Full-Blood Half-Breed (22 page)

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.

But were the blended folk really the stupid, wild creatures Schneeflocke had described? He considered those younglings he had known at Temple Seisakusha. He closed his eyes and imagined not their muddy complexions but their colorless deeds. He measured those deeds against those of the pura-sangre. Were they so different? Many of the blended folk at Temple Seisakusha were stupid, inept, and wicked, but so were many of the pura-sangre. And in equal proportion. Some of the best and brightest fighters at temple were blended folk, even—it galled
him to admit—Paladin Del Darkdragón.

The truth was as clear as the brilliant fires in the purging pool. He had been wrong. He prayed that the sanctification would remove that wrongness from his soul. His future with Pía depended on it.

He turned away from the purging pool to watch Pía. She and the other Talentosa stood atop the dais behind the initiates, singing the canticle of initiation. There were other important members of the church’s hierarchy with her. Clerics and congregants of high rank all sang praise to The One God for the bounty of new souls come for salvation. There were even Torneo Red Cloaks amongst the Gifted, including Karl’s brother, Jürgen, and the Healer who had tended his hip wound, Hermana Doña Teófila the Mender of the Brunilda Matriarchy.

All the folk on the high dais wore flowing, hooded robes of Santosian white. The veils covering their faces made it hard to distinguish one from the other, but he recognized Pía by her voice and shape. It was a sin of vanity to stand on that consecrated platform without hiding one’s features, for The One God cared not for prettiness of face, nor prestige of name, nor prominence of House. The One God cared only for righteousness of soul. Only virtue would affect His judgments of them all.

He watched Pía for some time, but she still refused to look at him, and hesitantly, he let his gaze wander away from her. He felt a surge of delight when he spotted Urbano among the initiates, surrounded by his entire family. His mother, Doña Agota the Moonhunter of House Lupina, his sisters, Enriqueta, Paquita, and Milagros, and—praise The One God—his father, the powerful head of House Próspero, Don Efraín the Spicebringer.

Fox the Runt had not seen nor spoken to Urbano since leaving Temple Seisakusha. He had not known Urbano had found the path to The One God, or that he had reconciled with his father. It was a great relief to know his amigo had secured the fate of his everlasting soul. It was an even greater relief to know that they could continue their friendship. Now that Fox the Runt had seen the truth, he could not befriend any non-Santosian.

Whatever enmity had been between Urbano and his father seemed gone now. Urbano, never particularly brave, appeared more than a little apprehensive about stepping into the Holy Fire, and Don Efraín held his hand, comforting him. The display of affection struck Fox the Runt as unusual, but he did not linger on the thought.

The singing ended and Prelado Scrupulous commanded all within the Purgatorium to their knees and then joined them on the cold stone floor. The Prophet entered and stood before them.

With his head bowed, Fox the Runt could see only the holy man’s feet, but the mere presence of the Prophet made him feel like a cockroach before a giant. He was staggered by the aura of authority surrounding the Mortal Voice of The One God.

The prelado bellowed reverently, “
Adanedi nihi galvquodi-adanvdo gvdodi Adelohosgi!
Give your soul to the Prophet!”

Every voice in the chamber answered, “
Ayv galvquodi-adanvdo udotsali Adelohosgi!
My soul belongs to the Prophet!”

“Rise,” Prelado Scrupulous said, and the initiates stood.

The Prophet wore a hood that concealed his face beneath a veil of shadow. He stood near the purging pool clutching a beautiful white staff, carved with the Santosian Ira de Dios.

The Holy Fire of the purging pool was formidable, but it was a dying candle in the presence of the Prophet. If Fox the Runt had held any doubts about the divinity of the Prophet, being in the man’s presence would have dispelled them utterly. If anyone could purge the wicked taint from his soul, it was the Venerable Prophet.

The Prophet’s voice was filled with fiery righteousness. “You will save your souls this day. You will be filled with el Espectro Bendecido, and the glories of The After will be yours for eternity. Yet Sanctification is but the first step on the road to everlasting bliss. Once you have been purged of sin it will be your responsibility to spread The One God’s truth, that those deceived by the Nameless Three may renounce their false religions and join the ranks of the redeemed.

“The holy words of The One God must be spoken into as many ears as you may manage, for those who hear your words will be touched by the Holy Specter through you. Only the truly wicked will be unmoved by the divinity living on your tongues.

“There is little time, for la Guerra de la Condenación looms near, and all will be judged through the fire and blood of this final war. Those whose souls are deficient will know death and eternal damnation. The glories of The After belong only to the faithful, and we of merciful hearts would see the world pass into the new age of unity and peace with as little bloodshed as possible. I implore you, my steadfast brothers and sisters, spread The One God’s message, for our holy army will need every soldier if we are to purge the world of wickedness and bring death to evil!”

“Death to evil!” Prelado Scrupulous said.

“Death to evil!” repeated the Santosians, new and old alike.

The initiations began at once. A scrawny young woman moved up to the Prophet to receive her blessing. He made the sign of the Santosian Ira de Dios and leaned into her, whispering into her ear.

Fox the Runt could not hear what the two spoke of, but he read the young woman’s lips. She nodded and whispered, “Sí.”

The Prophet whispered into her ear and again she nodded. She beamed when his lips touched her forehead. She all but flung herself into the purging pool’s Holy Fire and disappeared, seemingly consumed. Moments later she emerged on the opposite side of the pool,
completely unharmed. A cheer went through the Purgatorium as the woman was embraced by disciples and wrapped in the white robes of the Santosian faithful.

And so it went. One by one the initiates received blessings from the Prophet, stepped into the flames, then stepped out unharmed. There were three Shimabito disciples formerly of Temple Seisakusha, as well as soldiers, knights, dons, and doñas from all over the world. Even members of the City Guard and staff down from Phoenix Eyrie Castle found their way through the purging fires of The One God.

Urbano was visibly relieved when Don Efraín stepped out of the Holy Fire unharmed, but then it was his turn. Terror twisted his face as he listened to the Prophet whispering in his ear. He nodded twice, and then received the Prophet’s blessing. With eyes closed and teeth clenched, he shuffled nervously into the Holy Fire and stepped out moments later, intact. The look of relief—and disbelief—on Urbano’s face made everyone in the Purgatorium laugh despite the solemnity of the occasion.

Fox the Runt moved closer and closer to the front of the line, eager to receive the Prophet’s blessing and bathe in the fires that would make him acceptable to The One God. And to Pía. Three more souls threw themselves into the fire and walked out unscathed before he approached the Prophet. No matter how hard he focused, he could not restrain a wide grin. At least not until he got close enough to smell The One God’s Mortal Voice. The Prophet stank. Brimstone reek clung to him like he had bathed in sulfur.

But fearing such thoughts were sacrilege, he quickly prayed The One God forgive him.

The Prophet leaned in and whispered, “Would you die for the glory of The One God?”

He nodded. “Of course, Venerable One.”

“And would you kill for Him?”

“Absolutely,” he whispered.
And that would be my preference, given a choice of the two
.

There was a slight pause as the Prophet shifted subjects. “You performed well today, Zwergfuchs. Prepare to receive el Espectro Bendecido.”

The Prophet’s lips touched his forehead and rapture lanced through him with such force it nearly dropped him to his knees. He felt as if his body were no longer his own, as if it had been inhabited by something much greater than himself. The Blessed Specter filled him, permeated him, and pushed pleasure into every piece of him until it almost felt like pain.

He sighed when the Prophet removed his lips, still intoxicated by his communion with el Espectro Bendecido. He held his arms out wide and stepped into the Holy Fire, his faith in The One God and the Prophet absolute. He felt no heat, but his skin tingled as his sins sloughed away in the divine flames. Those outside the conflagration appeared as wavering images behind an orange scrim. He stepped out of the purging pool laughing and crying. Joy flooded through his heart. The One God had weighed his soul and found him acceptable. He was worthy. For the first
time in his life, he was worthy.

He was changed now. Transformed. He could feel it even in the tiniest bits of him. His blood bubbled with holiness. Fox the Runt was gone now. The wickedness and corruption of a faithless life had been incinerated in the Holy Fires of The One God. He was as a babe still covered in the slime of its mother’s womb. He was a Santosian now, impregnated by the Blessed Specter of The One God. He was better than he had been. Righteous. Distinguished. Virtuous. He was Fox the Runt no more. Now he was simply Fox.

Fox no longer cared about the purity of a person’s blood. He cared only for the purity of their souls. Like him, those of faith were superior creatures to the unclean. There was an entire world of people still clinging to their sham gods and he pitied them. Their souls were tarnished and damned. But his contempt for the wicked dwarfed his pity. He had found the favor of The One God, and he could not help but revile those who had not. They were filthy infidels, none more so than Paladin Del Darkdragón.

The Pagan.

Fox did as Prelado Scrupulous bade him. He waited patiently in a dark anteroom down a long winding hall, away from the Purgatorium. A single wall torch lit the room, and the only furniture was a small but comfortable red velvet couch. An ancient tapestry hung on one wall, a painting hung on another. Fox paid little attention to the tapestry. Though it depicted The One God, it was the traditional rendering, one he had seen hundreds of times,
Creador & the Fulcrum
. The One God, stern-faced and serious, hair of living flame, was shown standing on a lever and fulcrum. The fulcrum too was composed of fire. On the high end of the lever was a globe representing the world of the Thirteen Kingdoms. Each nation was in its geographic position across the globe’s surface, and The One God’s motto was sewn into the tapestry:
Con esta palanca, he movido el mundo
. Which meant, “With this lever, have I moved the world.”

But Fox was more interested in the portrait. He squinted at it, confused. In the dim light, it appeared to be a rendering of King Ironbear. But that made no sense. The Ironbear was an enemy of the Santosian church and had ordered his son, Prince Regio, to renounce Santos Creadorianism. Why in The One God’s name would there be a portrait of the man anywhere within the temple walls?

Fox rose from the couch and went closer to investigate. He squinted at the caption inscribed on a small metal plate next to the portrait:
“El Príncipe Venerable Regio Del Ironbear de Bernardo Casa.”
It was written in Lengüoeste and it took him a moment to translate it: “The Venerable Prince Regio Del Ironbear of House Bernardo.”