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Authors: Cleve Lamison
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laughing. He tossed it on the table, impressed for the first time in his life by her wit. “Funny, Esmeralda!”
She furrowed her brow and cocked her pretty head slightly to one side, her lovely eyes as empty as a Seisakushan monk’s purse.
“What?” she said. “What’s funny? Do you not like it?”
It took him a moment to realize the gift had not been given in jest. He grabbed the toy from the table and clutched it to his heart. “I—It’s funny that you should pick such a perfect gift for me. I like it well.”
He grinned stupidly over the child’s toy,
la bola en la taza
, a little ball attached by string to a wooden cup. He tried not to be offended. After all, her intentions were pure when she gave it, but gods be good, it rankled.
“Gracias, Esmeralda,” he said with all the sincerity he could muster.
“
De nada
, Paladin,” she said. “I thought you would like it. I loved
la bola en la taza
when I was a child.”
He clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth might shatter.
Isooba’s lips spread wide with satisfaction. It was the one time all night when the older boy’s tongue was still. Then again, what was there to say? Esmeralda’s gift said it all. Though Paladin was only a year or so younger, she considered him a child, not even worthy to compete with Isooba for her affections. Paladin wondered what she would give Isooba for his birthday. Then decided he would rather not know.
There were but two wrapped packages left on the table: one from Walküre and one from Rebelde. Walküre had been hinting that she might make him a new longbow, and all his life Rebelde had promised to consider giving him his first sword on his sixteenth birthday. He was about to open the gift from Walküre, but an exchange between Isooba and Drud stole his attention.
“… I have improved my lance work as well,” Isooba was saying. “With my skill, I am sure to score more rings than any youngling in the Thirteen.”
“I’ll be competing this year, Isooba,” Drud said. “I am a fair horseman and hope to score many rings as well.”
Isooba smirked. “I’m sure you’ll pick up one or two, but don’t be too disappointed if you lose, Drud. Experience counts. This will be my third Torneo, did you know that?”
“Blood and Thunder, Isooba!” Paladin said. “There’s no one in Santuario del Guerrero who doesn’t know how many times you’ve competed. You’ve been crowing about it for weeks!”
“I—I’m not bragging,” Isooba said, offended. “But I will perform well this year, all my meisters say so, and there is no better measure of a warrior’s skill than Torneo.”
“Torneo is but a game. A warrior’s skill is measured by war. And as I recall, last year you were amongst the first younglings eliminated from all three trials!”
There was heat in Isooba’s tone now. “Don’t mock me until you’ve stepped onto the game field, chico. If you had ever competed, you would understand that Torneo is war.”
“You cannot be serious! War is steel swords, not wooden bokken.”
“True warriors are deadly with wood or steel,” Isooba countered.
“True warriors compete on true battlefields and Golanv determines their victories, not referees in red cloaks. War is blood and death and—”
“Many competitors have left the arena on the back of Golanv the Death Raven! Surely your father has explained this to you.”
The remark stung, but he held on to his temper before it undid him as it had in Círculo del Triunfo. He spoke calmly. “Torneo deaths are accidents. The goal of Torneo is not to kill or injure your opponent. It is to pretend to. The best pretender wins.”
Isooba turned up his nose contemptuously. “Spoken like a silly boy who has never competed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means a niño like you should heed the voice of experience. When you grow the
cojones
to face me on the Melee field, I will teach you the truth of Torneo.”
“For true? You will
She furrowed her brow and cocked her pretty head slightly to one side, her lovely eyes as empty as a Seisakushan monk’s purse.
“What?” she said. “What’s funny? Do you not like it?”
It took him a moment to realize the gift had not been given in jest. He grabbed the toy from the table and clutched it to his heart. “I—It’s funny that you should pick such a perfect gift for me. I like it well.”
He grinned stupidly over the child’s toy,
la bola en la taza
, a little ball attached by string to a wooden cup. He tried not to be offended. After all, her intentions were pure when she gave it, but gods be good, it rankled.
“Gracias, Esmeralda,” he said with all the sincerity he could muster.
“
De nada
, Paladin,” she said. “I thought you would like it. I loved
la bola en la taza
when I was a child.”
He clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth might shatter.
Isooba’s lips spread wide with satisfaction. It was the one time all night when the older boy’s tongue was still. Then again, what was there to say? Esmeralda’s gift said it all. Though Paladin was only a year or so younger, she considered him a child, not even worthy to compete with Isooba for her affections. Paladin wondered what she would give Isooba for his birthday. Then decided he would rather not know.
There were but two wrapped packages left on the table: one from Walküre and one from Rebelde. Walküre had been hinting that she might make him a new longbow, and all his life Rebelde had promised to consider giving him his first sword on his sixteenth birthday. He was about to open the gift from Walküre, but an exchange between Isooba and Drud stole his attention.
“… I have improved my lance work as well,” Isooba was saying. “With my skill, I am sure to score more rings than any youngling in the Thirteen.”
“I’ll be competing this year, Isooba,” Drud said. “I am a fair horseman and hope to score many rings as well.”
Isooba smirked. “I’m sure you’ll pick up one or two, but don’t be too disappointed if you lose, Drud. Experience counts. This will be my third Torneo, did you know that?”
“Blood and Thunder, Isooba!” Paladin said. “There’s no one in Santuario del Guerrero who doesn’t know how many times you’ve competed. You’ve been crowing about it for weeks!”
“I—I’m not bragging,” Isooba said, offended. “But I will perform well this year, all my meisters say so, and there is no better measure of a warrior’s skill than Torneo.”
“Torneo is but a game. A warrior’s skill is measured by war. And as I recall, last year you were amongst the first younglings eliminated from all three trials!”
There was heat in Isooba’s tone now. “Don’t mock me until you’ve stepped onto the game field, chico. If you had ever competed, you would understand that Torneo is war.”
“You cannot be serious! War is steel swords, not wooden bokken.”
“True warriors are deadly with wood or steel,” Isooba countered.
“True warriors compete on true battlefields and Golanv determines their victories, not referees in red cloaks. War is blood and death and—”
“Many competitors have left the arena on the back of Golanv the Death Raven! Surely your father has explained this to you.”
The remark stung, but he held on to his temper before it undid him as it had in Círculo del Triunfo. He spoke calmly. “Torneo deaths are accidents. The goal of Torneo is not to kill or injure your opponent. It is to pretend to. The best pretender wins.”
Isooba turned up his nose contemptuously. “Spoken like a silly boy who has never competed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means a niño like you should heed the voice of experience. When you grow the
cojones
to face me on the Melee field, I will teach you the truth of Torneo.”
“For true? You will
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