Full-Blood Half-Breed by Cleve Lamison Read Free Book Online Page B

gladness. Everyone joined in. Almost.
    The oldest younglings in the room, Isooba von Joyful and Esmeralda n’Illustrious, were more interested in private whispers than public singing. They stood slightly out of sight of the rest of the party guests, in the hall behind the hearth, near the back of the house. While the guests sang, Isooba and Esmeralda leaned against the stairwell, sharing secrets and giggling. Paladin tried to keep his face impassive as he watched them, but jealousy came over him like a sudden fever. Isooba’s whispers were so intimate that his lips were close enough to put kisses on Esmeralda’s ear, and she giggled like a lackwit. A very pretty lackwit.
    Esmeralda’s features were an exotic blend of Oestean and Shimabito. It was possible she wasn’t the prettiest girl in Santuario del Guerrero, but Paladin had yet to see one prettier. Over the last year, he had done everything he could think of to win a smile or kindness from her. He had rhapsodized poetically on her beauty, observing that nothing of the mere mortal world could compare to it. He had shared with her only the most sublime quips in his vast repertoire of witticisms, and when polite jests had not moved her, he had launched into the bawdy. When that had failed to win a chuckle, titter, or even a smile, he had changed tactics, employing the most flamboyant romantic gesture he could think of.
    Phoenix Eyrie Castle was famous the world over for the flawless crimson dahlias grown only in its gardens, and Paladin knew one of the gardeners, Señora Bloomtender, from Templo del Guerrero. For months he had begged Señora Bloomtender to allow him fifteen minutes in the gardens, that he might pick a handful of pretties for Esmeralda. Señora Bloomtender had finally relented, but only after he had bribed her with a full silver penique, the whole of his life savings.
    He had picked thirteen of the most perfect flowers ever to exist in the world, wrapped the bouquet in a bow, and presented them to Esmeralda for Festival del Año Nuevo. She had accepted the flowers grudgingly, with only polite thanks. She had even worn one twined through her curls. But when he sought her out that night, she had ignored him. She spoke not a single word to him during the entire festival. He overheard several people compliment her on the dahlia, but not once did she mention it as a gift from him. It had been amongst the most miserable nights of his life. And since then, every one of his attempts to woo her had earned him only courteous scorn.
    The revelers finished singing the birthday song and the young people lined up for Paladin’s least favorite birthday tradition,
el Puño del Guerrero
, “the Warrior’s Fist.” They would take turns punching him, one blow for every year of life and a final punch for good luck. Tradition dictated the good-luck punch be as solid as the puncher could throw at the risk of insulting the birthday person’s fortitude. To pull that final punch would be the same as calling Paladin frail and weak.
    Sometimes he wished for the insult, especially when it came to Drud. It seemed it had only been a few weeks ago that the purple bruise Drud had given him for his last birthday had finally faded completely. Paladin was left-handed, so Drud grabbed his right arm and hurled a jab into his shoulder.
“Uno!”
    It stung. For true it stung. But not as much as last year’s punches. Either Drud had gotten weaker or Paladin had gotten tougher. Like Walküre, Drud’s father was Nord and his mother Shimabito. But where Walküre was Nord tall and Shimabito slender, Drud was just the opposite: a squat stump of bulging muscles covered by a layer of fat.
    Drud slammed punches into his arm, counting them out in the traditional language, Lengüoeste.
“Dos! Tres! Cuatro …!”
    Paladin barely noticed the blows. His eyes kept drifting over to the corridor next to the stairwell. Neither Isooba nor Esmeralda had bothered to acknowledge him since he’d arrived,