Full-Blood Half-Breed (8 page)

Rebelde let out a long sigh. Sorrow slipped from his face with the air he expelled from his lungs. He stared at Paladin for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he flashed his dimpled smile. “Do not worry. All will be well.”

Paladin frowned. “What? For true?”

“Yes. All will be well, just let me think on things.”

“What about Mamá? She will—”

“Say nothing to your mother,” Rebelde said sharply. “I will give her the news gently.”

Rebelde wrapped his massive arms around Paladin, squeezing him in a suffocating bear hug. “Go on back to the fiesta and let me think on this. All will be well. Well enough, anyway.”

Paladin allowed himself to hope it might be so, but he had not yet given Rebelde the worst news. He doubted his papá would be as understanding of his enrollment in Torneo. He also doubted Rebelde would ever be in as forgiving a mood as he was now, and felt compelled to tell everything. “There is more, Papá. I signed up—”

Rebelde waved him off and sat on the bed, rubbing his temples. “Go on now. I need to think.”

“But—”

“Please, boy.” He sounded tired. “You have left your guests waiting most of the night. Go on back to the fiesta now.”

“Sí, Papá.” He left Rebelde sitting alone on the bed, but did not immediately return to the fiesta. He took a moment in the hall outside his room to breathe a sigh of relief. Though he still bore some guilt over signing up for Torneo, he had confessed about temple, and his papá’s reaction had been much better than he could have anticipated. Rebelde and Walküre had shared in his ambitions of knighthood. They too had longed to serve the Majestic Order of the Blazing Blade. Walküre, however, was of no House, and to serve as a Blade, one had to be of noble birth. Rebelde, once a Knight of the Lightning Lance in Kavunchi, was of noble birth, but was a devout Muumban. He loved all the gods, but Muumba was first in his heart. Until recently, only Creadorians could serve as Knights of the Blade. By the time that restriction had been lifted, Rebelde was too old to join.

Paladin had often felt his mamá and papá wanted him to become a knight even more than he wanted it for himself, that they might share in his honors if only vicariously. It struck him odd that Rebelde should overcome his disappointment so quickly. Odder still were the breathy noises coming from his room. It sounded like Rebelde was laughing so hard he couldn’t catch his breath.

Paladin crept quietly back to the door and peeked in. Rebelde sat on his bed holding his face in his hands, his large frame quaking from emotion that was not laughter. Rebelde was
crying, sobbing as if the world had come to its end.

He had hardly been missed at the fiesta. The grown folk stood to one side of the room while the younglings kept to themselves, eating treats and talking about what was truly important: Torneo. After a while, Rebelde returned. He had put away his sorrow, or at least made a good show of doing so. He laughed at Alwin von Wildboar’s bawdy jests and told a few of his own. But Paladin saw through the cheeriness. Rebelde’s heart was broken.

Paladin resolved to enjoy the fiesta. Isooba and Esmeralda had joined the revels, but only so Isooba could boast of his martial skill and predict high honors for himself in the youngling trials. Esmeralda hung on his every word.

Paladin joined the young people lining up to watch Drud attack the piñata. Drud grinned and smacked his palm with the piñata stick while Lalo blindfolded him.

“Buena suerte, vato,”
Paladin said, clapping Drud on the shoulder. Tau and Lalo grabbed Drud by the shoulders and spun him around until he was staggeringly dizzy. Paladin laughed with everyone else, but he couldn’t put Rebelde’s misery out of his thoughts. His worries hovered on the periphery of his mind, nagging him like a shrewish old fishwife. If that were not enough to ruin his humor, there was Isooba’s yammering.

“Have you heard, Paladin?” Isooba said. “I will be competing in the youngling trials again this year.”

Of course Paladin had heard. Everyone had heard. Since Isooba had pried himself away from Esmeralda, it was all he talked about. He strutted around the fiesta crowing about his valor like he was king cock of the walk. “I doubt there is another youngling in the Reinos del Oeste who has practiced more with lance and bow than I have this past year. And as for Melee, I plan to come home with a Black Spear.”

Paladin rolled his eyes. The braggart wasn’t completely inept with a weapon, but unless the gods intervened, it would snow in Kamedunia before Isooba von Joyful won a Black Spear. During last season’s Melee, Isooba was called dead after only three minutes of competition!

Drud obliterated the piñata with his third blow, spraying treats all over the floor. Svenja, Kreszentia, and Götz nearly knocked Paladin down grubbing for candy.

“That was a strong blow,” Isooba said. “But my Eisenfaust meister says strength alone is not enough to win a Black Spear.”

“Sister Elsa is my meister as well, Isooba,” Drud said. “She says that to all the disciples.”

“Sí,” Isooba said, “But with me, she—”

Drud turned his back to Isooba, silencing him. “Paladin, is it time to open presents yet?”

Gods bless Drud Hertz von Wildboar. Paladin’s grin almost broke into a chuckle. He and Drud were not the only ones nettled by Isooba’s bragging. Lalo scowled at the older boy as well. Only Esmeralda seemed interested in Isooba’s boasts.

“What did the priestess say, Isooba?” she said.

“Well,” Isooba said, grinning, “she thinks I show exceptional promise. Just last week she praised me for how much my skill has improved since last year.…”

Paladin had had enough. He would almost rather tell his parents about Torneo than hear one more word from Isooba’s lips. There would be little peace in the house once he made his confession, but he wasn’t enjoying the fiesta anyway. He was too preoccupied with the coming confrontation and too vexed by Isooba’s nattering. He tore through the presents, eager to end the fiesta and send Isooba somewhere else to crow. He was grateful for the wool mittens Isooba and Tau gave him, but Isooba wouldn’t shut his flan-hole long enough for Paladin to thank him properly.

He was almost giddy over the Castillos y Conquistadores set Lalo gave him. The game pieces were of the new fashion, the red pieces carved with the highly detailed and decorative
caballero-
style armor of Prosperidad’s Majestic Order of the Blazing Blade. The white pieces wore the Ritter-style armor of Eisesland’s famous warriors, the Ice Storm, with leather, mail, and fur.

“Come over next week, Lalo,” Paladin said. “And we’ll play a few matches.”

Lalo was about to answer when Isooba interrupted: “I have all but mastered Castillos y Conquistadores, you know? It’s an excellent game for learning strategy.”

Paladin ignored him and opened Drud’s gift, a new sling. It was a fine weapon, but Paladin’s slinging was terrible, and he thought it always would be. He stared at it, chewing his lip.

Drud said, “Don’t worry,
vato
. I’ll teach you how to use it.”

“Gracias,” Paladin said. “If you teach as well as you sling, I’ll be an Adept in no time.”

“I’m half Nord,” Isooba declared. “There are no folk in the Thirteen as good with a sling as the Nords. I’ll be happy to give you lessons if you’d like, Paladin. I would be happy to instruct you as well, Drud.”

“Drud is half Nord too, Isooba,” Paladin said, not bothering to hide his exasperation. He had seen both boys’ sling work. Drud could knock the fleas off a dog’s back at twenty feet on a foggy night.

Isooba couldn’t hit water if he fell out of a boat.

Still Isooba’s tongue thrummed. “Drud is half Nord, this is true, but I am older and therefore more experienced. Sister Elsa likes my sling work so well she’s having me tutor some
of the freshman disciples. It’s quite an honor, really.”

“That sounds wonderful, Isooba,” Esmeralda chirped.

Just a few more presents and this will all be over
, Paladin thought, ripping the wrapping from Esmeralda’s present. He took one look at the gift and burst out laughing. He tossed it on the table, impressed for the first time in his life by her wit. “Funny, Esmeralda!”

She furrowed her brow and cocked her pretty head slightly to one side, her lovely eyes as empty as a Seisakushan monk’s purse.

“What?” she said. “What’s funny? Do you not like it?”

It took him a moment to realize the gift had not been given in jest. He grabbed the toy from the table and clutched it to his heart. “I—It’s funny that you should pick such a perfect gift for me. I like it well.”

He grinned stupidly over the child’s toy,
la bola en la taza
, a little ball attached by string to a wooden cup. He tried not to be offended. After all, her intentions were pure when she gave it, but gods be good, it rankled.

“Gracias, Esmeralda,” he said with all the sincerity he could muster.

“
De nada
, Paladin,” she said. “I thought you would like it. I loved
la bola en la taza
when I was a child.”

He clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth might shatter.

Isooba’s lips spread wide with satisfaction. It was the one time all night when the older boy’s tongue was still. Then again, what was there to say? Esmeralda’s gift said it all. Though Paladin was only a year or so younger, she considered him a child, not even worthy to compete with Isooba for her affections. Paladin wondered what she would give Isooba for his birthday. Then decided he would rather not know.

There were but two wrapped packages left on the table: one from Walküre and one from Rebelde. Walküre had been hinting that she might make him a new longbow, and all his life Rebelde had promised to consider giving him his first sword on his sixteenth birthday. He was about to open the gift from Walküre, but an exchange between Isooba and Drud stole his attention.

“…  I have improved my lance work as well,” Isooba was saying. “With my skill, I am sure to score more rings than any youngling in the Thirteen.”

“I’ll be competing this year, Isooba,” Drud said. “I am a fair horseman and hope to score many rings as well.”

Isooba smirked. “I’m sure you’ll pick up one or two, but don’t be too disappointed if you lose, Drud. Experience counts. This will be my third Torneo, did you know that?”

“Blood and Thunder, Isooba!” Paladin said. “There’s no one in Santuario del Guerrero who doesn’t know how many times you’ve competed. You’ve been crowing about it for weeks!”

“I—I’m not bragging,” Isooba said, offended. “But I will perform well this year, all my meisters say so, and there is no better measure of a warrior’s skill than Torneo.”

“Torneo is but a game. A warrior’s skill is measured by war. And as I recall, last year you were amongst the first younglings eliminated from all three trials!”

There was heat in Isooba’s tone now. “Don’t mock me until you’ve stepped onto the game field, chico. If you had ever competed, you would understand that Torneo is war.”

“You cannot be serious! War is steel swords, not wooden bokken.”

“True warriors are deadly with wood or steel,” Isooba countered.

“True warriors compete on true battlefields and Golanv determines their victories, not referees in red cloaks. War is blood and death and—”

“Many competitors have left the arena on the back of Golanv the Death Raven! Surely your father has explained this to you.”

The remark stung, but he held on to his temper before it undid him as it had in Círculo del Triunfo. He spoke calmly. “Torneo deaths are accidents. The goal of Torneo is not to kill or injure your opponent. It is to pretend to. The best pretender wins.”

Isooba turned up his nose contemptuously. “Spoken like a silly boy who has never competed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means a niño like you should heed the voice of experience. When you grow the
cojones
to face me on the Melee field, I will teach you the truth of Torneo.”

“For true? You will teach me?” Paladin’s voice dripped with mockery. He eyed Isooba like a cat about to pounce on a blind mouse. “Are you saying you can best me, Isooba?”

The room fell silent. Isooba might have been bigger and older, but Paladin could knock him on his culo without breaking a sweat.

And everyone in the room knew it.

The blended children of Santuario del Guerrero fought together as a matter of survival. The
pura-sangre
—pureblood—younglings of Oeste Verdadero, the rich section of Westgate, considered it good sport to get drunk and go híbrido-bashing in the less affluent neighborhood, Ciudad Vieja. Paladin had stood against the pura-sangre with every one of the blended younglings at the fiesta. They all held his martial prowess in high esteem. In fact, he had saved Isooba’s culo only a few weeks ago.

Tau had come running into the smithy crying, desperate and out of breath, begging Paladin to come to Isooba’s rescue. Isooba had been boasting of his martial skills to a gang of drunk pura-sangre thugs, and they had put those boasts to the test, proving Isooba more mouth than might. Isooba might have been killed if Paladin had not grabbed Sunderbones and gone to his defense.