Full-Blood Half-Breed (20 page)

“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.”

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 were 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.”

“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.”

“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?”