Full-Blood Half-Breed (12 page)

Fox the Runt could have forced his way past the three men, but Ezequiel the Scrupulous was not just any priest, he was the
prelado
, the prelate of Templo Santos, leader of the Santosian church, and Fox the Runt had to make a good impression on the man if he wanted to see Pía again.

Just this morning he would have laughed at the idea that he would be begging entrance to a Vile—
Santosian
, he corrected—temple. For millennia, the Santosians had been despised by the entire world as maniacal zealots who had initiated the bane wars, though Fox the Runt was beginning to believe that villainous reputation to be false. Pía was Santosian. That was reason enough to give the religion a chance. He licked his lips, took a deep breath, straightened his back and spoke, as formally as he could manage.

“My name is Zwergfuchs Von Hammerhead of Großemänner’s Line in Eisesland. I was told by Señorita Pía Del Whitewraith of House Ximena to ask for her here, Señor Prelado.”

“Pía is a priestess of the church and must be addressed by her proper title. Sister. Or Hermana. Not señorita.”

“
Perdóname usted
, Prelado.”

He felt the prelado’s gaze crawl all over him as the holy man weighed him with his eyes. The tight look on his handsome face indicated that the prelado did not approve of what he saw. Fox the Runt had expected as much. His ragged and bloody kimono was also ill fitting, and worst of all, it was the garb of a Seisakushan disciple. His cloak and robe were Seisakusha’s violet and blue, with a Nureta Sakuru embroidered over the breast of the kimono. He would have changed clothes before coming if he had anything to change into.

He used his breathing to center his
ki
and calm his growing impatience. The headache that had plagued him all day, coming and going in pounding waves of agony, had receded for the time being, but his wounds from the fight—while not serious—needed tending. But mostly, he was desperate to get off the street and into the temple, away from any who might recognize him as Bernadita’s killer. Prelado Scrupulous seemed to take pleasure in watching him squirm. At least the priest could have invited him out of the chill, stinking air to suffer his squinty-eyed scrutiny.

“What happened to you, disciple of Seisakusha?” the prelado said, indicating Fox the Runt’s torn cloak and bloodied hip.

He sighed. “I was attacked in the street as I made my way here.”

“Who attacked you, chico? Why?”

“I do not know why, Prelado,” Fox the Runt said. “They mistook me for someone called the White Fox.”

Prelado Scrupulous’s eyes grew wide for an instant. “Who are
they
, disciple of Seisakusha?”

“I do not know, Prelado!” He stamped his foot in frustration. The guards standing behind the priest shifted their weight and tightened their grips on their spears. Fox the Runt softened his tone. “They were four highborns …”

“And they let you live?” Again, the priest sounded incredulous.

“I am no híbrido,” Fox the Runt said. “Do the highborns here murder purebloods in the street now?”

Before Prelado Scrupulous could answer, there came more yelling in the street behind them. Fox the Runt recognized some of the voices. They were those of the highborns who had attacked him. The prelado looked out over Fox the Runt’s head, and a thundercloud of anger passed over his face.

“O Creador,”
Osvaldo wailed. He sounded like he was just behind them, outside the temple gates, but Fox the Runt dared not turn around for fear he would be recognized. “
Mi hermana! Mi hermana
is killed!”

“This way, Osvaldo,” the Kusini Watu, Sentwaki, was saying. “Bring her this way!”

Their voices trailed off as they moved away, and Fox the Runt realized he had not taken a breath since first recognizing Osvaldo’s voice. He took a deep one. Prelado Scrupulous seemed to relax as well. “What do you seek here, disciple of Seisakusha?”

“Sanctuary,” Fox the Runt said. “Healing, perhaps.”

“Why not seek these things at Temple Seisakusha?”

He shrugged. “I was a Seisakushan this morning, but after speaking with Señorita Pía, I am not so certain anymore.”

It seemed his answer sufficed. The prelado nodded and something akin to a smile touched his lips. “You have come seeking answers, Nordling, and answers you shall have if your heart and soul are open to the truth. The Prophet himself will speak to the faithful on the morrow. I promise you, Señor Von Hammerhead, there is nothing more enlightening than hearing The One God’s truth from the lips of His Mortal Voice, the Prophet.”

“The Prophet?” Fox the Runt frowned, confused. “That is impossible, isn’t it? Vicente the Vile has been dead for two thousand years—”

“Vicente Santos!” the prelado corrected. “And, sí, of course he is long dead. The founder of our faith was a great man, and of course, Padre Santos was a prophet, but he is not
the
Prophet. Padre Santos was fallible. He thought to provoke la Guerra de la Condenación before The One God willed it, and thus his efforts were met with defeat.”

“La Guerra de la Condenación?” Fox said. “I have never heard of this.”

“The War of Judgment,” Prelado Scrupulous said, “and of Condemnation. All worshippers of false gods and practitioners of the filthy arts will be purged from the Thirteen in a storm of blood and death, their souls imprisoned in hell, where they will know eternal torture at the hands of the Nameless Three.”

“If Vicente Santos is not the Prophet, then who is?”

Prelado Scrupulous smiled. “He is The One God’s voice in a mortal shell. You will see, señor. You will see. Come with me now. Sister Pía is inside praying. I will fetch her for you.”

Fox the Runt followed the priest and was shocked by what he saw. There were hundreds of folk inside dancing, singing, and chanting. He had had no idea there were so many Santosians in the entire world, let alone in Santuario del Guerrero.

“Sister Pía is very special,” the prelado said, the hint of a threat in his voice. “The One God Himself has touched her. Woe unto any who would harm her.”

Fox the Runt said nothing. He had no intention of harming Pía. And he agreed with
Prelado Scrupulous. She was special. Anyone harming her would face not only the prelado’s anger but his as well.

“Wait here,” Prelado Scrupulous said when they reached the church’s sanctuary. “I will fetch Pía. In the meantime, I will have one of our Healers tend you.” The Santosian Healer was a Red Cloak. Doña Teófila the Mender was a sour-faced woman with eyes the color of over-boiled asparagus. She looked over the cut on his hip, tended it with ointment, and bandaged it. “A small wound, Nordling. No need for Healing.”

That was a relief to him. As far as he was concerned, Healing was Muumban magic, and he would rather avoid it if he could. As she finished with the bandage, Fox the Runt pointed out an elderly Kusini Watu woman in the throes of a convulsion. Her eyes had rolled back in her head so that she appeared to be without pupils. She babbled in gibberish while other congregants crowded round, listening raptly as if she spoke with the voice of Creador Himself. “What is wrong with that woman, Doña Mender?”

Teófila the Mender’s face lit up like Shimabito fireworks. She nodded her head, beaming like the proud aunt of a gifted child. “You are in the home of The One God, Nordling, and here, the faithful are often overcome by
el Espectro Bendecido
, the Blessed Specter of The One God, and so moved to speak the holy language of the First Tongue.”

Fox the Runt was doubtful. The old, black-skinned woman and the other Santosians looked like lunatics in the grip of a collective seizure. Would acceptance of the teachings of Vicente Santos turn him into a slavering maniac as well? He began to rethink his interest in the Santos Creadorians. Their method of worship seemed too zealous. It offended his sense of reason. He rubbed his temples as his headache returned with a vengeance.

“Adanedi nihi galvquodi-adanvdo gvdodi Adelohosgi,”
Doña Mender said. “Give your soul to the Prophet.”

Fox the Runt was unsure how to respond. It was difficult to concentrate on anything past the stabbing in his skull. Doña smiled, but there was little warmth in it. “You are in pain, Señor Von Hammerhead?”

He nodded.

“It is because you resist The One God’s truth. Pain is The One God’s way of telling us something is wrong. If you cut yourself, it hurts. If you felt no pain from the injury, you might ignore the wound until it festered and killed you. The pain you feel now is The One God telling you that your soul is festering, señor. Do not ignore your damaged spirit. Dress it with The One God’s love.
Adanedi nihi galvquodi-adanvdo gvdodi Adelohosgi
.”

The Red Cloak paused as if waiting for him to respond. He felt stupid, not sure of what he was expected to say.

Doña Mender said, “When someone says to you,
‘Adanedi nihi galvquodi-adanvdo
gvdodi Adelohosgi,’
you answer with,
‘Ayv galvquodi-adanvdo udotsali Adelohosgi.’
But only if you accept Creador as the one true god and the Prophet as His Mortal Voice. It means, ‘My soul belongs to the Prophet.’ ”

Fox the Runt nodded but was not quite ready to say the words and commit to the Prophet, The One God, and the Santosians, not after witnessing their strange behavior. The Red Cloak smiled—an expression laced with condescension, Fox the Runt thought—and then said, “Think on what we have discussed.”

Doña Mender scurried away, dodging zealous Santosians as she disappeared into the back of the church. Fox the Runt leaned against a tapestry-draped wall, massaging his temples. The crush of people, the stink of sweaty bodies, and the noise of fervent voices lifted in song and prayer were stifling.

The congregants hurled themselves into wild gyrations and dancing, or fell into violent fits during which they rolled on the floor, kicking and shouting gibberish. He stared in wide-eyed, openmouthed fascination, for he had never seen people behave with such utter lack of inhibition.

Heeding his curiosity, he sought to get a closer look at the babbling Kusini Watu woman and the other worshipping Santosians. He slid his back along the wall, creeping deeper into the sanctuary, and hovered behind one of the thick white columns spaced throughout the temple.

“Seisakusha’s Tail,” he gasped, astonished by what he beheld in the Kusini Watu’s face. It was not madness that had gripped the old woman and the others. It was joy.

The Santosians were drunk on jubilation more potent than any narcotic. In his wretched life, Fox the Runt had never even conceived that such unblemished joy could exist. The bliss emanating from the old black woman hung in the air like a sweet vapor, so intoxicating it wrung salt water from his eyes. He breathed deeply of it. Elation filled his lungs, swam through his veins, coursed through his heart. This was the flawless rapture Pía and the Red Cloak had spoken of.

Fox the Runt had given his loyalty to the Shimabito goddess, but he had never experienced anything like this from Her. Truthfully, his life under Seisakusha was only slightly less wretched than it had been under Schöpfer. He was unhappy. Usually angry. He was dirt poor, without a pot to piss in. Worse, he spent every morning cleaning
other
people’s piss pots, all for a scrap of bread and a bowl of stinky, fishy gruel. But these Santosians were filled with such potent, heady happiness that he had mistaken it for madness. The One God gave His followers a gift of joy so great it intoxicated, and what had Seisakusha given him?

Shit.

The old Kusini Watu woman stirred from her reverie, contentment upon her creased face. She nodded to him and smiled. “Welcome, brother.”

Whatever doubts he held faded before the light of the old woman and the other Santosians. Theirs was a peace he longed for. “My name is Fox the Ru—my name is Zwergfuchs. I am new to the church.”

“Welcome, Zwergfuchs. I am Tinashe.” The old woman took his face into her knotted fingers and kissed him on the forehead. Tinashe’s lips barely brushed against his skin, but it moved him to tears, for she had given him more genuine acceptance and affection in that single gesture than his mother had shown him his entire life. His mind went deaf before the truth his heart spoke to him. He was where he belonged. His spirit had found haven.

“Adanedi nihi galvquodi-adanvdo gvdodi Adelohosgi,”
Tinashe said. “Give your soul to the Prophet.”

“Ayv galvquodi-adanvdo udotsali Adelohosgi,”
he said, committing to the words with the whole of his heart. “My soul belongs to the Prophet.”

The instant the pledge crossed his lips, his headache dissipated, smoke on the wind. And though he still felt anger over the many injustices plaguing the world, that indignation was tempered. Over the next few minutes, he contemplated this new feeling, unsure of what to call it. Tinashe, and Santosians of every shape, size, and color, embraced him. They welcomed him to the great family of faithful followers of The One God. It was in the embrace of his fellow Santosians that he found a name for the new feeling blossoming in his heart. For the first time in his life, Fox the Runt knew love.