They were not.
They were blatantly spurning him.
“Perhaps you did not hear me, Doña Yesenia,” Fox the Runt said, using as respectful a tone as he could muster given his growing frustration. “Those highborns did not choose me at random. Nor were they merely looking to bash me. They sought me out to kill me at the behest of ‘the Fatesayer.’ I heard them quite clearly. ‘The Fatesayer,’ they said.”
Doña Yesenia continued to ignore him, her snot-colored eyes fixed on the training girls, her rictus smile a mask of serenity. Even the dog pretended he did not exist. He wanted throttle the crone, or at least spit in her face and kick the freakish dog in the head. Next to him, Pía tensed, sensing his growing frustration, or perhaps she was just horrified at her aunt’s rudeness, or both. She cleared her throat. “Tía? Tía Yesenia?”
When the crone failed to acknowledge her own doting niece, Fox the Runt reached out to touch her shoulder, thinking she might be deaf as well as ugly, but the dog snapped its gaze upon him, warning him not to touch the doña or move any closer. He folded his hands behind him and said, “Fatesayer seems an uncommon name to me, but perhaps I am not as acquainted with Oestean custom as I had imagined. Do you know of another with that name in the Reinos del Oeste?”
Doña Yesenia’s eyes never left the training Ximena girls. She called to one of them, “Very good, Celestina. Your footwork is progressing nicely …”
“Please, Tía!” Pía said. “Poor manners ill become you. Zwergfuchs asked you a question.”
Doña Yesenia still did not actually deign to gaze upon him. She wrinkled her nose as if smelling something foul and spoke in a voice like the creaking of old bones: “There is only one Fatesayer.”
He waited for her to elaborate, feeling ever more foolish and frustrated as the seconds ticked by in silence. The Fatesayer took a white cloth of some thin fabric from one of her pockets and held it to her nose, breathing through it, and then shifted away from him, leaning so far over the side of the bench she looked like she might tip over and shatter against the floor. At first he thought her acting, and hated her for the petty performance, purposed only to mock and humiliate him. Then he remembered that he had neither bathed nor changed clothes since slipping in burro shit in Círculo del Triunfo. That had been hours ago, a lifetime it seemed. Still, it was possible the old hag really was offended by his stink. He could never truly know, and the uncertainty made him hate her even more. He longed to strike the doña, but would never do so. The doña was as horrid a human being as he had ever encountered, but Pía loved her. Besides, she was a doña, the oldest matriarch of one of the most powerful Houses in the Reinos del Oeste. The punishments he would suffer for attacking someone of her esteem would be severe. Probably fatal. Pía gently squeezed his hand but it did little to soothe his rising frustration.
“Zwergfuchs thinks you tried to have him killed, Tía,” she said. “Tell him, por favor. Tell him you would not do such a thing.”
“Of course I would do such a thing,” Doña Yesenia said, meeting Pía’s gaze. “But I did not.” She flashed a cruel, yellow-toothed smile at Fox the Runt. She looked like a half-mad cat contemplating how long it would toy with its captured mouse before killing it. “I did not have to tell them anything, Nord. They decided to eliminate you of their own accord.”
“Why—” Fox the Runt began, but Pía stepped up to her aunt, planted her feet, and put her fists on her hips. The other Ximena girls forgot about their practice dummies, suddenly caught up in the drama unfolding a few feet away from their training.
“What are you playing at, Tía?” Pía said. “There is no doubt in my mind that Zwergfuchs is the white fox of your Interpretación.”
“The good spirits spoke of two suitors, sobrina! A white fox and a red bear. I told Osvaldo you had discovered your white fox after all these years.…”
“Osvaldo?” Pía said. She was yelling now, her beautiful faced twisted with anger. “Are you still trying to push that fool on me?”
The gymnasium grew quiet. Santosians of every station paused in their training to observe; the Ximena girls took seats on the floor and stared openly. The ugly green dog rose to its front paws, cocking its head at Pía in a gesture so oddly human it sent shivers up Fox the Runt’s spine.
He spoke in a quiet voice. “As you can see, Doña, Osvaldo and his assassins failed. But his sister was killed.”
“Bernadita?” Pía closed her eyes and sighed. She whispered a prayer to The One God and then confronted the doña. “Do you see, Tía? Do you see what your meddling has caused? Osvaldo must be devastated …”
“Who is this Osvaldo to you?” Fox the Runt said.
Pía took his hands into hers. “No one. A family friend. A foolish boy. He has pursued me for years, Zwergfuchs. He believes we are fated to wed.”
“I do not understand,” he said. There was witchery at play here, or whatever it was the Talentosa called their brand of magic. “Why would he think that?”
Pía said, “There is more to the Interpretación I told you of earlier. The spirits spoke of two potential suitors, a white fox with a true heart and a red bear from the old blood. Osvaldo Del Grizzly of House Berengar believes he is the red bear.”
“He is the red bear,” Doña Yesenia said. “I am certain. Mostly.”
Pía wrapped an arm around Fox the Runt and pulled him close. “And Zwergfuchs is the white fox. I am completely certain!”
Doña Yesenia shrugged. “The only thing you can be completely certain of is that this little enano is piss-poor, lowborn, and thick-skulled.”
Laughter reverberated through the gym. The Ximena girls all watched with wide-eyed amusement. Even the stupid green dog seemed to mock him with a gray-toothed canine grin. Fox the Runt clenched his fists at his side and closed his eyes, too angry to speak. He focused on his breathing, on his ki.
Pía growled through clenched teeth, “And Osvaldo Del Grizzly is a fool, Tía.”
“All men are fools!” Doña Yesenia said. “Better you join with a noble one than this”—she gestured contemptuously in Fox the Runt’s direction—“dog-faced commoner.” She scratched her dog behind the ears. “No offense, Tomasa.”
Fury blew through Fox the Runt’s soul as fierce and frigid as a mountain blizzard. He studied the doña’s ancient body with the cold, calculating eyes of a predator, seeing her only as a collection of soft vulnerable places. She was hundreds of weak points that could be struck in a hundred different ways, each one causing agony, paralysis, or even death. His lips twitched into an almost smile as he imagined it. His body trembled from the need to hurt her.
The dog Tomasa sensed it. The green monstrosity rose to all fours, and lowered its head as if preparing to pounce. It bared its teeth at him, a low menacing growl rumbling in its throat. Fox the Runt was much stronger than he looked, perhaps strong enough to crush the dog’s throat. The hag too seemed as if she sensed his thoughts. She grinned a ghoulish rictus at him.
I will one day piss on your grave, you old bitch, he thought at her. I swear it by Creador’s Burning Balls.
Doña Yesenia threw her head back and cackled maniacally, and her dog yowled in harmony next to her. Fox the Runt shook his head, unnerved. “Verrückt. As crazy as a shithouse rat.”
Doña Yesenia’s eyes grew wide. She clutched her chest and pitched forward, laughing so hard she seemed pained. Violent, hacking coughs seized her bony frame and shook her uncontrollably. Pía and the other Ximena girls quickly grew distraught and rushed to her side, trying to calm her. The dog whined with concern. Fox the Runt used the moment to slip away unnoticed. He hurried out of the training chamber and dashed up the winding staircase to the sanctuary. Karl, Tinashe, and a handful of his new friends waved at him to come over. He returned their greeting, but did not stop. He was too angry for polite conversation. He wanted to hit something. He wanted to hurt something.
Or someone.
He blew past Prelado Scrupulous and bounded out the front door and down
the temple steps.
“Zwergfuchs!” Pía called. “Wait, por favor! Come back.”
She stood at the top of the temple stairs like some magical duende princess out of a story. By The One God, she was beautiful to behold. He was halfway back up the stairs before he even realized he had taken a step. She wrapped her arms around him and the tension eased out of his body. Her voice was like soothing music. “I am sorry for my tía’s rudeness. She is old and clings to old ways.”
He pulled back. “Why did you not tell me about Osvaldo?”
“Because he is not worth mentioning,” Pía said. “My heart is for you.”
“But what of your aunt?” he said. “Her Interpretación …”
Pía scowled. “She will do everything she can to make sure the Interpretación favors Osvaldo. But we may influence the future as well, mi querido. I am sure of you. I am sure of us.”
He swallowed the bitter panic rising in his throat. He had just begun loving Pía. He didn’t want to lose her because of some dried-up old soothsayer. And despite Pía’s reassuring words, he sensed Doña Yesenia’s power. “What part must I play, Pía? I will do anything.”
“The archery trial,” Pía said nervously. “Win it.”
“Why?” he said. “What about the trial?”
She hesitated.
“Please, Pía. Tell me.”
“You do not understand, Zwergfuchs,” she said. “By telling you of the future, I might corrupt it, compromise it …”
“Please, Pía. Por favor.”
She stared into his eyes and he sensed something melt within her. She pulled him close and the warmth of her thrilled him. “Oh, mi querido. I can deny you nothing.”
“Nor I you, Pía,” he said. “Now tell me. Why is the archery trial so important?”
Pía took a deep breath, but her voice still trembled when she said, “You must not lose, Zwergfuchs. The man who fathers my children will ‘thrice be a champion.’ He will go undefeated in Torneo.”
Chapter Eighteen
Zacarías the Bard
The brimstone stench that had settled over the city had grown worse with every passing day, but as foul as it was, it couldn’t dampen the excitement of Torneo. Rumor held that this season’s commencement performance would be the best ever. Paladin and Drud wedged themselves in amongst the tightly packed younglings at the wall of the long, narrow pit called the dragón’s den, a roofed trench enclosed on three sides, the fourth side open and facing the game field. There were a few grumbles from the other Oestelings when Drud shouldered them out of the way, but no one wanted to start a fight here that would disqualify them from competition, and besides, all the younglings vied for a place at the den’s edge, where they would have a good view of the show. It was easy for Paladin to see over the top of the pit wall, but Drud, a full head shorter, had to stand on the tips of his toes.
There was a dragón’s den in each quadrant of the arena where Torneo competitors sat on wooden benches while they waited to compete, and in each den was an entrance leading down to the tunnels, chambers, and stables beneath the arena. Not just bards, but bear baiters, bullfighters, and the beasts with which they contested were often kept in those subterranean paddocks, then hoisted up through trapdoors in the arena floor by mechanized lifts.
“Look, vato!” Drud cried, pointing at two Kusini Watu men rising up through one of the trapdoors. “Bardlings!”
The twin bardlings were dressed to dazzle in tunics and breeches of fine scarlet silk trimmed in white. Their cloaks were adorned with a patchwork of the thirteen totems of each royal House in the Thirteen. The dark-skinned brothers were identical except for their instruments; one carried a horn, the other a drum. The brother with the horn blew a single piercing note that cut through the fifty thousand chattering voices in the arena like mance-fire through a pile of desiccated leaves.
When the crowd was silent, the horn-toting man yelled loud enough to be heard by every ear in the arena, “I am Boipelo the Bardling!”
His brother bellowed, “And I am Boipuso the Bardling!”
With one voice they said, “Are you ready to hear the epic tale of King Blackspear’s Thirteen?”
Paladin added his voice to the excited cheers calling for the tale of King Rainerio the Blackspear and the Thirteen Paladíns. Boipuso the Bardling began drumming a steady beat, and the folk in the arena clapped their hands and stomped their feet to the throbbing rhythm.
“Hail!” Boipelo the Bardling chanted. “Hail him! All hail the teller of tales extraordinary! The reporter of legends fantastic! The keeper of histories wondrous! The weaver of yarns enchanting! The composer of ballads sublime! The narrator of epics magnificent! The speaker of truths beguiling! Hail him, I say! All hail Zacarías the Bard!”
The crowd gave a boisterous cheer of welcome for this season’s bard. Boipelo the Bardling played a rousing introduction on his horn, and thick plumes of scarlet smoke billowed up from the caverns beneath the arena. When the air all around had turned pinkish, Zacarías the Bard rose up through one of the trapdoors set within the arena floor, his arms held wide. Streaming ribbons of white and scarlet trailed his arms, legs, hands, feet, and hair. Even his face was veiled behind a gauzy strip of scarlet. He carried a staff of pale wood, the top of which was worked into a great fist clutching five of the largest almazi crystals Paladin had ever seen, each filled with swirling mists in the colors of the elements.
“All good folk of the Thirteen Kingdoms! I bid you welcome!” Zacarías the Bard’s manced voice boomed through the arena. He waved his staff in a flamboyant flourish, and thirteen blazing manlike creatures appeared in the sky, each between eight and nine feet tall, with flames leaping from their skulls instead of hair. They flew on ungainly leathery wings spreading thirty or forty feet from one sharp-feathered tip to the other. Except for a red-lensed visor covering their eyes, they were completely naked and utterly without genitalia, male or female.
Paladin’s mouth dropped. There was a collective gasp of astonishment and horror from the folk in the arena. Every person stared, wonder-struck, at the conjured illusions circling above.
They were banes. Creador’s Bastards.
Zacarías the Bard had sculpted a full covey of the bastard spawn of Creador out of colored light. No bard in the history of Torneo had ever attempted such a feat. But his greater triumph was the stark clarity of his manced creations. They were the most lifelike illusions Paladin had ever seen. Zacarías the Bard had depicted them perfectly. Each bane’s head was wreathed with dancing orange and blue flames. Each carried a hoz, a type of reap-hook weapon with a serrated blade that dripped mance-fire.
Zacarías the Bard seemed to glow with crimson power. He chanted,
“In days of legend passed away,
The banes did hunt good folk as prey,
Against the banes man could not fend,
Our kind it seemed was at an end,
For heroes there were few.”
Every voice in the arena repeated, “For heroes there were few!”
“A king came forth who knew no fear,
His great fist filled with deadly spear,
To all the gods his oath he swore,
Bind the kingdoms, win the war,
When thirteen stand as one.”
“When thirteen stand as one!” the crowd chanted back.
Under Zacarías’s direction, an army of warriors appeared in the arena, shaking their weapons at the banes flying above. The illusions were so dazzling they made Paladin’s head hurt. The scene was exactly as he had always imagined.
The bard’s voice grew stronger:
“Every country sent its strong,
To win the chance to smite Vile wrong,
With hungry steel the brave souls came,
To quench blade’s thirst with blood of bane.”
The giant warriors—braver, stronger, truer than any man or woman living in the here and now—punched fists into the air, screaming silently for the blood of banes in perfe
ct time to the voices of the arena spectators. The banes fled, but pain knifed through Paladin’s skull. He couldn’t say if it was the noise, the lights, or both that caused him such agony, but the performance was as excruciating as it was pleasurable and he shrieked from both. Everyone in the arena screamed and yelled, the sounds of pleasure so similar to pain as to be indistinguishable.
The fervor only fueled Zacarías’s zeal. His passionate oration grew to a fever pitch: “Strong blades did cry for blood of bane!”
“STRONG BLADES DID BEG FOR BLOOD OF BANE!”
“STRONG BLADES DID BEG FOR BLOOD OF BANE!”
“Champions of the deadly art,
Proved strong of arm and true of heart,
The heroes vowed, ‘NOW TERROR ENDS,’
And banes called death THE PALADÍNS.
Our heroes now stood strong!”
“OUR HEROES NOW STOOD STRONG!”
And then, following the tradition set down thousands of years before, the bard named each kingdom and the spectators responded with that kingdom’s heroic paladín.
“Eisesland sent the world …”
“Steinhund the strong!”
“Kavunchi danced to …”
“Motojicho’s song!”
“Winterewiger burned with …”
“Bluthammer’s rage!”
“Hatarimsitu’s wisdom …”
“Zanimauti the Sage!”
“Raimei-Yama’s weapon …”
“Ashiryuu’s ire!”
“Simbadola light …”
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