Full-Blood Half-Breed

by Cleve Lamison

  “I do,” he insisted. “More than anything.”

  “A future with children?”

  “I would be honored to father your children, Pía.”

  Her golden eyes narrowed at him. “For true? It would honor you to father my híbrido children? So stupid they can learn nothing and must be drowned?”

  Clarity slammed into his brain like a mad mountain goat on a rampage. He had been blinded by both love of Pía and hate of the mongrel. He grew dizzy. And disgusted. But at what? The thought of siring mongrel children? His own stupidity at not recognizing the truth of a union between himself and Pía? In the short time he had known her, he had had no time to regard her as anything other than Pía. Pía the beautiful. Pía the intelligent. Pía the pious. Pía, his savior. But she was also Pía the Oestean. And he was Zwergfuchs the Nord. Their children would be half-breeds.

  Mongrels.

  He hated himself, hated his own pettiness and bias. But he was who he was. Could he truly love a blended child?

  His doubt must have been clear on his face, because Pía shrank from him. Her eyes turned cold and she looked away.

  “Pía,” he said, “please, tell me what I can do to—”

  She knifed her hand through the air, the flat of her palm halting inches before his nose, silencing him. Her eyes crackled with dark, amber fire. She was a fearsome thing when angered, and somehow, the more desirable for it.

  “What can you do? You can cleanse yourself of this wickedness. Initiate yourself into the church through sanctification. Let the Holy Fires of the Purgatorium burn away your hatred of those whose only sin is to be born of different peoples. This is what you can do, Zwergfuchs Großemänner Von Hammerhead.” She made the Santosian holy sign before her heart. “Let it be so.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Like Father

  “Blood will tell,” Suki said through a prideful grin. She broke off a piece of honey cake and popped it into her mouth, as giddy as a young girl. “Shimabito archers are the best in the world, and today my magomusuko proved his Shimabito heritage!”

  Jambiax nodded. “There are some Kusini Watu who are as good or better than the Shimabito. But I am inclined to agree with you for once, Suki-san. The Shimabito are fine archers.”

  Jambiax also filled his mouth with one of the honey cakes Walküre had baked to celebrate the archery outcome. Rebelde had not been as enthusiastic about Paladin’s success as his mother and grandparents. His papá had kept true to his word and eschewed Torneo. Now it seemed he was boycotting dinner as well, though he gave the excuse of working late in the smithy. Walküre had even made Rebelde’s favorite, honey cakes and strawberries. Rebelde’s absence from both the arena and the dinner table pained Paladin more than he had imagined it would. He was so heartsick he could only stomach three honey cakes.

  Walküre shook her head at both Jambiax and Suki, chuckling. “The Nordling is neither Shimabito nor Kusini Watu, and he shot just as well as Paladin. Did you forget that?”

  “The Nordling’s skill is a fluke, Walküre,” Jambiax declared in a matter-of-fact tone. “The exception proving the rule.”

  “Besides, he was taught by Shimabito!” Suki said, spearing a finger into the air triumphantly. “He is Seisakushan, Musume. He may pull the bowstring with Nordish fingers, but he aims with a Shimabito’s eye.”

  “He slings shit with a Shimabito’s eye as well,” Paladin said.

  The perplexed expressions on Suki’s and Jambiax’s faces made Paladin chuckle.

  Walküre said, “It was the Nordling who threw dung at you yesterday?”

  “Sí, Mamá. In el Círculo del Triunfo.”

  Dark clouds of anger passed over Jambiax’s face. “An outrage! What did you do about it? Surely you did not let such an insult pass?”

  “I challenged him, Babu,” Paladin said. Just speaking of the indignity made him feel queasy. “He accepted. We are to settle our dispute during the Melee.”

  Jambiax and Suki grinned. Jambiax said, “Ah, you will speak steel to him, no?”

  Paladin shrugged. “Wood. The younglings fight with wood, Babu.”

  Suki frowned. “But you will beat him? You have seen his Ashi-Kobushi at temple. Speak true. Are you better than him or not?”

  Paladin thought carefully about his answer. Suki didn’t know he had been expelled from Temple Seisakusha, and they all wanted to keep it that way. Walküre had come to him just that morning and asked him to keep the secret, lest the information break Suki’s heart. After all, she would be going back to the Higashi Shima in a few days. Let her keep her illusions.

  “I have faced the Runt in kumite three times,” he said. “We fought to a draw twice, and I beat him the third time.”

  “He is that good?” Suki said.

  Paladin nodded. “Sensei Quicksteel said the Nordling and I are the best fighters he’s ever seen. He compared us to Makoto the Legionslayer.”

  Jambiax whistled through his teeth. They all stared at Paladin, eyes as wide as gold coronas, mouths dropped in amazement.

  “Quicksteel-san compares you to the Legionslayer?” Walküre said. “That says much. The sensei has always been frugal with praise.”

  Suki’s eyes grew wet. She hopped up from the table and wrapped her arms around Paladin, nearly pulling him from his seat. They were skinny limbs, but the muscles beneath felt like steel wires. She wailed, “Oh, Magomusuko! I am so proud of you!”

  Jambiax pushed himself away from the table and went to stand by the warmth of the hearth. He lit his pipe and said, “Mjukuu, it seems you were right to challenge the despicable little Nordling.”

  Paladin pulled Suki’s arm away from his throat and said, “I thought so, Babu.”

  “And he chose to settle your feud in the arena?”

  “Sí, Babu.”

  “Have you not told your father this?” Jambiax stared at him pointedly. “You did not willfully disobey him when you signed up for Torneo. You had little choice. It was a matter of honor.” He turned his attention to Walküre. “What do you think, Walküre? Surely Rebelde will forgive the boy once he hears of these mitigating circumstances.”

  Walküre shrugged. “I do not know, Jambiax …”

  “I know,” Paladin said. “It will change nothing.”

  “Why not?” Suki said.

  “Because,” he said, “he won’t hear of the ‘mitigating circumstances.’ Papá must accept my choices even if he does not like them! I should not have to explain every little decision I make. If I went to Papá and told him about what happened in el Círculo del Triunfo, he would rebuke me for making excuses. And he would be right! I was faced with two options, both bad: I could have allowed the Nordling to name me coward, or I could disobey Papá and compete. I made my choice and I refuse to apologize for it. If I try to explain it away now, it’s as good as saying my choice was the wrong one, and I don’t believe it is. Either I am old enough to make my own decisions or I am not. I will not grovel for Papá’s forgiveness, nor do I want any of you begging on my behalf. He will either accept what is or he won’t. That’s the end of it!”

  Blood and Thunder! It felt good to speak his mind. He felt loose and free, liberated from shackles of iron. He sat down and took a slurp of warm goat’s milk, suddenly very thirsty. The faces of his mother and grandparents were impossible to read accurately, though he had stirred something in them. He hoped he hadn’t offended them overmuch. He had only said what had to be said.

  “You are so like your father, Mjukuu,” Jambiax said wistfully, as if remembering times long passed. He leaned against the fireside and stroked Mbarika, asleep on the mantel.

  “For true,” Walküre said. “He has Rebelde’s hard head and fiery tongue.”

  Jambiax chuckled. “As a young man, Rebelde was apt to break into the most rousing speeches, full of righteous indignation, whenever faced with what he perceived as injustice. Muumba’s Ninth Arm, but the boy sounds just like him.”

  “And the boy is right,” Suki said. “Rebe
lde will come to see that. He is not so muleheaded as his father.”

  Jambiax shot Suki a look so contemptuous it made Paladin and Walküre giggle. Then someone knocked at the door.

  “Who is it?” Walküre called.

  A silky, feminine voice answered from the other side of the door. “It’s Esmeralda N’Illustrious, Señora Cruelarrow. Perdóname usted for visiting so late, but I would like to speak with Paladin, por favor.”

  Paladin stared at the door, dumbstruck. Muumba, the god of good fortune, had sprinkled some sweet, sweet luck on him today! Had she finally come to appreciate Paladin’s sharp wit and full heart over Isooba’s big muscles and empty skull?

  “What are you waiting for, niño?” Walküre said, nodding to the door. “Do not leave the señorita waiting.”

  Paladin jumped up, tripped over a chair leg, rolled along the floor, and leapt to his feet in one continuous motion, both graceful and comical. At least he hoped it was graceful. The laughter trailing him out the door left little doubt that his clumsiness had been amusing.

  “Hola, Paladin,” Esmeralda said as Paladin threw open the door.

  He meant to return Esmeralda’s greeting, but his ability to form a cogent thought failed when he looked upon her. Her beauty snatched the air from his lungs. And stole his voice. She had always been the prettiest girl in Ciudad Vieja, perhaps in all of Santuario del Guerrero, but the Esmeralda standing before him now was more than just a pretty girl. She was a stunning young woman. Her simple white dress hugged the swells and curves of her blossoming body like a second skin. And, gods be good, she smelled nice, flowery, as if she had bathed in rose water. A perfect crimson dahlia nestled in the curly locks of her hair just behind her left ear, drawing his eye for a moment. When his gaze moved to her face, she fluttered the lashes of her sapphire eyes and spread her full, moist lips. He knew his mouth hung open, but he was helpless to close it. Her beauty had paralyzed him. She flashed her teeth at him, her grin so lewd his left knee buckled slightly. After a coy wiggle of her finger, she took a few steps backward and waited for him outside on the porch. He was dimly aware of the door slamming shut behind him as he followed. She shifted her weight, pushing her hip slightly out to one side, and rested her hand there. From her slim wrist hung a simple tin bracelet adorned with fake rubies. The red glass served as a beacon, drawing his eye to the slope of her hip. It was a simple thing, but it made him dizzy with want.

  “I have a secret for you,” she said in a breathy voice.

  He stared at her, his heart hammering, his vision hazy. Part of him thought he had to be sleeping, that his dreams had taken a wonderful turn toward the fantastic. “I would hear it.”

  She leaned in. Her hair tickled his cheek. Her lips brushed against his ear, sending a thunderbolt of pleasure through his body. In a throaty whisper, she said, “Adanedi nihi galvquodi-adanvdo gvdodi Adelohosgi. Give your soul to the Prophet.”

  He was sure he had misheard her. Perhaps the excited pounding of his heart had muddled his hearing. “What? What did you—”

  She was on him then, crushing her body into his. She devoured his mouth with her eternal pout, her lips hard and hungry. He never imagined being eaten alive could be such a sweet thing. His mind reeled with a craving he could not begin to understand. He was drunk on her lips, burning alive, and gods be good, the heat was pleasing. She removed her mouth from his, but kept her body pressed close. She whispered again, and he could smell the honey cakes he had eaten on her breath. “Adanedi nihi galvquodi-adanvdo gvdodi Adelohosgi. Give your soul to the Prophet.”

  Lust curdled in his gut.

  He pushed her away, so disgusted he barely noticed the onset of a pounding ache at the base of his skull. He stared at the girl with wide, disbelieving eyes. “You’ve turned Vile, Esmeralda? Does your mamá know?”

  “Mind your tongue, niño!” she snapped. “It is blasphemy to The One God to refer to his faithful followers by that horrible name! I am Santosian, and a woman grown. I do not need my mamá’s approval to follow the path of righteousness.”

  Something spiteful and hateful flashed across her eyes. He felt a sudden pang of fear, but was not quite sure of what. It was an instinctive aversion, like a beast’s fear of fire. He moved away until his back was to the door, watching her like she was a serpent about to spit. Her demeanor and tone softened as she advanced on him again, taking his hand into hers.

  “Perdóname, Paladin. I did not mean to speak so harshly to you.”

  He carefully pulled his hand away, staring into her face, hoping her Vile rant had been in jest, but knowing that it hadn’t. It was in the depths of Esmeralda’s tilted eyes that he found a name for the thing in her that sparked his fear. It was familiar. He had seen it in the eyes of the Vile Claudio, in the alley only yesterday morning.

  It was madness. And it danced within her gaze as if celebrating its corruption of her soul. It had been so with every Vile he had encountered of late. All had been afflicted with a strain of lunacy that seemed to consume their sanity, then leap to the next person. It spread like mance-fire.

  Or plague.

  It was a cold, formal tone he used when he said, “Buenas noches, señorita. It is late.”

  “Wait, Paladin,” she begged. “Please, listen to me. I know your heart is true. I know too that no good soul may hear the truth as given to us by The One God’s Mortal Voice and turn away. I beg you, for the friendship we have shared, hear me out.”

  For true, he had known her all his life, though it was curiosity more than friendship that moved him. What could make a sane person Vile? “Speak then.”

  “There is only one way to ensure your soul finds glory in The After,” she said, “and that is by accepting the truths of The One God as delivered by His Mortal Voice, the Prophet.”

  She continued, reciting Vile holy text as if it were poetry. She attested to The One God’s everlasting love for the people of the Thirteen, a love that could absolve any sin or grant any wish. Both sinner and wish maker had only to put aside their selfish desires and yield their hearts, minds, and souls to the will of The One God. Paladin had never heard her speak so eloquently on any subject. Her arguments dug into his mind like parasites seeking a host in which to spawn an infestation of beliefs.

  There was a part of him that wanted to yield to her promise of cheap redemption, and when he resisted, it punished him with skull-splitting pain. It tried to spurn the voice of reason that contradicted her tenets, but it could not make his mind yield to the seductive doctrines she exhorted. Not a single word of it made any sense. He had no choice but to reject her utterly. He closed himself to her and something clicked in his mind like a bolt jammed into place, locking an iron door, blocking out the pain besetting his skull.

  The ache receded, allowing his thoughts to proceed unimpeded. More and more he recognized the falsity intrinsic to the Vile doctrines Esmeralda preached.

  In that moment—viewed beside the Vile belief of absolution for any who claimed belief in “The One God”—the lessons taught him by his family, and even the priests and priestesses who had expelled him from the temples, suddenly made sense.

  He shook his head at her, terminating her sermon. “There are consequences, Esmeralda.”

  Her eyes grew wide. She seemed confused and a little hurt. “Perdón?”

  “There are consequences for wickedness,” he said. “What you say The One God offers is tempting, but it cannot be the truth. Under your Prophet’s teachings, I could do anything I wished—lie, steal, or murder—and still find glory in The After simply because I claim love for The One God. It makes no sense! There are consequences for wickedness no matter what god is in your heart. You preach insanity.”

  Her eyes and mouth formed wide, perfect circles of horror and disbelief. “I was wrong about you. You are a foul little boy. I cannot believe I soiled my lips on you.”

  She spat on the ground at his feet, turned on her heels, and flounced away. She stopped after a few feet and turned back to him. “
You will burn on the day of la Guerra de la Condenación! Do you hear? You will burn!” She made the Santosian holy sign before her heart.

  “Death to evil!”

  A second later she was gone and he knew he would never kiss her again. He would never touch or even speak to her. As beautiful as she was, he felt no real regret. The antipathy between them was mutual. For the first time in all the years he had known her, he saw her clearly, no longer blinded by her comely façade. She had always been cruel, selfish, and vain. Hers had always been a vile disposition, and now, he realized, her denomination was as well.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Sanctification

  An orange-blue conflagration, thirteen feet tall, roared within the purging pool’s ring of polished white stones. The Holy Fire danced a savage jig to the harmonious voices praising The One God and His Mortal Voice from the rostrum at the rear of the Purgatorium. Fox the Runt stood in line with scores of other Santosian initiates, each as naked as the day they were born, waiting to walk into the Holy Fire and have the sin burned from their bodies. Every race and kingdom in the Thirteen was represented: olive-skinned Oesteans, pale Nords like himself, black-skinned Kusini Watu, and amber-hued Shimabito.

  And there were blended folk.

  He studied the mixed-blood people, trying to view them through objective eyes. It was difficult. He had been taught that these mongrels were a degraded, inferior form of humanity. But were they? More importantly, would the children he made with Pía be so?

  There had been no blended folk in the icy mountains of Kalteströme, where he spent the first nine years of his life. He had learned of such creatures through his mamma, the Hammerhead, who had won her name when she won her Black Spear in Torneo. When she spoke of Santuario del Guerrero, she never failed to mention the filthy half-breeds that infested the slums of the great city, describing them as subhuman creatures with corrupted blood, as barbarous as any creature in the wilds. He had taken those tales to heart, and behaved accordingly upon arriving in Santuario del Guerrero, where the half-breeds reproduced like rats.