Free Full-Blood Half-Breed by Cleve Lamison Page B

wrong.
    Walküre stood next to Paladin, glaring at her husband, hands on her hips. “He has made a mistake, Rebelde. There is no need to be cruel.”
    Rebelde ignored his wife and stared at Paladin, frowning as if seeing his son for the first time. “Sí, boy, I was a man when I competed, a destitute foreign man exiled from his homeland with few prospects and fewer friends. Many were the days when even a scrap of bread was a luxury beyond me. I had no warm safe home with mamá and papá to see to my every need. I had little choice in competing. Without those Torneo winnings, I would have turned beggar, thief, or cutthroat. It is with that money that your mother and I built the smithy into a success, providing you with home and hearth and everything your pampered little heart might desire, indulgences paid for with the blood I shed in that gods-damned arena! Muumba’s Lute, Paladin! I accidentally killed my best friend during Torneo! Do these sacrifices mean nothing to you?”
    “Sí, Papá! Of course they do—”
    “No! I think not! You piss on my sacrifices!” Rebelde’s eyes were moist now, and his gaze lit upon the table of birthday presents, settling on the sword-shaped package he had set out for Paladin. A look of horror flashed across his umber face. Rebelde snatched the package from the table, cradling it like it was a precious infant rescued from harm.
    “Papá, please!” Paladin said, grabbing after the sword. Had it been a conscious act, he wouldn’t have done it. His mind understood the futility of asking Rebelde for anything, especially a weapon, at a moment when Rebelde held such little faith in him. But his heart understood only want. This was not just a sword, not even just a famed Darkdragón sword. This was a thing created by his papá’s own hands, a singular expression of paternal affection. Gods be good, he just wanted to look at it.
    Rebelde slapped his hands away.
    “Enough!” Walküre said, taking Rebelde’s massive hand into her slender one. “Can you not see his remorse? Can you not see how deeply your words wound him?”
    Walküre took Rebelde’s hand and led him to the one window in the room. She opened it and allowed the night breeze to waft in, but it did little to cool the heated emotions.
    “You know him well, Rebel,” Walküre said. “He is a good boy. He is simply trying to find his way. I have heard your father speak on your youngling foolishness. Shall we compare your youthful escapades to Paladin’s? I think you would suffer in the comparison.”
    Thank the gods for Mamá
, Paladin thought. If there was one person in the whole of the Thirteen who could make Rebelde hear reason, it was Walküre the Cruelarrow of Mayumi’s Line. Paladin wanted to throw his arms around her and shower her with kisses.
    “He would risk his life,” Rebelde said, stowing the sword in a trunk under the window and locking it, “and the lives of his friends for a mere game. This goes beyond youthful folly.”
    Rebelde grew distant, lost in thought, his face weary and sad. Perhaps he thought of his friend, Mwenye za Graybeast of House Kifaru, the man he had killed during Melee, years ago. Paladin put himself in Rebelde’s place for a moment. It sickened him to think that he might accidentally kill Drud in the arena, or Isooba, or even Fox the Runt. And if he did, would he not feel the same way as Rebelde? Could he live with Drud’s blood on his hands? Isooba’s? He didn’t think so. Fox the Runt, however …
    “Rebelde,” Walküre said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Rebel …”
    Rebelde removed her hand gently but firmly and closed his eyes. And for a handful of seconds, the three of them stood in stillness. There was only the sound of Rebelde’s loud, angry breathing. Paladin and Walküre watched him quake with emotion. Gods only knew what he was seeing behind his closed eyes.
    Though he was but a smith here in Prosperidad, Rebelde had been a
mashujaa
, the Kusini Watu