Paladin resolved to enjoy the fiesta. Isooba and Esmeralda had joined the revels, but only so Isooba could boast of his martial skill and predict high honors for himself in the youngling trials. Esmeralda hung on his every word.
Paladin joined the young people lining up to watch Drud attack the piñata. Drud grinned and smacked his palm with the piñata stick while Lalo blindfolded him.
“Buena suerte, vato,” Paladin said, clapping Drud on the shoulder. Tau and Lalo grabbed Drud by the shoulders and spun him around until he was staggeringly dizzy. Paladin laughed with everyone else, but he couldn’t put Rebelde’s misery out of his thoughts. His worries hovered on the periphery of his mind, nagging him like a shrewish old fishwife. If that were not enough to ruin his humor, there was Isooba’s yammering.
“Have you heard, Paladin?” Isooba said. “I will be competing in the youngling trials again this year.”
Of course Paladin had heard. Everyone had heard. Since Isooba had pried himself away from Esmeralda, it was all he talked about. He strutted around the fiesta crowing about his valor like he was king cock of the walk. “I doubt there is another youngling in the Reinos del Oeste who has practiced more with lance and bow than I have this past year. And as for Melee, I plan to come home with a Black Spear.”
Paladin rolled his eyes. The braggart wasn’t completely inept with a weapon, but unless the gods intervened, it would snow in Kamedunia before Isooba von Joyful won a Black Spear. During last season’s Melee, Isooba was called dead after only three minutes of competition!
Drud obliterated the piñata with his third blow, spraying treats all over the floor. Svenja, Kreszentia, and Götz nearly knocked Paladin down grubbing for candy.
“That was a strong blow,” Isooba said. “But my Eisenfaust meister says strength alone is not enough to win a Black Spear.”
“Sister Elsa is my meister as well, Isooba,” Drud said. “She says that to all the disciples.”
“Sí,” Isooba said, “But with me, she—”
Drud turned his back to Isooba, silencing him. “Paladin, is it time to open presents yet?”
Gods bless Drud Hertz von Wildboar. Paladin’s grin almost broke into a chuckle. He and Drud were not the only ones nettled by Isooba’s bragging. Lalo scowled at the older boy as well. Only Esmeralda seemed interested in Isooba’s boasts.
“What did the priestess say, Isooba?” she said.
“Well,” Isooba said, grinning, “she thinks I show exceptional promise. Just last week she praised me for how much my skill has improved since last year.…”
Paladin had had enough. He would almost rather tell his parents about Torneo than hear one more word from Isooba’s lips. There would be little peace in the house once he made his confession, but he wasn’t enjoying the fiesta anyway. He was too preoccupied with the coming confrontation and too vexed by Isooba’s nattering. He tore through the presents, eager to end the fiesta and send Isooba somewhere else to crow. He was grateful for the wool mittens Isooba and Tau gave him, but Isooba wouldn’t shut his flan-hole long enough for Paladin to thank him properly.
He was almost giddy over the Castillos y Conquistadores set Lalo gave him. The game pieces were of the new fashion, the red pieces carved with the highly detailed and decorative caballero-style armor of Prosperidad’s Majestic Order of the Blazing Blade. The white pieces wore the Ritter-style armor of Eisesland’s famous warriors, the Ice Storm, with leather, mail, and fur.
“Come over next week, Lalo,” Paladin said. “And we’ll play a few matches.”
Lalo was about to answer when Isooba interrupted: “I have all but mastered Castillos y Conquistadores, you know? It’s an excellent game for learning strategy.”
Paladin ignored him and opened Drud’s gift, a new sling. It was a fine weapon, but Paladin’s slinging was terrible, and he thought it always would be. He stared at it, chewing his lip.
Drud said, “Don’t worry, vato. I’ll teach you how to use it.”
“Gracias,” Paladin said. “If you teach as well as you sling, I’ll be an Adept in no time.”
“I’m half Nord,” Isooba declared. “There are no folk in the Thirteen as good with a sling as the Nords. I’ll be happy to give you lessons if you’d like, Paladin. I would be happy to instruct you as well, Drud.”
“Drud is half Nord too, Isooba,” Paladin said, not bothering to hide his exasperation. He had seen both boys’ sling work. Drud could knock the fleas off a dog’s back at twenty feet on a foggy night.
Isooba couldn’t hit water if he fell out of a boat.
Still Isooba’s tongue thrummed. “Drud is half Nord, this is true, but I am older and therefore more experienced. Sister Elsa likes my sling work so well she’s having me tutor some of the freshman disciples. It’s quite an honor, really.”
“That sounds wonderful, Isooba,” Esmeralda chirped.
Just a few more presents and this will all be over, Paladin thought, ripping the wrapping from Esmeralda’s present. He took one look at the gift and burst out laughing. He tossed it on the table, impressed for the first time in his life by her wit. “Funny, Esmeralda!”
She furrowed her brow and cocked her pretty head slightly to one side, her lovely eyes as empty as a Seisakushan monk’s purse.
“What?” she said. “What’s funny? Do you not like it?”
It took him a moment to realize the gift had not been given in jest. He grabbed the toy from the table and clutched it to his heart. “I—It’s funny that you should pick such a perfect gift for me. I like it well.”
He grinned stupidly over the child’s toy, la bola en la taza, a little ball attached by string to a wooden cup. He tried not to be offended. After all, her intentions were pure when she gave it, but gods be good, it rankled.
“Gracias, Esmeralda,” he said with all the sincerity he could muster.
“De nada, Paladin,” she said. “I thought you would like it. I loved la bola en la taza when I was a child.”
He clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth might shatter.
Isooba’s lips spread wide with satisfaction. It was the one time all night when the older boy’s tongue was still. Then again, what was there to say? Esmeralda’s gift said it all. Though Paladin was only a year or so younger, she considered him a child, not even worthy to compete with Isooba for her affections. Paladin wondered what she would give Isooba for his birthday. Then decided he would rather not know.
There were but two wrapped packages left on the table: one from Walküre and one from Rebelde. Walküre had been hinting that she might make him a new longbow, and all his life Rebelde had promised to consider giving him his first sword on his sixteenth birthday. He was about to open the gift from Walküre, but an exchange between Isooba and Drud stole his attention.
“… I have improved my lance work as well,” Isooba was saying. “With my skill, I am sure to score more rings than any youngling in the Thirteen.”
“I’ll be competing this year, Isooba,” Drud said. “I am a fair horseman and hope to score many rings as well.”
Isooba smirked. “I’m sure you’ll pick up one or two, but don’t be too disappointed if you lose, Drud. Experience counts. This will be my third Torneo, did you know that?”
“Blood and Thunder, Isooba!” Paladin said. “There’s no one in Santuario del Guerrero who doesn’t know how many times you’ve competed. You’ve been crowing about it for weeks!”
“I—I’m not bragging,” Isooba said, offended. “But I will perform well this year, all my meisters say so, and there is no better measure of a warrior’s skill than Torneo.”
“Torneo is but a game. A warrior’s skill is measured by war. And as I recall, last year you were amongst the first younglings eliminated from all three trials!”
There was heat in Isooba’s tone now. “Don’t mock me until you’ve stepped onto the game field, chico. If you had ever competed, you would understand that Torneo is war.”
“You cannot be serious! War is steel swords, not
wooden bokken.”
“True warriors are deadly with wood or steel,” Isooba countered.
“True warriors compete on true battlefields and Golanv determines their victories, not referees in red cloaks. War is blood and death and—”
“Many competitors have left the arena on the back of Golanv the Death Raven! Surely your father has explained this to you.”
The remark stung, but he held on to his temper before it undid him as it had in Círculo del Triunfo. He spoke calmly. “Torneo deaths are accidents. The goal of Torneo is not to kill or injure your opponent. It is to pretend to. The best pretender wins.”
Isooba turned up his nose contemptuously. “Spoken like a silly boy who has never competed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means a niño like you should heed the voice of experience. When you grow the cojones to face me on the Melee field, I will teach you the truth of Torneo.”
“For true? You will teach me?” Paladin’s voice dripped with mockery. He eyed Isooba like a cat about to pounce on a blind mouse. “Are you saying you can best me, Isooba?”
The room fell silent. Isooba might have been bigger and older, but Paladin could knock him on his culo without breaking a sweat.
And everyone in the room knew it.
The blended children of Santuario del Guerrero fought together as a matter of survival. The pura-sangre—pureblood—younglings of Oeste Verdadero, the rich section of Westgate, considered it good sport to get drunk and go híbrido-bashing in the less affluent neighborhood, Ciudad Vieja. Paladin had stood against the pura-sangre with every one of the blended younglings at the fiesta. They all held his martial prowess in high esteem. In fact, he had saved Isooba’s culo only a few weeks ago.
Tau had come running into the smithy crying, desperate and out of breath, begging Paladin to come to Isooba’s rescue. Isooba had been boasting of his martial skills to a gang of drunk pura-sangre thugs, and they had put those boasts to the test, proving Isooba more mouth than might. Isooba might have been killed if Paladin had not grabbed Sunderbones and gone to his defense.
“Well, Isooba?” Paladin’s sharp, contemptuous tone sliced through the silence in the room. “What lessons do you think you can teach me?”
Isooba rolled his eyes and huffed, but Paladin recognized the stall for what it was. Isooba sought a response that would be more or less truthful and still protect his pride. “Until you are man enough to face me in the Phoenix-Rising arena, we will never find out, will we, niño?”
“Then we will find out on the morrow,” Paladin said, standing tall before Isooba and basking in the triumph of the moment. “For I have entered Torneo, all three trials. I very much look forward to your tutelage, Isooba von Joyful.”
Paladin delighted in the look of defeat and doom on Isooba’s perfectly chiseled face. Isooba’s bronzed complexion curdled to a sickly shade of ashy green. It was glorious vindication.
It lasted for three seconds.
“YOU DID WHAT?” Rebelde’s bellowing shook the walls.
Paladin closed his eyes, grimacing. His temper and big mouth had undone him again, fueled by his stupid jealousy. How many foolish feats could he perform in a single day?
He turned to Rebelde, thankful his shaky legs did not dump him on the floor. The adults in the room, even Walküre, cleared away from Rebelde as if he were a volcano on the verge of erupting. Paladin’s friends scattered from him, for he was the target of the coming firestorm. Yet Paladin would not show fear, not with his friends—and Isooba—watching.
“I entered Torneo, Papá.” At least his voice didn’t hitch. Much. “I will compete in the youngling trials.”
Rebelde’s face twisted with fury. Never had Paladin seen such rage in his father’s eyes, certainly not directed at him. He searched his mind for something he could say to forestall Rebelde’s outburst. For the first time in his life, he feared his papá might strike him. A slap from Rebelde would be painful, but not as painful as the humiliation of having his peers witness it. No words came to him, and Rebelde took a menacing step forward, his hands clenched into fists like giant mace heads.
Drud’s father stepped in front of Rebelde, blocking his path. Keeping his back to Rebelde, Alwin pretended not to notice the building confrontation. He clapped Paladin on the shoulder and said in a loud affected voice, “Gracias, Paladin. Thank you for a fine fiesta.” Then he took the hand of his wife, Hisa, and turned to the other guests, “It is late. Drud, Hisa, and I must go home now. Would anyone care to walk with us? It is a fine night for walking.”
Prompted by Alwin’s invitation, the other guests couldn’t leave fast enough. Isooba made sure to point a triumphant smirk at Paladin as he left hand in hand with Esmeralda. The other guests said hasty farewells and were out the door even before Alwin, Drud, and Hisa. Drud hung back and grabbed Paladin’s shoulder. His stout face was tight with earnest concern. “When the time comes, if you’re still … able to compete, I will stand with you during the Melee—”
Rebelde growled, “Drud—”
Drud took off like an arrow. He called to Paladin as he bounded out the door. “Adiós, vato. And gods be with you.”
Chapter Eight
A Man Grown
Paladin wanted to escape with Drud and the others. Rebelde’s ire was palpable, scorching the very ether in the room. It was suffocating.
Walküre pleaded, “Be calm, Rebel.”
Rebelde appeared not to have heard her. His words came at Paladin in a halting whisper, crisply enunciated, measured, and controlled. “You should not have done this, boy. You have betrayed all I have taught you.”
In his sixteen years of life, Paladin had known fear often. When he was six years old, he and his best friend Ladrillo had gotten lost near the haunted wood, Fantasmaderas Forest, and been attacked by the bloodthirsty chupacabra, a thing of living shadow. The monster had killed Ladrillo and nearly ended Paladin as well, leaving an enduring stain of terror on his soul. But that was a little fear compared to what he felt at the smoldering wrath in his papá’s dark eyes.
Rebelde had gone beyond anger. Anger was yelling. Anger was wild gesticulating, cursing and eye rolling. This was a rage Rebelde struggled to control, lest it break into violence he would regret.
Paladin could think of only one way to stay his father’s temper. Rebelde might respond to cold reason, and reason was all Paladin had in his defense.
Rebelde growled through clenched teeth, “You know how I feel about Torneo, do you not?”
“Sí, Papá.” Paladin repeated the words Rebelde had spoken to him often. “ ‘Torneo mocks us all by making sport of war and games of killing. There are no winners or losers in war. Only killers and corpses.’ ”
“Then why, in Muumba’s name, would you do such a thing? Why would you defy me in such a way?”
“I—I did not do this to defy you. This has nothing to do with you. I want to prove my skill in the arena. You have said my martial system is superior to the others. Why can you not be proud of me? Even Drud’s parents encourage him to compete, and he—”
Rebelde moved as if to lunge at Paladin, and Paladin stumbled backward, braced himself against the oak dining table, and then used it as a barrier between himself and his papá.
Walküre grabbed Rebelde and pulled him toward the hearth. “Rebel! Mind your temper. You know how it is with the young. They are desperate to prove themselves.” She turned to Paladin. “Tell him you meant no disrespect. Tell him, niño …”
“Please do not call me that, Mamá.” It was a silly thing to rebuke his mother for, and a stupid time to do it, but he was tired of being treated like a child. “I am no child. Today marks my sixteenth year. I’m almost a man grown.”
A mocking, cruel sound rumbled in Rebelde’s throat, laughter’s bastard brother. “Men grown—if they are wise—do not risk their lives for the pleasure of bloodthirsty fools. Men do not seek honor in games of mock war. Men seek only the favor of the man in the looking glas
s. Torneo—”
“Were you not a man when you competed, Papá?” Paladin knew the words were a mistake the moment they slipped past his lips.
Rebelde’s eyes seemed ready to pop from his skull. He drew back from Paladin as if he were a serpent who had just spat at him.
“Perdóname, Papá. I didn’t mean to—”
Rebelde’s voice was like a thunderclap. “Mpumbavu! You would dare liken your lot in life to mine? You ungrateful fool!”
Never had Rebelde spoken to him with such venom or volume. Paladin flinched as if slapped. Again he chastised himself for his outlaw tongue. But he could not sit silent and be accused of misdeeds when he knew in his heart he had done nothing wrong.
Walküre stood next to Paladin, glaring at her husband, hands on her hips. “He has made a mistake, Rebelde. There is no need to be cruel.”
Rebelde ignored his wife and stared at Paladin, frowning as if seeing his son for the first time. “Sí, boy, I was a man when I competed, a destitute foreign man exiled from his homeland with few prospects and fewer friends. Many were the days when even a scrap of bread was a luxury beyond me. I had no warm safe home with mamá and papá to see to my every need. I had little choice in competing. Without those Torneo winnings, I would have turned beggar, thief, or cutthroat. It is with that money that your mother and I built the smithy into a success, providing you with home and hearth and everything your pampered little heart might desire, indulgences paid for with the blood I shed in that gods-damned arena! Muumba’s Lute, Paladin! I accidentally killed my best friend during Torneo! Do these sacrifices mean nothing to you?”
“Sí, Papá! Of course they do—”
“No! I think not! You piss on my sacrifices!” Rebelde’s eyes were moist now, and his gaze lit upon the table of birthday presents, settling on the sword-shaped package he had set out for Paladin. A look of horror flashed across his umber face. Rebelde snatched the package from the table, cradling it like it was a precious infant rescued from harm.
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