fortune somewhere. He must be rich beyond all imagining to speak so casually of acquiring almazis.

  Jambiax inspected the contents of his pipe, sniffing and dabbing it with his finger, then tasting it. Paladin asked, “How do you store energy in the crystals?”

  “Every night, before I go to sleep, I invoke the energies of one of the elements, and instead of weaving that energy into its physical manifestation, I direct it into the appropriate crystal. I am always careful not to summon too much, for that would tax me greatly. Mancers have been known to drain themselves to death in an effort to store too much energy too quickly.”

  Jambiax used a twig to get a spark from the embers in the hearth and lit his pipe. “Smoke this, please.”

  His parents would never let him smoke, and Paladin grinned, delighted by the small act of rebellion. But when the acrid, stinking smoke hit his lungs, he thought he might be sick. It seared his insides and tasted like fuming muck.

  “Careful,” Jambiax coaxed. “Take your time and it will burn less. Good. Now exhale. Very slowly. Good.”

  For a moment, Paladin sat dazzled. He watched his babu smoke from the pipe, transfixed by the colorful lights swirling around the old e
lemancer. A thousand images purled before Paladin’s eyes, forgotten in the same instant they were glimpsed.

  Jambiax put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Be calm, Mjukuu, the effects will wear off shortly.”

  That was not altogether true. The weird hallucinations faded, but Paladin could feel the strange herb had effected a permanent change in him. He just wasn’t sure what that change might be.

  Jambiax stared at him, muttering the gibberish words of the First Tongue, “Aduidv odanvdv, aduidv adanvdo, aduidv galvquodi adanvdo. Ayv uyanvdv nasgi sudalegi adanvdo. Ulisaladodi. Advgi ayv. Gohiyudiyi aquatseli wili.”

  There was a slight, almost imperceptible tremor in the ether as Jambiax brought forth a tiny portion of his soul in its physical form. It was common for mancers to model their totems after the physical manifestation of their spirit, and Paladin experienced Jambiax’s pneuma as a black spider with the silver Kamau thunderbolt on its abdomen. Jambiax’s totemic spider scuttled through Paladin’s soul, probing, searching, analyzing. When it grew uncomfortable, Paladin began to fidget and Jambiax Sent thoughts directly into Paladin’s mind. Be calm, Mjukuu. I am almost done here.

  It helped. Sending was a way of communicating soul to soul or pneuma to pneuma. It was a kind of telepathic exchange of thoughts, images, and emotions. Doing so was physically taxing, though Jambiax showed little fatigue. After a while, Paladin felt Jambiax break the spiritual link between them, and his presence in Paladin’s mind receded. Jambiax smiled. “Muumba’s Ninth Arm!”

  Mbarika croaked, “Who is stronger than Rebelde? Es Paladin? Who?”

  “Is that true, Babu?”

  “Yes, Mjukuu.” Jambiax seemed very pleased, though a little stunned. “Your pneuma is stronger even than your father’s, and Rebelde’s aptitude for the soul element dwarfs mine by far. You—you are quite gifted. I will entreat your parents to let me take you to the Nchi ya Kusini. It would be a shame to squander your raw talent in a foundry. Good night, now. We will speak of this more on the morrow.”

  “Buenas noches, Babu.” Paladin rolled over and found the cold floor to be a great deal more comfortable than it had been but minutes before. In just a few days, he would kiss the dirty old Dragón & Arrow smithy adios! He would sail off to the lands south—perhaps even ride the winds—and study elemancy at Temple Motojicho and all the great halls of study in the Golden City, Mji a Dhahabu. He couldn’t wait to see his parents’ faces when he told them. And they thought to confine him to life as a blacksmith. Ha! He thought Rebelde might piss himself when he found out Paladin was stronger in the soul element. He was so excited he doubted he would ever get to sleep.

  But Jambiax had scarcely left the room when Paladin plummeted into the deepest, blackest pit of slumber. It was not a peaceful sleep. He dreamed of a great bear and its cub. They burned in living fire.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Great Expectations

  Paladin woke up groggy and nervous about the day’s competition. He was determined to keep up his training even though he was no longer welcome at Temple Seisakusha—or any other temple in Santuario del Guerrero. He had first conceived and developed his fighting style in the yard between the house and the foundry. He would limber up by practicing the forms of his system, and then shoot at some practice targets. He dressed quickly, grabbed his bow and staff, and then eased the back door open. He was surprised to find Suki practicing Seisakusha’s dance in the small yard. She may have been old, but she moved through the forms of Ashi-Kobushi with the agility of a hunting cat. The old woman and her bo staff, Skullbender, flowed from one stance to the next with effortless grace, leaving him breathless.

  She sang as she danced. Her usually strident, old woman’s voice was divinely euphonious this morning. It was as if Seisakusha Herself had touched Suki, not just lifting her voice, but shining through her face. She radiated tranquility. The words of the song were in Kokugo, the old language spoken in the Higashi Shima, and he understood only enough to know that it was a song of praise to Seisakusha. His obaasan was praying, and he had never seen her so blithesome.

  He felt like an intruder defiling something sacred. He decided to slip back into the house before she realized he was there. He would leave her to her communion, have a quick breakfast, and practice later.

  “Wait,” Suki called. She held out her hand. “Please, do not leave, Magomusuko. Praise Her with me?”

  Paladin nodded and took up a stance before her. They bowed to one another, touched their bo staffs, and danced. As they flowed through the forms of mock combat, more ballet than battle, Paladin picked up the words to Suki’s hymn and joined in, obaasan and magomusuko harmonizing song and movement.

  The percussive cadence of Sunderbones against Skullbender provided the rhythm to which they danced. Each flowed through the Ashi-Kobushi forms with the fluid grace and primal strength of cresting waves at sea. The singular beauty of their dance belied the deadly intent of its movements.

  In no time, he too was absorbed in Seisakusha’s warmth. Serenity infused him, washing away the angst plaguing his mind. Grandfather Sun rose, and dawn was glorious, but no more so than the divine peace embracing them. When the time came, both understood so without speaking. They ended their communion with a bow to one another.

  As merry as a niña, Suki plopped to the ground and folded her skinny legs beneath her. She turned her face up to the day’s first rays and smiled. Carelessly, she wiped the perspiration from her forehead and cheeks with a sleeve of her silken robe and inhaled deeply of morning. Even the brimstone reek did not taint her tranquility.

  “Buenos dias, Obaasan.” Paladin grinned at her.

  Suki laughed. “Yes, Magomusuko, it is a very good morning.” She touched his cheek. “Your Ashi-Kobushi is remarkable to behold. Thank you for sharing in my prayers. You make me so proud.”

  He shrugged. “It was my pleasure, Obaasan. Besides, I need to practice. The Black Spear trial is the day after tomorrow.”

  Her smile grew, taking in her whole face. “Yes! That is the day that I have lived for since you were born. You will stand before the whole of the Thirteen and honor Seisakusha by dancing Her gift. Oh, if only my Arik were still alive to see you compete.” She reached out and cupped his chin. Her eyes roamed the planes of his face in study. “I see him in you. The shape of your head. You have his thick Nord head.”

  Paladin smiled. His maternal grandfather, Arik the Sunderbones of House Guntram, had been lost at sea years before he had been born. “But the Sunderbones kept Schöpfer first in his heart, did he not?”

  “He did.” Suki grinned. “But Arik saw the beauty in Seisakusha as well. He revered all the gods, as do I. But Seisakusha is the goddess of our hearts, no? There is no dance more beautiful than Hers. And dancing with you now, there can be no doubt but you have Seisakusha in your soul. You have made me more happy than you can ever know.”

  “Obaasan,” Paladin said, “the truth of it—”

  “I know, Magomusuko.” She played with the coppery ringlets of his hair. “You must show deference to all the gods. As the most blended of the blended folk, you can do no less. Truth be told, we all need to cherish each of the gods, not just the goddess of our hearts. Yes. You are wise in that. Blood will tell.” She laughed. “Know this, Magomusuko: When you praise Seisakusha with your Ashi-Kobushi before all the Thirteen, I will be proud of you whether you win the Black Spear or not. You are already my little bushi, my little paladín.”

  She kissed him on the forehead.

  “Now,” she said, rising, “I will prepare a breakfast as befits a growing warrior.”

  She skipped inside, leaving Paladin alone. He ignored his conflicted thoughts, choosing instead to listen to the pounding hammers, rough voices, and roaring fires inside the foundry. The Dragón & Arrow apprentices and journeymen were just beginning work. He went to the small alley between the smithy and Tastybacon’s butcher shop next door to retrieve from under a tarp some old archery targets he and Walküre had made. He had developed thic
k calluses on his fingers and palms from many hours of practice, but he never grew tired of putting arrows in the burning eye at the center of the archery target, a “bane’s-eye,” identical to the flaming-eye symbol of the Viles, the Llama de Creador. As he shot bane’s-eye after bane’s-eye, his thoughts stayed on Suki, her wishes, and her pride. The last thing he needed was another complication in his life. He loved his obaasan. She had traveled all the way from Hana-Soshite-Mori just to see him compete and dance Ashi-Kobushi before the eyes of the world. She may not have cared if he lost the Black Spear, but he did. He cared a great deal. He would never be able to forgive himself if he lost to the Runt because he had not done his best, given his all, and danced his dance.

  He decided to compromise for his obaasan’s sake. On the day of the Melee and Black Spear trials, he would confine his dance to Ashi-Kobushi and only Ashi-Kobushi for as long as he could. He might even be able to win the Prosperidad championship using only Seisakusha’s gift. But when he met the Runt on the field of honor, he would hold nothing back. He would not sacrifice a Black Spear just to make Suki happy. She would have to content herself with the Ashi-Kobushi influence in his blended style. If that was not sufficient—well, he couldn’t be too worried about what his grandmother thought. After all, he was sixteen years old. A man grown.

  No more than a handful of wispy silver strands topped the spotted skull of Doña Yesenia the Fatesayer of House Ximena. She was an ancient pile of splotchy, wrinkle-wrapped bones sitting at the back of the temple gymnasium watching a king’s dozen of young Ximena matriarchs practice Combatedanza sword forms and pointedly ignoring Fox the Runt. An overlarge green mastiff with a mist-filled gem set in its blocky forehead reclined at her feet, keeping one wary eye on Fox the Runt and the other on the youngling matriarchs, none of them older than ten years, all of them bearing prima del duende features and a striking resemblance to one another. Their skin was darker than the typical Oestean and tinted red. Their large almond-shaped eyes blazed with golden fire instead of the typical Oestean green, and each one wore her silky hair—as a black as a raven’s arsch—cut short in a style similar to Pía’s. Only three showed any real interest in the sword, and only one any significant talent, yet the cadaverous old crone and her bizarre dog seemed riveted, watching the awkward girls poke at wooden dummies as if utterly captivated.