“Wingu-Zitole’s fire!”
“Hama-Be’s hero …”
“Nihaku the Oak!”
“Tatsu-No’s legacy …”
“Torakiba’s cloak!”
“Solbesado’s gift was …”
“Dosdagas’s steel!”
“Dulce Aire’s mighty …”
“Hacha-Loco’s zeal!”
“Hana-Soshite-Mori …”
“Shinwashi’s eagle eyes!”
“Sombra del Montaña …”
“Tronada’s surprise!”
“Prosperidad gave its king …”
“KING BLACKSPEAR WAS WISE!”
“Thirteen fearless paladíns …”
“King Blackspear was wise!”
“KING BLACKSPEAR WAS WISE!”
“KING BLACKSPEAR WAS WISE!”
And Zacarías the Bard, the most spectacular illusionist the arena had ever seen, waved his pale staff and thousands upon thousands of colorful pinpricks of light whirled through the ether, fusing, mating, changing color, solidifying into the image of a regal giant.
King Blackspear, in all his glory, stood hundreds of feet high, gripping Ravin, the original Black Spear, in his left hand. The top of his gold crown disappeared into the clouds above Santuario del Guerrero.
Paladin’s heart beat harder than Boipuso the Bardling’s drum. A joy bordering on rapture enveloped him, squeezing salty bliss from his eyes. He could never have imagined an illusion of such majesty or realism. Zacarías the Bard was a maestro, plucking the strings of his soul as if playing a lute. He spared a glance for those around him, and they were all lost to the reverie induced by the bard.
As wonderful as it was, there was something about it that disturbed Paladin deep within his soul. The bard’s illusions and voice felt tainted by the tiniest touch of wrongness. Paladin didn’t linger on the sensation. The illusions were too breathtaking, the bard’s voice too compelling. He turned back toward the show and gasped at what he saw.
A conspiracy of giant ravens corkscrewed out of the heavens and flew a circular wreath around the Blackspear’s enormous head. They made a complete circuit around the arena before vanishing back up into the clouds. The folk in the arena went wild with enthusiasm. Some legends claimed Golanv the Death Raven had sent its own hatchlings to assist the Blackspear. Other stories claimed the Death Raven roused the shades of its dead kin to aid the wise old king of Prosperidad in his crusade to rid the Thirteen of Creador’s Bastards. But though the myth was well known, never, ever, had a bard attempted to reproduce the story. This illusion was ten thousand times more complicated than creating a covey of banes. The concentration and willpower needed to create such elaborate creations of colored light was staggering.
“He’s the best bard there has ever been,” Paladin whispered. Though he could have screamed and no one would have heard him above the deafening acclaim for Zacarías the Bard.
The illusion of Blackspear exploded into millions of sparks that slowly drifted down to the stadium floor like snowflakes of garnet and pearl. The bard’s manced voice was a god’s thunderous declaration: “In honor of King Rainerio the Blackspear and his brave paladíns, the bravest warriors in the history of the Thirteen Kingdoms: LET TORNEO BEGIN!”
Zacarías and the bardlings took several flourishing bows to an earsplitting ovation that went on for nearly ten minutes. Finally, the performers sank beneath the arena through a trapdoor. The Red Cloaks called to the younglings in the dragón’s dens, directing them to the firing lines in groups of thirteen.
Paladin stood for a moment, blinking away the last vestiges of the dreamy reverie induced by the bard’s performance. The pain in his skull eased and his thoughts sharpened. To say Zacarías the Bard’s illusions had been phenomenal would have been a grotesque understatement, but any description of the bard’s exhibition would be. Words were too frail a tool to describe the breathtaking scene Paladin had witnessed this day. Still, there was something about it that unsettled him.
His contemplations ended abruptly when Prosperidad’s Red Cloak shook her copper bell in his face. She glared at him and Drud with hateful eyes the color of some soggy green vegetable, and then snarled impatiently, “Well, híbridos? Are you competing in the archery trial or not?”
Híbridos. The slur hit him like a slap in the face, but Drud just rolled his eyes, refusing to let it affect him. Paladin wanted to tell the Red Cloak where she could cram her stupid bell, but that would get him disqualified, so he nodded mutely.
“Come on then!” she shrilled, and went to join the other Red Cloaks near the targets.
“Cabróna,” he cursed, loud enough for only Drud to hear.
“That’s Maga Cabróna, vato,” Drud said. “The woman is a learned mancer and Healer. She has earned her title.”
“Maga Cabróna, then,” he agreed, chuckling. He discarded his hurt and anger at Maga Cabróna the Red Cloak. He emptied his mind of everything but putting arrows into bane’s-eyes, and when it was time, he stepped up to the firing line and did just that.
Chapter Nineteen
Arrows
Fox the Runt almost wished he still believed in Schöpfer, the so-called goddess of justice, that he could curse Her obscene negligence. The mongrel—with his oh-so-fine new bow—placed another arrow dead center of the target fifty feet away. The Caller, chief of the Red Cloaks and head referee, inspected the mongrel’s shot, turned to the crowd, and called, “Bane’s-eye!”
They were the final two competitors, with minutes of daylight left. For the last half hour, the two had exchanged perfect bane’s-eye for perfect bane’s-eye. Unless one of them bungled a shot soon, the match would end in a stalemate and they would split the winnings of thirteen gold coronas. Pía had said that he had to win every trial in order to prove he was the man of her destiny. Would a draw count as a half-loss or a half-win? And how did a partial victory affect Doña Yesenia’s Interpretación?
The Caller, a beady-eyed woman from Solbesado, signaled him to take his turn. He nocked an arrow and fired.
“Bane’s-eye!” she called after a quick inspection of the target, and then, “Will you younglings accept a draw?”
“NO!” he and the mongrel yelled in unison, just as they had the last seventeen times she had asked.
“Very well,” she said, “but if there is no clear winner when the Grandmother appears, I will call this trial a draw and be done with it.”
He thought his blood would boil. Pía was watching. A draw could end their romance before it had even properly begun. Osvaldo, three years his senior, would be competing in the adult trials. If he won the adult archery trial outright, would the prophecy—the Interpretación—favor him over Fox the Runt? He closed his eyes and prayed to The One God for the justice he had never received of Schöpfer or Seisakusha.
“Take your shot, Del Darkdragón,” the Caller said to the mongrel. “The Grandfather flies west.”
The mongrel loosed an arrow and once again struck a perfect bane’s-eye. The crowd responded with courteous applause. They wanted drama, and twenty minutes of perfect shots had left them bored. Even the hibrido’s mongrel mother, seated in the western quad of the arena, seemed weary of the long-lasting stalemate. Usually the Cruelarrow glorified Del Darkdragón’s piddliest little deed. Perhaps she had come to realize what a treacherous little wretch he was. Today she seemed distant and aloof. The Cruelarrow’s icy disposition reminded him almost of his own mother, the Black Spear champion, Schneeflocke the Hammerhead of the Heilwidis Matriarchy.
The mere thought of that frost-faced bitch brought bitter bile into his throat. And of course, he could not think of his mother without also remembering his father, the brutal bastard. Schneeflocke had been bad, but Gairovald von Cleaver had been worse, a dim-witted savage who never let a week pass without pounding on Fox the Runt with his heavy fists. Schneeflocke had done nothing to stop those beatings. Parents were supposed to give their children love, affection, and protection, but all his mamma und vati h
ad given him were bruises, broken bones, and a bellyful of hate. Everything else—his skill, training, and the few meager possessions he owned—he had fought for, sweat and bled for. He had earned everything he had ten times over, while the pampered mongrel brat, Paladin Del Darkdragón, had earned nothing and been given everything! Even his talent with bow and arrow was inherited from his mother, the Cruelarrow. She had won the archery trial thirteen times, and it was said she could put an arrow through a fly’s belly at thirty feet.
The only thing Fox the Runt had not earned, at least not yet, was Pía’s devotion. Her affection was an invaluable gift from The One God, a gift he would forfeit if he lost this trial. He could not allow that to happen.
“It is your turn, Nordling,” the Prosperidad Red Cloak whispered to him. “Do not let the híbrido see your fear!”
He frowned at the woman. “I fear no híbrido.”
“Then shoot,” she hissed. “Or forfeit the match.”
He nocked, aimed, and loosed his arrow in a single motion, as fast as it was fluid.
“Bane’s-eye!” the Caller yelled, and then she said words so abhorrent he bit his lip to keep from screaming. “I officially call this competition a stalemate!”
Fox the Runt sought Pía in the stands. She and some of the other Santos Creadorians sat in the northern quad to show their support for him. She waved at him, but he could not tell what she thought of the trial’s outcome. Had he failed Doña Yesenia’s Interpretación and lost Pía forever?
“Congratulations, Ru—Congratulations, Zwergfuchs,” the mongrel said, extending his filthy hand.
It was almost funny. Did the stinking half-breed really think he would touch him except to draw blood? Fox the Runt spat in the treacherous híbrido’s eye. “I do not shake hands with filthy half-breeds.”
Fury passed over the mongrel’s face. The spectators cheered or jeered Fox the Runt’s hostile act; he wasn’t quite sure which, and in truth, he did not really care. The halbrasse might have cost him Pía’s love. There could be no absolution for that.
The mongrel dropped his bow and leapt at him, and Fox the Runt dashed forward to meet the attack, taking two full strides before the Prosperidad Red Cloak seized him by the shoulder. At the same time, Karl’s brother, Magier Jürgen, grabbed the hibrido by the scruff of the neck.
“Let me go!” the half-breed screamed in his bratty voice. “That bastardo spat in my face!”
“I saw what he did,” Magier Jürgen said calmly, despite the half-crazed mongrel thrashing in his arms. “Let it pass or you will be disqualified from the trials! Save it for the Melee, boy. Save it.”
That seemed to have gotten through to Del Darkdragón’s dim brain. He relaxed and Jürgen unhanded him.
The Prosperidad Red Cloak loosed her grip on Fox the Runt and said in a voice utterly lacking in conviction, “Your behavior goes against the spirit of camaraderie and fair play that are as much a part of Torneo as the actual competitions. Shame on you, Nordling. Shake his hand.”
“NEVER!” he howled.
She leaned in close, whispering, “Shake the híbrido’s hand, fool. Valor, in this case, costs you nothing. And you can always wash later!”
He would have rather grasped a handful of white-hot coals than swap grips with Paladin Del Darkdragón. But his wants meant nothing while in service to The One God through His Mortal Voice. He choked back the bile in his throat and extended his hand. Del Darkdragón made no move to take it, just glared at him, his big black eyes flickering with contempt. There were shouts of all kinds coming from the spectators.
“Shake his hand,” Magier Jürgen said, pushing Del Darkdragón forward.
Each tried to crush the other’s hand in his own. Had they the power to kill with their eyes, both would have been dead in the dirt.
“Muy bueno,” the Prosperidad Red Cloak said. “That is the spirit of Torneo.”
Chapter Twenty
Making Mongrels
Fox the Runt had to split the winner’s purse with the mongrel. After receiving his six and a half gold coronas from Eisesland’s king, Egon the Gallant of House Hammerfaust, he went to meet Pía, head hung low like a man going to the gallows. If he had lost her because of the archery trial and that stupid mongrel …
But all seemed well when he met her. She appeared in good spirits. She was with a handful of Santosians, including Prelado Scrupulous, Karl, and Tinashe, waiting for him in Círculo del Triunfo. His fellow Santosians wrapped him in hugs and showered him with congratulations. After years as an outcast, spurned by his own family, the unconditional love offered by the Santosians was such a foreign thing he found it awkward. Pía sensed his trepidation. She whispered in his ear, “We are all children of The One God, Zwergfuchs. Family. We share in your joy. Your victory is ours.”
“ ‘Victory’?” he said.
She smiled. “Do not look so worried, my Zwergfuchs.”
“But your aunt—”
“The Interpretación said that you must go undefeated. A stalemate is not a defeat.”
“But Osvaldo,” he said. “He could still win the adult trial—”
She silenced him with a finger to his lips. “I told you. I knew you were for me from the moment I saw you!” She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her lips to his with such passion he nearly swooned. Time stopped until the embrace ended. “We are off to temple. Will you join us?”
He nodded. In truth, he had nowhere else to go. He followed his friends—his family—through streets more lively than ever he could recall. Revelers spilled out of taverns and inns, singing and laughing. The whole city danced with celebration. With Pía on his arm, it was the first time since he had come to Santuario del Guerrero that he shared in the joy surrounding Torneo. They strolled through the citywide festival, laughing along with the drunken rabble.
Karl clapped him on the back. “Fox, mein freund, that was the best bow work I have seen since Fräu Cruelarrow competed. Perhaps you are better even than she, eh?”
Fox the Runt clenched his teeth at the mention of the mongrel’s mother, but said nothing. At least no one mentioned the halbrasse, thank The One God.
Prelado Scrupulous said, “If you are as good with lance and sword as you are with bow and arrow, perhaps you truly are a champion sent by The One God!”
“What do you mean, ‘perhaps’?” Pía said, golden eyes blazing. “His skill with sword and lance is beside the point; The One God has sent him to us.”
The way she looked at him, with such respect and admiration, filled him with desire.
“I am so proud of you,” she said, wrapping him in a hug and planting more kisses on his face. The others walked ahead, giving them as much privacy as was possible in the crowded street. “But I am curious. Why did you spit at that blended boy?”
He felt his jaw tighten. “He cheated me once.”
“I pity him. He is damned, you know? A group of us tried to bring The One God’s truth to him, but he rejected us.”
“I am not surprised,” he said. “Blood will tell. My family raised dogs in Kalteströme. Every now and then one of our purebred bitches would escape the kennels and lie with some mangy cur from the wilds. The puppies were so stupid they could be taught nothing and had to be drowned. It is the same with people. Híbridos can be taught little or nothing. Drowning them all would be a mercy.”
Pía stopped so abruptly her head snapped back as if she had been struck. She released her grip on his hand and stared at him, mouth agape. “I do not like it when you speak that way, Zwergfuchs.”
He tilted his head at her, confused and concerned. “What? What did I say? Whatever it was, I meant no offense. Surely you must know that.”
She stared at him for a long while, searching his eyes. She was angry and sad and hurt, and her unhappiness made his own heart ache. She broke the contact only when the others returned to see what was wrong.
“Go on,” she told them. “We will catch up to you.”
He waited until the others wer
e out of earshot and said, “Please, Pía. How have I offended you?”
She ignored the question. “What is it you want from me, Zwergfuchs?”
“I—Pía, I do not understand. What is wrong?”
“If it is only to play at el Deporte del Amor, then say so.”
El Deporte del Amor, “the love sport,” was how Oesteans sometimes referred to romantic entanglements more physical than emotional. A player of the sport was a jugador. These were odd terms with subtle connotations Fox the Runt had never fully grasped. He only knew of the idioms because Urbano used them to refer to his more casual amorous escapades. Then again, all of Urbano’s escapades were casual, nothing like the enduring relationship Fox the Runt hoped to cultivate with Pía. It wounded him that she would think he only wanted a dalliance with her. How had things gone so wrong so quickly?
Tears spilled down her cheeks and he would have said or done anything to stop those sorrowful tides, but all his tongue could manage was, “I—I—”
“I will be your jugadora if that is all you wish of me, Zwergfuchs. I ask only that you be honest …”
“I would never lie to you.”
“I thought we would be more than that. I thought you wanted more than just …”
“I do. Pía, for the love of The One God, please, tell me what is wrong.”
She took a deep breath and wiped her face with a trembling hand. He reached out to help but she pushed his hand away. After her breathing steadied, she said, “The way you speak of the blended folk is horrible and wicked! The One God loves all his children, Zwergfuchs. Not just pura-sangre.”
For a moment, he felt as if they were speaking different languages. “The mongrel? You are upset with me because of the híbrido?”
“Please!” Her eyes were wide with horror. “Do not speak so! It pains me to hear you utter such filth, can you not see it?”
“Perdóname, Pía! I am sorry.”
She stared at him as if he were the most awful creature on two legs, like he had wiped himself with the holy pages of El Libro Sagrado de Verdades. Then she shook her head and looked away. “I care for you, Zwergfuchs. I thought perhaps you would want a future with me.”
Full-Blood Half-Breed Page 14
