Full-Blood Half-Breed (33 page)

The kings, queens, princes, and princesses of the Thirteen rotated around the circle of youngling champions offering congratulations. Though when they stood before Paladin, many would neither look him in the eye nor shake his hand. The queen and king of Sombra del Montaña offered curt, formal congratulations, and then joined the queen of Dulce Aire in conversation, pretending he didn’t exist.

It was a relief when his own king and prince stood before him. King Honestus the Ironbear of House Bernardo nodded and shook his hand. “
Felicitaciones
, Del Darkdragón.”

“Sí,” Prince Veraz said, beaming. “Congratulations!”

“Gracias, my king,” Paladin said, dipping his head. “Gracias, my prince.”

King Ironbear awarded him thirteen gold coronas for proving himself Prosperidad’s paladín. Paladin accepted his winnings with all the grace he could muster, but the prince, staring at him and beaming with admiration, was making him uncomfortable. Paladin was not the Black Spear, but Prince Veraz grinned at him like he was.

Excepting their bizarre Bernardo eyes, the prince looked almost nothing like his father. He had inherited
prima del duende
features from his mother, the late queen, Sofía the Beneficent. Veraz’s skin was darker than his father’s and had a reddish tint. The king’s hair was the color of red wine streaked with silver. Veraz’s hair was as black as a raven’s ass. But their one shared physical trait was famous and striking. The Bernardo eyes had irises of alternating bands of light and dark green, similar to the rings on an archery target.

Something about those eyes scratched at Paladin’s memory, picking it open like a scab. He recalled snatches of the horrifying dreams he had suffered the past three nights, and suddenly feared for both king and prince. In his dreams, a great bear and its cub—both with Bernardo eyes—had been stalked by living fire. He remembered those unique eyes, wide with agony as fire devoured the flesh surrounding them. He shuddered.

“Are you well, Señor Del Darkdragón?” the prince said. “Should I summon the Red Cloaks?”

“No, Highness. Gracias. I am fine.”

The prince was only nine years old, but carried himself with the aplomb of an old and gracious diplomat. He grinned at Paladin again. “I am glad that you are well. I would like to speak with you of this new martial technique you have developed. It is amazing.”

Paladin felt a flicker of pride. “Gracias, Highness. You do not think it blasphemy?”

“Of course not,” Prince Veraz said. “But Dame Crimsonfangs, our House Mistress of Arms, does not care for it. I think it is because she fears it is superior to el Combatedanza, and that—”

“Mind your tongue, Veraz,” King Ironbear whispered harshly. His gaze hopped from the prince to the others nearby, as if he feared Veraz too would be named a profaner should he be overheard. He leaned close to Paladin and whispered, “I do not know what to think of your blended technique. I have seen a great deal this day and liked little of it. Yet I cannot argue with results. That Nordling, Von Hammerhead, is one of the most impressive fighters I have ever seen, though I never thought to speak so of a bushi. I have no doubt that he could beat my best caballero in a hand-to-hand contest. The Red Cloak dictum aside, you defeated him utterly. This speaks to the singular quality of your martial dance. Though I doubt the gods will think so.”

Prince Veraz shook his head vigorously. “Respectfully, Father, none may know the will of the gods.” The prince followed his father’s example and whispered to Paladin. “I have been studying el Combatedanza with Dame Crimsonfangs with little success. Perhaps you would teach me your martial system. What do you call it?”

“You honor me, Highness, truly. But I have no name for the blended system, and I do not think I will be able to teach it to you. I leave soon to study elemancy in Mji a Dhahabu with my grandfather.”

Prince Veraz sighed. “Kavunchi’s gain is Prosperidad’s loss.”

“It is probably for the best,” King Ironbear said. “I fear for your safety, Del Darkdragón. No matter what the prince or I may think of your martial system, too many others find it offensive to the gods. I have fought in bloody wars less hostile than what was displayed here.”

“They are simpletons,” Prince Veraz said, nodding at the spectators. “We blend the gifts of the gods daily. We would never have a decent meal without doing so. Do you recall what was served for dinner last night, Father?”

The king sighed. “Fish?”

Veraz grinned and gave Paladin a conspiratorial wink. “We were served cheese and pears, fish and baked vegetables, and for dessert, berries and custard.” He raised a finger. “Schöpfer’s contribution was the vegetables, fruit, cheese, and custard.” He held up a second
finger. “The iron pots and the fires used in the food preparation are Creador’s gifts. Muumba provided the wine we drank. And Seisakusha, in addition to providing the fish, is the goddess of commerce. The food, the staff’s pay, and every other aspect of the meal that involved a financial transaction were provided with Her blessing. We could not survive if we did not blend the gifts the gods have given us. Only a fool would say otherwise.”

“A fool’s blade may cut as deeply as wise man’s,” the king whispered, directing his comment to Paladin. “You are an impressive fighter, Del Darkdragón, but what you have done in the arena—and I speak of yesterday’s antics as well as today’s—has made you very powerful enemies. The sooner you leave the Reinos del Oeste, the safer you are likely to be. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

Paladin nodded. House Bernardo was closely allied with Urbano’s House, Próspero. There could be no mistaking the king’s tone or the certainty in his bizarre eyes. Paladin bowed. “I thank you for your wise words, Majesty.”

“I am saddened that I will not learn this blended dance,” Prince Veraz said. “But I wish you much luck in the Nchi ya Kusini.”

Paladin bowed. “Gracias, my prince. Gracias, my king.”

Fox was a monster.

He barely noticed the other paladíns gathered round him. He almost didn’t care that la Guerra de la Condenación was at hand. He was a failure. He had failed to kill the pagan. He had won the Black Spear, but only on a technicality. Surely this could not have been what the Prophet had in mind for the first Santosian Black Spear. He paid almost no attention to the fawning kings and queens flashing their royal teeth and offering him their effusive congratulations for putting the “blasphemous híbrido” in his place. He was too disfigured to care. He couldn’t see his deformity, but he could feel it.

He ran his tongue along the inside of his sore mouth, stroking the lone, lopsided tooth in the raw vacancy of his lower gums, exploring the desolated hollows where once teeth thrived. His face felt like a foreign thing, like a fatty slab of meat nailed to his skull. To touch it was agony, but he could not keep his fingers away from the lumpy and malformed flesh. He knew he must look hideous and dreaded his reflection, but he feared Pía’s reaction to his ghastly appearance even more.

“Congratulations, Von Hammerhead–san,” the king of Raimei-Yama said, dropping a gold okan into his hands.

Fox realized the silver-haired monarch was waiting to be acknowledged. Fox dipped his head respectfully and thanked the king in his native tongue. “Arigato, Heika.”

The king smiled and moved on to the next youngling paladín, the girl from Winterewiger.

The kings and queens of the Thirteen rotated around the champion paladíns, paying them homage. Each ruler awarded Fox—as the Black Spear—one gold coin. When they stood before the winners from their own kingdoms, they would award them a purse of thirteen gold coins. Every ruler came to Torneo prepared to pay a total of eighty crowns, forty for the youngling trials and forty for the adult Torneo games set to begin on the morrow. If one kingdom produced warriors of exceptional skill, it could prove very costly.

Though Fox had adopted Prosperidad as his homeland, he was born in the Nordländer, and his two and a half victories would cost the king of Eisesland a total of thirty-three and a half pieces of gold. The kingdoms shared the cost of the Black Spear purse, each donating a single gold coin to the champion.

King Egon the Gallant of House Hammerfaust stood before him. As miserable as Fox was, the king’s strength of presence demanded his attention. King Gallant’s iron-gray eyes shone with approval. “
Glückwünsche
, Ungläubige,” King Gallant said. “Congratulations.”

Fox caught a glimpse of his refection in the king’s eyes and winced. He had only been ugly before the pagan had destroyed his face. Now he was hideous.

King Gallant counted out his winnings. “Thirteen krones as paladín of Eisesland, and one krone for the Black Spear.”

It was a lot of money. Combined with his other winnings, it was a fortune. Even after he paid off Urbano, he would have enough money to do almost anything he wanted. He could purchase papers that would make him a Patriarch. His would be a minor House, but it would be noble nonetheless. He could start nearly any business he could imagine or buy land and set himself up as a don. Yet he would have traded every bit of his new wealth for his old face. As ugly as it had been, at least it had not been too repugnant for Pía to love. How could she love him now? He was a grotesque. If he was lucky, he would be killed in the War of Judgment. He would rather be taken by the Death Raven than rejected by Pía.

An image flashed in his brain and soared through his thoughts. It was a great, white-winged creature with flaming hair. A bane? Before Fox could question why such an image would appear to him, the Prophet’s voice reverberated through his mind: “Congratulations, young Black Spear.”

Pía had prepared him for this kind of communication. Sending, she had called it. And they had practiced it several times. She would Send the image of a white eagle into his mind, followed by her thoughts, images, and feelings. Still, it was a startling, invasive use of the Celestial Gift. Especially when someone as powerful as the Prophet did the Sending. “Stand
ready. The time in nearly upon us.”

And then, as suddenly as he had entered, the Prophet’s presence fled Fox’s mind. The abrupt departure made Fox gasp out loud.

King Gallant squinted at him. “Is all well, Ungläubige?”

Fox stood up straight. He could feel his face heating with anger and knew the king would see it as well. “My name is Von Hammerhead,
Eure Majestät
. Fox Von Hammerhead of Großemänner’s Line.”

The king chuckled. It was a mocking sound. “Be not offended that I name you Ungläubige, for truth is truth. I do not fault you for finding a way to fight that suits your smallness. In fact, I applaud your efforts. You are too puny to be of any worth to Schöpfer. You are welcome to employ the gifts of the Shimabito’s lesser goddess.”

Fox wanted to slap him. Perhaps he would, and worse, when the war began.

“Bring forth the spears and let him choose,” the Caller said to the clerics bearing Black Spears.

A hush fell over the crowd, a moment of still anticipation Fox felt as much with his soul as he saw with his eyes or heard with his ears. There were Santosians in the crowd. Thousands of them. All of them ready to bring Judgment upon their fellows. Fox went forth to choose his spear.

Paladin watched—through a salty haze of misery—the Runt make the choice that had been his only minutes before. His longing for one of the Black Spears was almost lewd. They were so beautiful. To hold such a weapon was to hold an honor unlike any other in the world, to be part of an extraordinarily elite fellowship, its members bearing their Black Spears with more majesty than a monarch’s crown of gold. And, for true, the common folk usually showed more deference to Black Spears than they did their own kings and queens.

The Runt strode forward to face the clerics, and the arena patrons roared in adulation. Even the Runt’s fellow Nords, who had spurned him as an Ungläubige, now lauded him. He was the world’s hero, for he had defeated the “híbrido blasphemer,” and the crowd loved him. The Runt raised his arms high, basking in the acclaim, his wrists rotating in a two-handed wave, his silk scarf flapping in the wind. He pointed to Sensei Quicksteel and the naginata.