Full-Blood Half-Breed (9 page)

“Well, Isooba?” Paladin’s sharp, contemptuous tone sliced through the silence in the room. “What lessons do you think you can teach me?”

Isooba rolled his eyes and huffed, but Paladin recognized the stall for what it was. Isooba sought a response that would be more or less truthful and still protect his pride. “Until you are man enough to face me in the Phoenix-Rising arena, we will never find out, will we, niño?”

“Then we will find out on the morrow,” Paladin said, standing tall before Isooba and basking in the triumph of the moment. “For I have entered Torneo, all three trials. I very much look forward to your tutelage, Isooba von Joyful.”

Paladin delighted in the look of defeat and doom on Isooba’s perfectly chiseled face. Isooba’s bronzed complexion curdled to a sickly shade of ashy green. It was glorious vindication.

It lasted for three seconds.

“YOU DID WHAT?” Rebelde’s bellowing shook the walls.

Paladin closed his eyes, grimacing. His temper and big mouth had undone him again, fueled by his stupid jealousy. How many foolish feats could he perform in a single day?

He turned to Rebelde, thankful his shaky legs did not dump him on the floor. The adults in the room, even Walküre, cleared away from Rebelde as if he were a volcano on the verge of erupting. Paladin’s friends scattered from him, for he was the target of the coming firestorm. Yet Paladin would not show fear, not with his friends—and Isooba—watching.

“I entered Torneo, Papá.” At least his voice didn’t hitch. Much. “I will compete in the youngling trials.”

Rebelde’s face twisted with fury. Never had Paladin seen such rage in his father’s eyes, certainly not directed at him. He searched his mind for something he could say to forestall Rebelde’s outburst. For the first time in his life, he feared his papá might strike him. A slap from Rebelde would be painful, but not as painful as the humiliation of having his peers witness it. No words came to him, and Rebelde took a menacing step forward, his hands clenched into fists like giant mace heads.

Drud’s father stepped in front of Rebelde, blocking his path. Keeping his back to Rebelde, Alwin pretended not to notice the building confrontation. He clapped Paladin on the shoulder and said in a loud affected voice, “Gracias, Paladin. Thank you for a fine fiesta.” Then he took the hand of his wife, Hisa, and turned to the other guests, “It is late. Drud, Hisa, and I must go home now. Would anyone care to walk with us? It is a fine night for walking.”

Prompted by Alwin’s invitation, the other guests couldn’t leave fast enough. Isooba made sure to point a triumphant smirk at Paladin as he left hand in hand with Esmeralda. The other guests said hasty farewells and were out the door even before Alwin, Drud, and Hisa. Drud hung back and grabbed Paladin’s shoulder. His stout face was tight with earnest concern. “When the
time comes, if you’re still … able to compete, I will stand with you during the Melee—”

Rebelde growled, “Drud—”

Drud took off like an arrow. He called to Paladin as he bounded out the door. “Adiós,
vato
. And gods be with you.”

Paladin wanted to escape with Drud and the others. Rebelde’s ire was palpable, scorching the very ether in the room. It was suffocating.

Walküre pleaded, “Be calm, Rebel.”

Rebelde appeared not to have heard her. His words came at Paladin in a halting whisper, crisply enunciated, measured, and controlled. “You should not have done this, boy. You have betrayed all I have taught you.”

In his sixteen years of life, Paladin had known fear often. When he was six years old, he and his best friend Ladrillo had gotten lost near the haunted wood, Fantasmaderas Forest, and been attacked by the bloodthirsty chupacabra, a thing of living shadow. The monster had killed Ladrillo and nearly ended Paladin as well, leaving an enduring stain of terror on his soul. But that was a little fear compared to what he felt at the smoldering wrath in his papá’s dark eyes.

Rebelde had gone beyond anger. Anger was yelling. Anger was wild gesticulating, cursing and eye rolling. This was a rage Rebelde struggled to control, lest it break into violence he would regret.

Paladin could think of only one way to stay his father’s temper. Rebelde might respond to cold reason, and reason was all Paladin had in his defense.

Rebelde growled through clenched teeth, “You know how I feel about Torneo, do you not?”

“Sí, Papá.” Paladin repeated the words Rebelde had spoken to him often. “ ‘Torneo mocks us all by making sport of war and games of killing. There are no winners or losers in war. Only killers and corpses.’ ”

“Then why, in Muumba’s name, would you do such a thing? Why would you defy me in such a way?”

“I—I did not do this to defy you. This has nothing to do with you. I want to prove my
skill in the arena. You have said my martial system is superior to the others. Why can you not be proud of me? Even Drud’s parents encourage him to compete, and he—”

Rebelde moved as if to lunge at Paladin, and Paladin stumbled backward, braced himself against the oak dining table, and then used it as a barrier between himself and his papá.

Walküre grabbed Rebelde and pulled him toward the hearth. “Rebel! Mind your temper. You know how it is with the young. They are desperate to prove themselves.” She turned to Paladin. “Tell him you meant no disrespect. Tell him, niño …”

“Please do not call me that, Mamá.” It was a silly thing to rebuke his mother for, and a stupid time to do it, but he was tired of being treated like a child. “I am no child. Today marks my sixteenth year. I’m almost a man grown.”

A mocking, cruel sound rumbled in Rebelde’s throat, laughter’s bastard brother. “Men grown—if they are wise—do not risk their lives for the pleasure of bloodthirsty fools. Men do not seek honor in games of mock war. Men seek only the favor of the man in the looking glass. Torneo—”

“Were you not a man when you competed, Papá?” Paladin knew the words were a mistake the moment they slipped past his lips.

Rebelde’s eyes seemed ready to pop from his skull. He drew back from Paladin as if he were a serpent who had just spat at him.

“
Perdóname
, Papá. I didn’t mean to—”

Rebelde’s voice was like a thunderclap. “
Mpumbavu!
You would dare liken your lot in life to mine? You ungrateful fool!”

Never had Rebelde spoken to him with such venom or volume. Paladin flinched as if slapped. Again he chastised himself for his outlaw tongue. But he could not sit silent and be accused of misdeeds when he knew in his heart he had done nothing wrong.

Walküre stood next to Paladin, glaring at her husband, hands on her hips. “He has made a mistake, Rebelde. There is no need to be cruel.”

Rebelde ignored his wife and stared at Paladin, frowning as if seeing his son for the first time. “Sí, boy, I was a man when I competed, a destitute foreign man exiled from his homeland with few prospects and fewer friends. Many were the days when even a scrap of bread was a luxury beyond me. I had no warm safe home with mamá and papá to see to my every need. I had little choice in competing. Without those Torneo winnings, I would have turned beggar, thief, or cutthroat. It is with that money that your mother and I built the smithy into a success, providing you with home and hearth and everything your pampered little heart might desire, indulgences paid for with the blood I shed in that gods-damned arena! Muumba’s Lute, Paladin! I accidentally killed my best friend during Torneo! Do these sacrifices mean nothing to you?”

“Sí, Papá! Of course they do—”

“No! I think not! You piss on my sacrifices!” Rebelde’s eyes were moist now, and his gaze lit upon the table of birthday presents, settling on the sword-shaped package he had set out for Paladin. A look of horror flashed across his umber face. Rebelde snatched the package from the table, cradling it like it was a precious infant rescued from harm.

“Papá, please!” Paladin said, grabbing after the sword. Had it been a conscious act, he wouldn’t have done it. His mind understood the futility of asking Rebelde for anything, especially a weapon, at a moment when Rebelde held such little faith in him. But his heart understood only want. This was not just a sword, not even just a famed Darkdragón sword. This was a thing created by his papá’s own hands, a singular expression of paternal affection. Gods be good, he just wanted to look at it.

Rebelde slapped his hands away.

“Enough!” Walküre said, taking Rebelde’s massive hand into her slender one. “Can you not see his remorse? Can you not see how deeply your words wound him?”

Walküre took Rebelde’s hand and led him to the one window in the room. She opened it and allowed the night breeze to waft in, but it did little to cool the heated emotions.

“You know him well, Rebel,” Walküre said. “He is a good boy. He is simply trying to find his way. I have heard your father speak on your youngling foolishness. Shall we compare your youthful escapades to Paladin’s? I think you would suffer in the comparison.”

Thank the gods for Mamá
, Paladin thought. If there was one person in the whole of the Thirteen who could make Rebelde hear reason, it was Walküre the Cruelarrow of Mayumi’s Line. Paladin wanted to throw his arms around her and shower her with kisses.

“He would risk his life,” Rebelde said, stowing the sword in a trunk under the window and locking it, “and the lives of his friends for a mere game. This goes beyond youthful folly.”

Rebelde grew distant, lost in thought, his face weary and sad. Perhaps he thought of his friend, Mwenye za Graybeast of House Kifaru, the man he had killed during Melee, years ago. Paladin put himself in Rebelde’s place for a moment. It sickened him to think that he might accidentally kill Drud in the arena, or Isooba, or even Fox the Runt. And if he did, would he not feel the same way as Rebelde? Could he live with Drud’s blood on his hands? Isooba’s? He didn’t think so. Fox the Runt, however …

“Rebelde,” Walküre said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Rebel …”

Rebelde removed her hand gently but firmly and closed his eyes. And for a handful of seconds, the three of them stood in stillness. There was only the sound of Rebelde’s loud, angry breathing. Paladin and Walküre watched him quake with emotion. Gods only knew what he was seeing behind his closed eyes.

Though he was but a smith here in Prosperidad, Rebelde had been a
mashujaa
, the Kusini Watu equivalent of a knight, in the South. He was patriarch of a Great House and had served the
Royal Order of Radimkukile, the Lightning Lance. But Rebelde had given all that up to rally the commoners into bloody revolution against the cruel tyranny of King Akhom the Scarab and House Anonzi. Mwenye za Graybeast had also turned his back on the greedy aristocracy to stand with the common folk, and the revolt had been succesful. But while Rebelde and Mwenye were heroes among the lowborns, the Patriarchies and Matriarchies of the South had rallied every assassin and backstabber in their Houses and sent them after Rebelde and Mwenye. Even though most had agreed the House of Anonzi was corrupt and terrible at rule, they believed the greater crime to be highborns standing with lowborns in defiance of the crown. Rebelde and Mwenye became pariahs and were unofficially exiled from Kavunchi. Mwenye had given up his own fortunes to come to the Reinos del Oeste with Rebelde. Prosperidad was a kingdom famed for economic opportunity, especially in the city of Santuario del Guerrero. The two young men had thought to find adventure, romance, and fortunes. Instead they had found destitution. It would be years before Rebelde would meet and win the heart of Walküre. Until then he and Mwenye had earned coin any way they could.

It was in Torneo that they had earned their real money. That first year they had discovered they were an unstoppable team in the Melee competition. The two would fight side by side, defeating everyone who came against them, until they had to fight each other for the championship of Kavunchi. Even though Rebelde had always bested Mwenye, they always split the winnings evenly. For five years running, Rebelde won the Black Spear and the gold
coronas
that came with it.

It was on the sixth year that he broke Mwenye’s neck.

Rebelde’s breathing slowed as his
ki
came back into balance. He opened his eyes and looked at Walküre with a tentative calm. “You would take the boy’s part over mine? You would defend him in that which is indefensible?”

“He is a boy, Rebel,” Walküre said. “He is
our
boy. I do not think him capable of the indefensible.”

Rebelde arched an eyebrow. “Good. I am glad you feel that way, Walli. Your precious ‘niño’ was expelled from Temple Seisakusha today.

“Defend that.”