Full-Blood Half-Breed (16 page)

He signed the Santosian holy symbol before his heart. “My soul belongs to the Prophet.”

She seemed pleased by this, and returned the gesture. “My soul belongs to the Prophet—”

He turned to leave.

“—but my heart is for you, Zwergfuchs Von Hammerhead of Großemänner’s Line.”

He turned back to her, not sure if he had heard correctly. The heat in her face confirmed that he had. He threw his arms around her and their lips crashed together, clumsy and sloppy and perfect. It was a better first kiss than he ever could have imagined. Pía was a full head taller than he, and had to bend forward while he stood on the tips of his toes to reach her lips. They stood
for many minutes awkwardly groping and slurping each other. The kiss ended much too soon for his liking.

As they leaned against each other, trying to calm their shaky breaths, Pia asked, “May I ask you a question, Zwergfuchs?”

“Anything.”

She paused, choosing her words with care. “You were born to be a Santosian. You grasp the precepts taught by Vicente Santos so naturally. I cannot help but wonder why you chose Seisakusha. Why did you not seek out the Schöpferites, or the misguided Creadorians, or the Muumbans?”

He could feel himself blushing. The truth was embarrassing. But he thought he might be falling in love with Pía and could deny her nothing. “I chose Seisakusha because of the martial system, Ashi-Kobushi. I hated Schöpfer. She is called the goddess of justice, but I knew that to be a lie even before I found out the truth of the gods. Her martial gift, Eisenfaust, is for the big and the strong, and I am neither. I could not be a Muumban because I despise magic. I have always felt affection for Creador, but The One God’s gift of Combatedanza does not suit me so well as Ashi-Kobushi. The dance of Fist and Foot was created for the slight people of the Higashi Shima. I am not Shimabito, but I am as small as one, smaller than most if truth be told.”

She said, “You have a giant’s soul and a warrior’s heart. I think you would be surprised how well Combatedanza might suit you.”

“Perhaps, Pía,” he said, desperate to change the subject. “I would like to ask you a question now.”

Her eyes sparkled in the moonlight. “Anything.”

“Why me? You are from a Great House; I am from a mere Sept. You are respected at temple and I am but a recent disciple. You are beautiful, but I am …”

“You are beautiful to me, Zwergfuchs.”

“But why?”

She smiled again. “The One God has blessed me, Zwergfuchs. I am a Talentosa, a Gifted, similar to a mancer but my gifts are of The One God. There is no Muumban taint. Most of the women in the Ximena Matriarchy are gifted. My aunt, Yesenia, is a powerful Intérprete, someone who predicts the future by consulting with spirits of the dead …”

“A Hearkener?” he said.

Pía shuddered in disgust and made their holy sign before her heart. “There are no Santosian Hearkeners, for the holy text of
El Libro Sagrado de Verdades
teaches us to ‘beware the portents of the Hearkener.’ A Talentosa who communes with spirits is called an Intérprete. Interpretaciones are not tainted, and more accurate than Hearkenings. And when I was but a little girl, my tía, Yesenia, told me of the man to whom I would give my heart, and the moment I saw
you in the arena, I knew that man was you. I have seen your face in my dreams since I was but a niña, and now that I have met you, I see more than just your face. I see your soul. I see the wounds to your spirit and the many hurts you’ve suffered. I see the strength it has taken to survive those hurts. And I see your potential greatness. I see kindness and generosity within you as well as the fiery passion of a warrior born, a true servant of The One God. I know you are a good man, just as I know you will one day father my children. The One God wills this.”

He felt light-headed, as though he might faint. Pía had filled his head with too many concepts and questions for his mind to latch onto one successfully. His shock at her words must have been evident in his face, because she laughed. It was musical and joyous, as naked and honest as her words. It was happening so fast. He had only met her that morning, yet she was speaking of having children with him! But the truth in Pía’s amber eyes was as veritable as steel. Their meeting was indeed the will of The One God, and he could doubt her words no more than he could doubt the veracity of the words of the Prophet.

He recognized another indomitable truth as well. Her presence somehow filled the deficiencies of his incomplete soul and brought joy to his scarred heart. He was not falling in love with Pía Del Whitewraith of House Ximena.

He had fallen.

He took her into his arms and kissed her again, more happy than he had ever thought possible. In but a few short hours, he had experienced his first kill and his first kiss.

He liked them both, he realized.

He liked them both a lot.

Paladin lay awake, writhing on the cold and unyielding floor in an effort to find comfort. But the chill bred by the ceramic floor tiles chewed through his meager blankets and gnawed on his bones, denying him sleep. The hour was late and his mind and body required rest for the morrow’s archery trial. He tried to think of things more pleasant than his parents’ anger or the cold, hard floor. He fixed an image of Esmeralda in his mind. What would it be like to hold her hand? Or kiss her? But thinking of her pouty lips and hypnotic eyes only reminded him of how she had fluttered those eyes and quirked those lips at Isooba, which of course led his thoughts back to Torneo and the grudges he would settle with both Isooba and Fox the Runt.

He could defeat Isooba, even if he limited himself to one martial system, but Fox the Runt was among the most skilled fighters in the world, youngling or adult. Sensei Quicksteel himself had said Fox the Runt was more adept at Ashi-Kobushi than Makoto the Legionslayer, generally acknowledged by every discipline as the greatest fighter in the world. If Paladin didn’t employ his blended martial system against Fox the Runt, he would lose. He would be wasting precious energy and concentration on restraint instead of committing every thought and action to victory. But if he didn’t limit himself, he might be universally shunned as Rebelde had predicted. And so his thoughts circled one another until he could stand it no more. He cleared his mind of all things Oestean and imagined what it would be like to study elemancy in Mji a Dhahabu with his babu.

Those musings put a smile on his weary face, though few of his imaginings involved actual study. He fantasized of life in the Nchi ya Kusini as a respected elemancer, surrounded by adoring legions of tall, sleek, dark-skinned Kusini Watu women.

Or he would become a fulgimancer. House Kamau had produced some of the most powerful wielders of mance-lightning in history, including Rebelde the Darkdragón. Paladin placed his hands behind his head and grinned so hard his ears were pushed out of place. In his
mind’s eye, he saw himself battling hordes of the Nchi ya Kusini’s cruelest villains. The wicked rogues would attack as an army, and he would blast them to bits, hurling thunderbolts as if they were javelins. Feasts would be held in his honor. He would be celebrated and revered. He would be the hero that hundreds of girls dreamed about every night—beautiful women with full bosoms and round backsides. Gods be good, what a life he would have!

“So, you want to become a mancer, do you?” Jambiax’s voice startled him and he cried out like a kicked puppy. He wondered if perhaps Jambiax was called the Phantom because of this uncanny ability to move with such stealth. Asking would be a waste of time. Jambiax would reveal that secret at his leisure. Which very well might mean never. Mbarika sat silently on Jambiax’s shoulder, holding Paladin in her ruby gaze.

“Sí, Babu,” he said when he caught his breath. “Were you reading my mind?”

“Do not be foolish, boy. Such a thing is impossible.” Jambiax took a deep pull from his pipe of dark wood. “For the most part.”

The pipe had been given as a gift from Walküre, meticulously carved in the image of a Kusini Watu woman that, regrettably, had neither a full bosom nor round backside. But she wore a beguiling smile on her upturned face. The carved figure held the pipe’s bowl in her outstretched hands and sat cross-legged on a bed of her own impossibly long lionlockes. The hair flowed behind her, creating the stem of the pipe. Jambiax exhaled a long plume of iron-gray smoke and said, “Your father told me about Temple Seisakusha, and all the temples before that. What in the world would possess you to blend the disciplines?”

“The chupacabra attack,” Paladin said. Remembering made him shudder. “The night it killed Ladrillo.”

Jambiax nodded. He had been told the story a year or so after it had happened. “You are lucky to have survived that, Mjukuu.”

“I know it. After I escaped the monster, I prayed to become a great warrior that I might one day avenge Ladrillo.”

“Which god did you pray to?”

“All of them,” Paladin said. “I’m descended from them all. I venerate them equally. I wanted all their help. That’s when I knew I must combine all their gifts.”

“Such a simple idea,” Jambiax said. “In hindsight, it’s hard to understand why no one has ever blended the systems before now.”

Paladin shrugged. “Not so hard. It’s caused nothing but trouble, Babu.”

“Then it must be truly revolutionary,” Jambiax said. “Stupid people despise innovation, and most people are tremendously stupid.”

Paladin chuckled. “Perhaps I’ll be an innovative mancer as well, Babu. Will you take me to Mji a Dhahabu? Will you sponsor me at Temple Motojicho?”

Jambiax grinned and shrugged his bony shoulders without committing. “We will see, Mjukuu. If you possess the faculties of an elemancer, and if your parents approve, I will be happy to take you to Mji a Dhahabu. But know that it will be no easy task, mastering the elements. Only a small fraction of those who take up the studies ever graduate to become mancers. Most become cripples. Or corpses.”

“I would be careful, Babu,” Paladin promised with all his might. “I know elemancy is perilous.”

Jambiax eyed him in silence, taking his measure. After a moment’s deliberation, he seemed to resolve something in his mind. He tamped out the pipe in the hearth and took a seat at the table. Paladin joined him, watching quietly while Jambiax took a packet of oiled parchment from one of the pockets in his robes and carefully unwrapped it. It was filled with stinking flecks of some dried-up plant.

“What is that, Babu?” Paladin said, moving close to inspect the pungent grayish-green herb.

Jambiax held up a hand and motioned him away. “It is precious. So stand back. I do not want your excitable youngling breaths scattering it to the ether. In Kikwetu it is called
maizi
. It grows naturally only near Fantasmaderas. This ugly-looking weed is difficult to foster and as prized as the most expensive gems.”

“Maizi,” Paladin repeated. “Why is it so special?”

Jambiax used an old cloth to clean his pipe thoroughly. “It unlocks the soul element in someone like you, allowing someone like me to measure it and thereby judge the strength of your pneuma.”

“My pneuma?” Paladin frowned. “But that’s the soul element. I’m not interested in animancy. I want to learn pyromancy. Or fulgimancy like Papá. Or—ow!” Paladin rubbed his head where Jambiax had thumped him with his pipe. “Why did you do that, Babu?”

“Because you talk like an Oestean fool. Western mancers learn pyromancy before they learn anything. Their entire discipline revolves around Creador’s element, which is why they are so ineffectual. Their method of study cripples them. All mancers are animancers first and foremost. The mancer uses the soul element to summon the other elements, to bind and weave them. You cannot be a strong mancer if your pneuma is weak. Your father is a mighty fulgimancer because of his vast spirit. His is a mighty pneuma. Few mancers even attempt to tame the lightning. It is the single most difficult and dangerous field of elemancy. Rebelde is a master of mance-lightning because he is a master of the soul element.”

Jambiax leaned back in the rickety old chair, losing himself in memory. He grinned with pride for his son. His dark eyes gleamed with it. “Ah, Mjukuu, they still marvel at your father’s accomplishments in Mji a Dhahabu. The mother of fulgimancy, Nthanda Wingu-Zitole, was in
her forties when she put forth the Theory of Manced Lightning, and it took her nearly thirteen years to prove it. Rebelde mastered Wingu-Zitole’s theory at but fifteen years of age, the youngest mancer ever to do so.”

Jambiax came out of his reverie and began packing the maizi herb into his pipe. He glanced at Paladin and said, “Do you know Motojicho’s Laws of Elemancy?”

The look in his babu’s eyes dared him not to know. Paladin thought he might get another thump on the head if he were ignorant of Motojicho’s Laws, but he had learned the rules of elemancy before he had learned to count. He held up a finger and said, “One: elemancy is the manipulation of the elements fire, turf, air, water, and spirit. To master these elements is to master one’s self.”

Paladin held up a second finger. “Two: an elemancy exertion is equal to or greater than its physical equivalent. The limits of one’s body are the limits of one’s elemancy.”