Full-Blood Half-Breed (23 page)

He took a step back to take in the painting once more. The resemblance between Regio and the Ironbear was uncanny. If the painting was accurate, Prince Regio was a younger duplicate of the king. Except for the eyes. Regio’s eyes were dark with an amber tint, nothing like the bizarre eye color of his father. King Ironbear’s eyes were like chips of malachite with alternating rings of light and dark green. Fox had seen the Ironbear once, during a parade for
Festival de los Muertos. He had been close enough to get a good look at the king and the usurper prince, Veraz. Where Regio resembled his father except for the eyes, Veraz was the opposite. The
only
trait he shared with the king was those remarkable eyes.

Suddenly, Fox felt Pía behind him.

Perhaps it was her scent that alerted him to her presence, or the clink of the iron beads she wore at her neck, or the way the ether parted deferentially before her. Perhaps it was all these things or none, for hers was such a singular presence he would have recognized it anywhere. He faced her and held out his hands for an embrace. “Pía.”

She nodded, but did not meet his gaze. Nor did she acknowledge his outstretched arms. She wore a white silk scarf around her neck, and fingered it absently. “Señor Zwergfuchs.”

Her cold formality was like a slap across the face. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy from crying. It had been hours since the argument, yet she had recently shed tears. He was to blame for her sorrow, and to his mind there was no more wicked a sin.

“You were right,” he said, lowering his arms. “I was a fool to speak ill of a people simply because their parents wear different skins.”

She dipped her head, a single, curt nod. “Sí. You were a fool.”

“Please, forgive me, Pía.” He was appalled at the whiny need he heard in his voice. But his greatest horror was that he had hurt her so, and the potential consequences of that. He would rather die than lose her. He took her by the wrists, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I will never be a perfect man, Pía. As you told me when first we met, no human is perfect; otherwise we would all be gods and have no need of them. But I will endeavor every day of my life to be virtuous. I can learn from my mistakes and will do so.”

She stood a little straighter. Hope shone in her eyes. “And you and I? Are we to be
jugadores
? Or something more?”

He smiled and held her hands tighter. “I see no future for myself that does not include you and our children—our beautiful blended children—by my side.”

Her face flushed with emotion, and the hint of a smile tugged at her lips. “It makes me happy to hear you say so.”

He chuckled. “It makes me happy to say so.”

She wrapped him in a strong, forgiving hug, filling his mind with her scent. Her heart beat a mighty tempo against his chest. Her lips brushed against his, but then she pulled back abruptly and made the holy sign before her heart. “Oh! May The One God forgive me. I forget myself. We must not keep them waiting.”

“Who?” Fox said. Prelado Scrupulous had mentioned only Pía when telling him of this meeting.

“The Prophet and Tía Yesenia,” she said, taking him by the hand. “They have summoned
you.”

She led him into the main chamber. The Prophet was wrapped in hooded scarlet robes that hid his face. He sat upon a throne-like chair near the back of the sparsely furnished room. Doña Yesenia and Tomasa stood to one side of him. Pía curtsied gracefully and stood on the other. She made her face an emotionless mask. Fox stood alone in the center or the room. He felt small under the intense gazes of the venerable holy man, the woman he loved, and her craggy old aunt. Smaller even than usual. The sulfuric reek in the room was stifling. It made his eyes water as he bent his knee in a clumsy attempt at a bow. An attack of nerves made his mouth dry and his palms damp. He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants and put on his most pious expression as he nodded first to the Prophet and then to Pía’s aunt. “Venerable Prophet. Doña Yesenia.”

The Prophet spoke. “Congratulations on the archery trial, señor. All Santosians celebrate your victory.”

It was only a half-victory, but Fox would not dare contradict the Prophet. “Thank you, Venerable One. Gracias.”

“Has my
sobrina
explained to you why you have been summoned?” Doña Yesenia said, glaring at him with barely hidden disgust.

“The Interpretación?” he guessed.

“Sí,” the doña said. “There are several Interpretaciones in play now, some of them quite old. Your contributions
may
be significant in bringing about the era that is to come.”

“
Perdóname
, Señora Doña, but I do not understand. The era that is to come?”

Doña Yesenia scowled. “Do you know nothing?”

Fox breathed out his hatred of the woman. Pía spoke up, arching an eyebrow at Doña Yesenia. “I was careful to tell him as little as possible, Tía, lest I corrupt the Interpretación.”

“Your caution shows wisdom, Sister Pía,” the Prophet said, his words wafting pleasantly through Fox’s mind like narcotic smoke. “But these holy words are given unto us by The One God and may not be impaired by mortal deed nor word.” He motioned to Fox. “Come forward, Señor Von Hammerhead of Großemänner’s Line, and let us speak of your destiny.”

“Sí, Venerable One,” Fox said. He came to within six or seven feet of the Prophet, but the man’s face still remained hidden beneath his hood. It was as if both light and shadow obeyed his will, conspiring to keep his face obscured.

“The doña speaks of the Age of Unity, the era that will settle upon the Thirteen Kingdoms when all evil is purged in la Guerra de la Condenación, the final war. This era will be a time without the petty discords that have plagued humankind since its inception. It will be a time of prosperity and enlightenment, for all will kneel before The One God and receive His blessings.”

The Prophet’s dulcet rhapsodizing sent shivers up Fox’s spine. “Yes, Venerable One. Sí.
I give my life in service to The One God.”

“I have faith in you, Señor Zwergfuchs.” Fox heard the approval in the Prophet’s voice, and his soul rejoiced at it. “I know that you are filled with el Espectro Bendecido. You will make The One God proud when the War of Condemnation commences. And that hour grows nigh. The judgment of humankind will begin two days hence—”

“In two days?” Fox said, thrilled and afraid all at once. “Please forgive me for interrupting, Venerable One, but that is so soon.”

The Prophet chuckled. “It may seem so to you. You are new to the faith. But Vicente Santos first spoke of the war two thousand years ago.”

Yesenia said, “The good spirits have whispered portents of war to Tomasa and me for decades. The Mortal Voice will unite the good people of every nation, creating the greatest army ever seen in the Thirteen, an army led by
‘the Last Black Spear.’
 ”

“A white fox,” Pía said.

“Or a red bear,” Doña Yesenia was quick to add.

“Either way,” Fox said, “I—I am humbled even to be considered.”

“Good,” the Prophet said. “Humility is the tenth of the sacred Santosian Virtues, and the Santosian paladín should exemplify all thirteen of those principles.”

“Santosian paladín?”

Pía stepped forward and her mask of aloofness cracked. A wide, prideful grin spread across her lips. “The greatest of warriors will compete in Blackspear’s games and never know defeat. He will bring the armies of the Holy Empire to glory. That warrior is you, Zwergfuchs.”

“Or Osvaldo Del Grizzly,” Doña Yesenia muttered.

Fox ignored the hag. She may have believed Osvaldo to be the prophesied champion, but Pía believed in him. And, apparently, so did the Prophet. A smile broke out on his face. The One God was great. The One God was generous. And The One God was just. Finally, Fox would receive the recognition he deserved for his hard-earned martial prowess, and use both his skill and fame in The One God’s service.

“We must return to the Purgatorium,” the Prophet said. “There are still many souls that must be purged over the next two days. But we have something for you.”

He nodded to Pía. She took the scarf from her neck as she came forward and presented it to Fox. “Do you love The One God, Zwergfuchs?”

“Of course, Pía,” he said, slightly offended that she should even have to ask. She smiled at him, and he realized the question had only been a formality. This was some sort of impromptu ritual. He blushed as she unfurled the banner-like scarf for him to examine. Embroidered in its center was a large Santosian Ira de Dios.

“To show your love for The One God, you will wear His token when you compete,” she
said, and wrapped the scarf around his neck, explaining how it was to be worn, and when he would display the Ira de Dios. He would reveal his Santosian faith after he had proven himself champion and won the hearts of the folk in the arena.

“And if you fail, then we will know it is the red bear who will lead the Santosian armies.” Doña Yesenia grinned like a ghoul.

“Not to worry, Zwergfuchs,” the Prophet said. “Pía believes you are our champion and I trust her judgment. Besides, I look forward to seeing the Fatesayer proven wrong.”

“It has not happened yet,” the doña said.

“There is a first time for everything,” Pía said, and the Prophet chuckled. Pía and her aunt locked eyes, a challenge of sorts passing between them. The four of them spent the next few minutes discussing the best ways for Fox to represent the Santosians during Torneo. He listened closely and got clarification of every detail he did not completely understand. This was the most important undertaking of his life, and he could think of no greater way to venerate Pía, the Prophet, and The One God than to wear the Santosian token while he competed. A loss, however, would be disastrous. It would be a contemptible betrayal of the faith Pía and the Prophet placed in him. Worse, losing the trial would mean losing Pía. And that, he could not allow to happen under any circumstance.

He could not lose.

Pía and the others returned to the Purgatorium, and Fox left the subterranean chamber. His steps were heavy as he ascended the cold stone stairs, studying the scarf. It still held Pía’s scent and he lingered in the stairwell breathing her in. It was a fine garment without being gaudy. He explored every inch of it, contemplating the scarlet embroidery while he ran the smooth silk between his fingers. It was elegant, that was beyond dispute, but it was what it represented that awed him so: the hopes of the entire Santosian church. To lose a trial while wearing the favor would dash the hopes of everyone he cared about, ruin years of planning, and disqualify him as a potential mate for Pía.

He entered the sanctuary through the sacristy, nodding amiably at Prelado Scrupulous and a handful of young priests and priestesses. His concerns were fast growing into worry, and that soon blossomed into panic. The mongrel had stolen half a victory from him already. No, he corrected himself. He would never slur the blended folk again. Del Darkdragón was not a mongrel, but he was a pagan—a filthy, stinking pagan with a history of cheating. Fox could not let that happen again. He would happily pit his skill and cunning against any other warrior in the Thirteen, youngling or adult, but the cheating pagan gave him pause. He knelt before the altar and prayed for guidance. The pagan had to be stopped. But how?

He wasn’t allowed to dwell on his contemplations, for his fellow Santosians surged around him, patting him on the shoulder, congratulating him on his archery half-win in Kikwetu, Lengüoeste, Nordzunge, and Kokugo. Some of the newer church members barely spoke a world of the Alltongue. Fox nodded politely, but paid his fellows little heed. His thoughts were on Torneo and the final two trials. He knew he would beat the pagan in a fair fight. There was no way Del Darkdragón would cheat, not with thirteen Red Cloaks and fifty thousand spectators watching, and even if he did, Fox would not be taken by surprise. This time, he expected the treachery. But the Rings trial was another matter. All he could do was pray the pagan’s horse
dropped dead in the middle of the trial, disqualifying him. He smiled at the thought, but doubted such a prayer would be answered. He had seen the steed, a beautiful enyepesi stallion, as black as midnight and as healthy as—well, a horse. Nothing was going to happen to that animal.

Unless Fox made it happen.

But there was no way he would be allowed anywhere near the pagan’s horse. The animals were kept in paddocks below the arena and tended by Don Felipe Del Coltbreaker, whose Patriarchy, Geraldo, had been stable masters of the Torneo games longer than anyone could remember. Horse care was a religion to House Geraldo. And they were zealous in protecting the Torneo competitors’ horses from any potential sabotage. The only people allowed near those animals were vetted stableboys.

Stableboys like Urbano Del Spicebringer of House Próspero.

Fox scanned the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of his friend, convinced he was being led by The One God’s will. Could there be any question that Fox strode down the path of righteousness? Whenever the Nameless Three placed an obstacle in his path, The One God showed him a way around it. Never before had any god or goddess taken such a direct hand in assisting him through his tribulations. It took a few minutes to spot Urbano. He was with his family, back near the sacristy, meeting with the prelado, and he looked painfully bored.