How can people be so fickle? Fox the Runt thought. Just a moment ago the mob had been cheering for him. Now they called for his head. His gaze kept flicking to the dead girl. Her face was pale. Blood soaked her and her brother. Fox the Runt had spilled that blood. He realized he was gawking, his heart racing like an unbridled enyepesi stallion in the southern wilds.
“Run, fool!” Sentwaki yelled at him.
Fox the Runt stared at the dark-skinned man, wondering if he was trying to trick him.
“What are you doing?” Osvaldo bellowed. He dropped his sister’s lifeless form to the pavement and swung at the Kusini Watu. “You traitor!”
“Mind your tongue!” Sentwaki slammed a large fist into Osvaldo’s face, dropping him to his knees as a crimson fountain erupted from his nose. He retrieved his staff and swung it at the advancing crowd, cracking one of the Nords in the skull. “Get back! Get back!”
The mob backed away and grew quiet.
“How could you?” Osvaldo sobbed. “Your loyalty …”
Sentwaki stood up straight and spoke by rote, as if recalling a lesson or verse. “There are many places where compromise is expected; loyalty is not amongst them. I put my commitment to the Prophet above—”
“Do not quote holy doctrine to me, Sentwaki!” Osvaldo shouted. “She is my sister!”
“I am sorry for your loss, Osvaldo. But this unarmed boy”—he nodded toward Fox the Runt—“has proven himself, at least to me.” There was sadness in Sentwaki’s eyes when they fell upon Fox the Runt. “Find sanctuary, little Fox.” His gaze flicked quickly over to Templo Santos. “I suggest you do so quickly.”
“What are you—?” Fox the Runt began. But the grim power of Sentwaki’s stare silenced him.
“Run,” the Kusini Watu said.
Fox the Runt pointed himself toward Templo Santos. He had no idea what had just happened or why, but he knew good advice when he heard it.
He ran.
Chapter Ten
Mamá
At that moment Paladin hated his papá.
Rebelde had violated a trust by so callously telling Walküre of the expulsion from Temple Seisakusha, but it was how that violation affected Walküre that incensed Paladin.
Walküre trembled. Tears spilled from her tilted eyes of gold-flecked jade and ran down her amber-tinted cheeks. Her lips worked furiously but produced no coherent words, only gaspy, racking sobs. Rebelde’s revelation broke Walküre’s heart, and Paladin despised him for it.
At least Rebelde was decent enough to be guilt stricken over his hasty, spiteful words. Paladin could tell his papá would take it all back if he could. But it was too late for that. No amount of remorse would ever acquit him in Paladin’s eyes. He hated Rebelde. Perhaps he always would.
“I am sorry, Walli,” Rebelde said. “Please, I did not mean to tell you this way—” He tried to touch Walküre, but she shrank from him, her face harsh with scorn. Rebelde reacted as if he had been stabbed, wincing in anguish. Paladin was glad of it, though he could never have conceived of a day when he would enjoy seeing his papá in pain.
Walküre could barely restrain her weepiness. She held her hands out to Paladin, helpless, pleading. Her words came between sobs, “But, niño, you promised you would practice only Ashi-Kobushi within the temple grounds, to make sure this did not happen again.”
Paladin had no real response. He hadn’t said those words exactly. What he had promised was that he would not desecrate Temple Seisakusha, and as far as he was concerned he hadn’t. Not really. But he wouldn’t quibble over it, not when his mother was so wretched. “I did the best I could.”
Rebelde’s anger came back times ten. Walküre’s displeasure only fueled his outrage at Paladin. But truth be told, Paladin was beyond caring. No one had the right to pain his mamá so, not even his papá.
“The best you could?” Rebelde said, his words dripping with venomous sarcasm. “I do not believe that. I do not believe it for an instant.”
Paladin had been contrite before, but now he wanted to lash out with the cruelest words he could manage. “As a man I once respected said, ‘Fools believe what they will and facts be damned.’ ”
Having his own words hurled back in his face rocked Rebelde back on his heels. “Who are you, boy? I do not even recognize you anymore.”
The loathing in his papá’s eyes was as painful to Paladin as any blow the big man could have struck at his body. But he didn’t flinch. Rebelde had made Walküre cry. As far as Paladin was concerned, this was war. He met the heat in Rebelde’s gaze with ice and spat his own venom. “I am your son, Papá. I am as you have made me.”
“No,” Rebelde said. “Golanv take me now if I made you such an impudent little brat. I have railed against Torneo every day of your life! It is not I who made you sign up for the games.”
“I’ve seen sixteen years, Papá. Torneo rules say I’m old enough to enter the trials.”
“Sí,” Walküre said, wrath replacing the sorrow in her voice. “And Mamá’s rules say you are old enough to suffer the consequences of your disobedience.”
She rose to her feet, more regal than any queen, radiating authority that stilled the tongues of both Paladin and Rebelde. Though Walküre was of noble blood, she was not a matriarch. Had she been born a male, she would have followed into her father’s noble Patriarchy, House Guntram of Eisesland. As a female, she followed her mother’s Lineage, the Women of the True Bow, the Mayumi Sept of Hana-Soshite-Mori. The Line was greatly respected, but no queenly blood ran through Walküre’s veins, though one would guess otherwise looking at her now. Paladin wanted to drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness. She was more than a queen. She was Mamá. And Mamá was furious.
“Mamá—”
She silenced him with a single finger speared at his face. Unlike Rebelde, Walküre was slow to anger, which made her that much more fearsome when aroused. She had worn her hair loose for the fiesta, and now pushed the waist-length sepia tresses out of a face that could have been sculpted from ice. Her words rode a glacial wind. “Do you know what your father and I had to do to gain your acceptance to Temple Seisakusha?”
Paladin stared at her blank-faced. He knew a loaded question when he heard it. Any answer he gave would only make things worse. He kept silent.
Walküre shook her head sadly. “No. I do not suppose you do. You simply took our sacrifices for granted as you apparently do everything else in your life. Well, your father and I had to beg Sensei Quicksteel and Dai Sensei Stonehead to accept you as a disciple, and still they would only have you after we made a substantial donation to the temple, all we had saved for our old age.
“Because you had been expelled from every other temple in the city, your name carried a taint that had reached even the ears of the Seisakushan monks. Completing your schooling at Temple Seisakusha was your very last hope of serving la Orden Majestuosa de la Lámina Incendiaria. What will become of you now, Paladin? How will you make your way in the world?”
“Mamá—”
“No.” She shook her head vigorously. “Por favor. Do not call me that. You are no child. Today marks your sixteenth year. You are almost a man grown, and you may call me Mother.”
Blood and Thunder. This was bad. Paladin felt as if he had been rolled naked in calf’s blood and thrown to a pack of ravening wolves. Never had he felt so alone, so abandoned. All his life Walküre had been his most steadfast advocate. Walküre had championed his blended martial system even when Rebelde had condemned it as blasphemy. Rebelde had come to respect the martial form eventually, but only because Walküre had demanded he evaluate it objectively, without religious preconceptions. Paladin could not believe she was now turning against him.
Walküre folded her arms before her. “You say you are a man grown? Then it is time for you to get off the teat, Señor Del Darkdragón. You have one week to pack your things and get out.”
“Mamá!”
“Walküre?”
“Or, if your father agrees, you may off
icially apprentice in the foundry. You are a smart boy and have years of experience already, so your apprenticeship should last no longer than three years.”
This was wrong. Paladin had come to rely on Walküre’s sense of fairness. He was stunned now that she could treat him so unjustly. How could she advocate for the blended form one day and condemn him for using it the next? This was a grievous betrayal. He had expected Rebelde to bluster and fuss and punish him, but he also knew his papá would calm and eventually see reason. Such was Rebelde’s way. He would never have expected his mother to turn against him. It was as if the sixteen years he had loved and trusted her had been an utter deception. If he hadn’t been so angry over the treachery, he would have run away and wept.
“Well, Paladin?” Walküre said. “When would you like to begin your apprenticeship?”
Three weeks from never, he thought.
The Dragón & Arrow was perhaps the most famous smithy in the Thirteen. Folk from every corner of the world sought Darkdragón swords and Cruelarrow bows. Even the young prince of Prosperidad, Veraz Del Ironbear of House Bernardo, had come to visit the smithy once, eager to see how the weapons were made and hear Rebelde speak of his role in the Anonzi Rebellion in Kavunchi.
But Paladin loathed working in the smithy. He hated the heat and grime and filth, and Walküre knew it. She had guessed it when he was nine, and he had admitted it to be true. Out of respect for his papá’s feelings, he had kept that truth from Rebelde. As much as Paladin hated every moment he spent in that stifling, stinking forge, he was proud of the work he did for his parents. He worked harder than his parents asked, longer than they required, and always expressed an interest in learning as much of the family business as he could.
Yet apprenticing for his parents was only slightly more appealing than serving as Niñero de Zurullo for life. He might not be able to join the Blades, but that didn’t mean he had to be a smith, not when his heart called out for adventure and honor that could only be won on the field of battle.
He swaggered across the room with false confidence and folded his arms before him, mirroring his mother’s posture. “Perhaps I’ll apprentice for you or perhaps I’ll pursue other options.”
Paladin almost laughed at the twin sets of raised eyebrows his parents wore.
Walküre smirked. “Please, niño, tell us what options await a sassy-tongued chico who has been expelled from every temple in the city?”
Paladin met both Rebelde’s and Walküre’s eyes in turn. “I could go live with Babu Jambiax and study elemancy. I could become a mancer. I’ve been expelled from no temple in the Nchi ya Kusini. Surely I’ll be accepted into Temple Motojicho with Jambiax the Phantom of House Kamau as my advocate.”
The stunned looks on his parents’ faces suited him just fine. And then, as if his words had conjured the old man, he heard his grandfather’s voice from the doorway behind him.
“Have my old ears betrayed me?” the old mancer growled. “Or did someone just mention Jambiax the Phantom?”
PART II
Contest & Conversion
Not spear. Not sword. Not arrow.
Heart.
—From Schöpfer’s Law, “Doktrin der Dreizehn”
Translation by Sonje of Tiefersee
Chapter Eleven
Embraced
The Santosian priest stood at the top of the stairs, glaring down at Fox the Runt’s torn, bloody clothing; Fox the Runt stared down at his own boots, clutching the folded hem of his robe to his hip wound. He pretended not to hear the commotion in the street behind him. He had evaded the City Guard, but they still searched for him. He heard them calling, “Murderer! Murderer on the loose!” Then again, on a street like Calle de la Iglesia, there could have been several deaths in the twenty minutes since he had killed the highborn girl, Bernadita. He had lost himself in a crowd of gawkers outside a hermaphroditical brothel and then circled back to Templo Santos. He was terrified of being caught by the authorities and still did not know how to feel about taking the girl’s life. Intellectually, he knew he had committed no sin. He had simply been defending himself, and he still was. He felt like screaming at the priest and two big guards standing at the top of the stone stairs, blocking him from entering. He just wanted sanctuary. But the Santosians wore grim disapproval on their olive-toned faces. The priest crossed his arms. Suspicion glittered in his dark eyes, the color of grape leaves.
“Perdón, disciple of Seisakusha,” Padre Ezequiel the Scrupulous said loud enough to be heard over the roar of activity in the church behind him, “who did you say you were again?”
Fox the Runt could have forced his way past the three men, but Ezequiel the Scrupulous was not just any priest, he was the prelado, the prelate of Templo Santos, leader of the Santosian church, and Fox the Runt had to make a good impression on the man if he wanted to see Pía again.
Just this morning he would have laughed at the idea that he would be begging entrance to a Vile—Santosian, he corrected—temple. For millennia, the Santosians had been despised by the entire world as maniacal zealots who had initiated the bane wars, though Fox the Runt was beginning to believe that villainous reputation to be false. Pía was Santosian. That was reason enough to give the religion a chance. He licked his lips, took a deep breath, straightened his back and spoke, as formally as he could manage.
“My name is Zwergfuchs Von Hammerhead of Großemänner’s Line in Eisesland. I was told by Señorita Pía Del Whitewraith of House Ximena to ask for her here, Señor Prelado.”
“Pía is a priestess of the church and must be addressed by her proper title. Sister. Or Hermana. Not señorita.”
“Perdóname usted, Prelado.”
He felt the prelado’s gaze crawl all over him as the holy man weighed him with his eyes. The tight look on his handsome face indicated that the prelado did not approve of what he saw. Fox the Runt had expected as much. His ragged and bloody kimono was also ill fitting, and worst of all, it was the garb of a Seisakushan disciple. His cloak and robe were Seisakusha’s violet and blue, with a Nureta Sakuru embroidered over the breast of the kimono. He would have changed clothes before coming if he had anything to change into.
He used his breathing to center his ki and calm his growing impatience. The headache that had plagued him all day, coming and going in pounding waves of agony, had receded for the time being, but his wounds from the fight—while not serious—needed tending. But mostly, he was desperate to get off the street and into the temple, away from any who might recognize him as Bernadita’s killer. Prelado Scrupulous seemed to take pleasure in watching him squirm. At least the priest could have invited him out of the chill, stinking air to suffer his squinty-eyed scrutiny.
“What happened to you, disciple of Seisakusha?” the prelado said, indicating Fox the Runt’s torn cloak and bloodied hip.
He sighed. “I was attacked in the street as I made my way here.”
“Who attacked you, chico? Why?”
“I do not know why, Prelado,” Fox the Runt said. “They mistook me for someone called the White Fox.”
Prelado Scrupulous’s eyes grew wide for an instant. “Who are they, disciple of Seisakusha?”
“I do not know, Prelado!” He stamped his foot in frustration. The guards standing behind the priest shifted their weight and tightened their grips on their spears. Fox the Runt softened his tone. “They were four highborns …”
“And they let you live?” Again, the priest sounded incredulous.
“I am no híbrido,” Fox the Runt said. “Do the highborns here murder purebloods in the street now?”
Before Prelado Scrupulous could answer, there came more yelling in the street behind them. Fox the Runt recognized some of the voices. They were those of the highborns who had attacked him. The prelado looked out over Fox the Runt’s head, and a thundercloud of anger passed over his face.
“O Creador,” Osvaldo wailed. He sounded like he was just behind them, outside the temple gates, but Fox the Runt dared not turn around f
or fear he would be recognized. “Mi hermana! Mi hermana is killed!”
“This way, Osvaldo,” the Kusini Watu, Sentwaki, was saying. “Bring her this way!”
Their voices trailed off as they moved away, and Fox the Runt realized he had not taken a breath since first recognizing Osvaldo’s voice. He took a deep one. Prelado Scrupulous seemed to relax as well. “What do you seek here, disciple of Seisakusha?”
“Sanctuary,” Fox the Runt said. “Healing, perhaps.”
“Why not seek these things at Temple Seisakusha?”
He shrugged. “I was a Seisakushan this morning, but after speaking with Señorita Pía, I am not so certain anymore.”
It seemed his answer sufficed. The prelado nodded and something akin to a smile touched his lips. “You have come seeking answers, Nordling, and answers you shall have if your heart and soul are open to the truth. The Prophet himself will speak to the faithful on the morrow. I promise you, Señor Von Hammerhead, there is nothing more enlightening than hearing The One God’s truth from the lips of His Mortal Voice, the Prophet.”
“The Prophet?” Fox the Runt frowned, confused. “That is impossible, isn’t it? Vicente the Vile has been dead for two thousand years—”
“Vicente Santos!” the prelado corrected. “And, sí, of course he is long dead. The founder of our faith was a great man, and of course, Padre Santos was a prophet, but he is not the Prophet. Padre Santos was fallible. He thought to provoke la Guerra de la Condenación before The One God willed it, and thus his efforts were met with defeat.”
“La Guerra de la Condenación?” Fox said. “I have never heard of this.”
“The War of Judgment,” Prelado Scrupulous said, “and of Condemnation. All worshippers of false gods and practitioners of the filthy arts will be purged from the Thirteen in a storm of blood and death, their souls imprisoned in hell, where they will know eternal torture at the hands of the Nameless Three.”
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