"This you would do for the stranger?" asked Naltecona, as if Halloran were not there. The question needed no reply. Both Hal and Poshtli noted that the ruler had shown no surprise when told of the attack. Now he looked at his nephew appraisingly.
"The loss is to the order of the Eagles. I am proud of you, my nephew. The stranger shall be safe under my roof. I shall make the decree myself. As to punishment of the transgressors, your weapons have seen to that."
Hal was about to point out that the Jaguars must have received their orders from somewhere, but he caught Poshtli's warning glance. Instead, he nodded and sensed Naltecona's relief as the counselor led them farther along the walkway.
The beast in the next cage caused Hal's pulse to race. The largest creature in the menagerie, it sprang at the bars as the humans passed. Its lionlike face contorted into a mask of hatred as it slashed with huge paws. A pair of great, leathery wings flapped fruitlessly from the creature's shoulders. Barely visible beneath the creature's flowing mane was a ring of brilliant feathers encircling the beast's neck. It opened its mouth wide, and Hal clapped his hands over his ears.
"You know of the hakuna," said Naltecona, noting Hal's protective gesture. The soldier was embarassed when the creature spouted an incongruously mild squeak. "This one has been altered. Its roar has been muffled by that collar of pluma"
"Good idea," grunted Halloran sheepishly. "The one time I met one of those things, it knocked me flat on my back with its roar."
"Rare is the man who gets up to tell that tale" observed Poshtli as they reached the next cage.
This one was empty, but also unique in that its cage was a screen of thin saplings, not the heavier but wider-spaced poles that enclosed most of the other cages. On the wail at the back of the cage, outlined in brilliant mosaics of turquoise, jade, and obsidian, was the figure of a long snake. It was unusual, both for the pair of wings that sprouted from its body and for the feathers that appeared to cover it in lieu of scales.
"The couatl." Hal identified the creature before the others could speak.
"You are also familiar with the feathered snake?" inquired Naltecona, surprised.
"Indeed. It was a couatl that brought Erix and I together. It gave her the gift of tongues. That's how she learned to speak the language of Faerun."
He noticed Poshtli looking at him in shock, Naltecona with frank disbelief.
"You never mentioned this!" accused the warrior.
"I'm sorry!" Hal was taken aback. "Should I have?"
"The couatl is the harbinger of Qotal" Naltecona explained. "It has not been seen in these lands since the Butterfly God departed for the east, long centuries ago. You have been granted an experience that the patriarchs of Qotal would give their lives for!"
"We encountered the creature in Payit. In fact, it saved me from certain death. It talked a lot, and it didn't seem to like me very much."
Poshtli and his uncle exchanged looks of amazement. The ruler turned back to Hal and stared into his eyes with a look of penetrating scrutiny.
"I must ask you some questions. This man, Cordell… he is indeed a man?"
"Of course. A great man, but — as I have said before — nothing more than a man."
"Tell me, have you seen him wounded?"
"Many times," replied Halloran, wondering at the ruler's line of questioning. "During a battle, years ago, with the Northmen of Moonshae, Cordell was almost killed. One of the raiders cut him from his horse with a blow of his axe. The edge of the weapon split his breastplate and laid open his chest from here to here." Halloran gestured from his collarbone to his navel.
"And he lived?"
"Only because the Bishou — that's our priest — used every power at his command. It was the mercy of Helm that saved his life." Or something, Hal thought, still ambiguous about the role of the gods in all this.
"And Cordell… he, too, worships this god?"
"As I've said, yes. I don't understand what you're getting at."
Naltecona stepped away and then turned suddenly back, his pluma cloak circling around him. "Is it possible that Cordell is a god? Can he be Qotal, returning to the True World to claim his rightful throne?"
Hal's jaw dropped. "Cordell, a god? No. He's a man like you and me — a man who breathes like us, who loves women and food and drink. He's a leader of men, but he's unquestionably a man himself!"
Halloran didn't see Naltecona's face, for the ruler once again turned away. Perhaps the soldier wouldn't have understood the sly smile playing across those regal features, but he would have understood the words the counselor mouthed, which is why Naltecona said them silently. A man who lives, and thus a man who can be killed.
Hoxitl trembled as he entered the Highcave. Never had he so feared the result of a visit to the Ancient Ones as he did now. Two young priests, promising apprentices, accompanied him. He bade them to follow him into the cave instead of taking the usual apprentices' role of waiting outside. The high priest couldn't bear to face the drow alone.
A flash of smoke puffed from the caldron of the Darkfyre, and then he saw them: a dozen black-robed figures standing immobile around the huge, seething mass of crimson heat.
"Why do you come to us?" hissed one, the Ancestor.
"The girl — the girl has disappeared again. She departed Nexal before we struck. We are searching for her, but we do not know where she is — yet. But soon — "
"Silence!" The Ancestor raised a black-cloaked hand. For a moment, Hoxitl stood frozen in terror, wondering if the gesture meant his death.
Instead, the Ancient One flicked his hand toward one apprentice. The young man gasped, and then moaned in deep, wracking pain. He staggered and stumbled, then stiffened spasmodically and toppled forward into the caldron. The other young priest turned to flee, but the Ancestor moved his hand slightly and this one, too, gasped and choked, then fell into the crimson coals.
The apprentices writhed and twitched, slowly sinking into the horridly pulsing fuel of the Darkfyre. Soundless screams twisted their mouths. One turned desperately to face Hoxitl, and the high priest flinched at the look of hopeless agony on the man's face. Then he disappeared into the gory mess. In seconds, his companion followed.
Nearly gagging, Hoxitl stumbled back on weak knees. For moments, he feared to raise his eyes, but the Ancestor did nothing to him. Finally he took a breath, beginning to believe that he would be allowed to live.
Weak with relief, Hoxitl mentally congratulated himself on bringing the two others. Had he been alone, he felt certain that the Ancestor would have punished him directly.
"Do not fail me again — or I shall come to you!" The Ancestor's white eyes burned forth from the darkened depths of his hood.
Hoxitl bowed silently and then scuttled away.
"That cloak," said Lotil. "Where did you get it?"
Erix looked at her father in surprise. Her cape from the feather-worker in Nexal lay beside the door. She knew that Lotil hadn't touched it, and yet his blind eyes were now directed toward the garment with the first hint of focus she had detected.
"Can you see it?" she asked in wonder. She felt a confusing mixture of emotions, now that the initial shock of their meeting was beginning to fade. An overriding sense of happiness warmed her, to know that her father was alive and that they were together again. Still, he looked so very much older — as if he had aged far more than the ten years she had been gone — and this truth she found heartbreaking.
Lotil shook his head sadly. "I can sense the pluma, that's all. Tell me, child, where did it come from?"
She told him of the craftsman in the market, of his insistence that she take it, and her inability to find him later. She was surprised when Lotil smiled knowingly. "Do you know someone like this?" Her father, a renowned worker of pluma for many decades, was familiar with most of the masters of his craft.