"This man who came with you, the one you call Halloran, has been expected," Chical explained. "There are some who wish to speak with him. But there are others who wish to see his heart given to Zaltec at the earliest possible time."

Poshtli sat up straight. "Is this the way we treat the guests of Naltecona?" he demanded.

"Silence!" Chical's voice grew momentarily harsh, then it softened. "It is not certain, but the cries for his heart come from the very highest authority! And, as yet, he is not Naltecona's guest – he is yours."

"But my uncle will welcome him!" protested the young Eagle. In truth, Poshtli grew suddenly concerned. He had been surprised when his uncle, the Revered Counselor, had been too busy to see him this afternoon, following his return to the city. Now he began to wonder if Naltecona had avoided him for a different reason.

"That is not certain," interjected Atzil, "for other voices may carry more weight."

"More weight? What higher authority can there be than the Revered Counselor?"

"Zaltec himself," said Chical simply. "Zaltec may desire his heart."

"Through the words of his Ancient Ones?" asked Poshtli, unable to keep the scorn from his voice. He remembered the death of the Ancient One called Spirali, slain by himself and Halloran. Hal had referred to the creature as a drow and had explained that there was nothing supernatural about them, though there was a great deal that was evil. The warrior knew that his comrades weren't ready for that tale yet.

"Do not underestimate the powers of Zaltec," warned Chical – "You are young and strong. We know of your bravery, and your recent accomplishment even suggests a capacity for wisdom." The venerable Eagle smiled slightly, taking the sting from his words. "But you are no match for the cult of Zaltec."

"The man comes to Nexal under my protection! Anyone who tries to take him will first have to deal with me!"

"You are a proud Eagle, my son." Chical met Poshtli's gaze squarely. "The order is also proud of you. Never has one so young proven himself of such worth. You have commanded the army on campaigns to gather many prisoners; you have fought and bested the bravest warriors of Kultaka and Pezelac. Now you have embarked on a quest for a vision and have gained that vision to return with this stranger.

"You are a great Eagle Warrior, Poshtli," Chical continued, his voice stern. "And you have sworn your obedience to the order. If you are told to leave the stranger in the hands of others, you will obey."

Chical rose suddenly, with the fluid motion of a much younger man. Atzil, too, stood.

"You have no choice," concluded Chical softly. He and Atzil turned and left the lodge.

Poshtli sat alone, dumbfounded. He stared into the air, seeking an answer. But all he saw was the smoke and the ash and the steam.

The white-skinned hand held the quill lightly, carefully scribing the symbols from the scroll into the leather-bound tome. As each symbol was copied, it flared briefly into bluish light before disappearing from the scroll. Finally the spell was reproduced in the book, and Darien tossed the now-useless parchment of the scroll aside.

Many blank pages remained in that volume, yet this was the last of the wizard's scrolls. The rest of her incantations would remain lost to her…

Until she recovered her spellbook.

Darien's tight lips curled into a sneer of hatred as she thought of the treacherous Halloran. His betrayal of the legion, his escape from imprisonment, these were only minor matters to the elfmage. But, she vowed as she had vowed many times before, for the theft of her spellbook, he would die.

Shaking her head, she saw with irritation that sunrise had begun to color the sky beyond the window of her room. Outside, she heard Cordell and his officers barking commands, preparing the legion for the march.

Unconsciously tightening her hood around her face, though the hateful sun would not crest the horizon for several more minutes, she pondered her own goals. Her hatred for Halloran simmered low as she considered more immediate concerns.

The march on Nexal would begin today. She sensed Cordell's passion for the mission and knew that she could do nothing to alter his aims. For a moment, she felt as though she was losing control of things, that events had started to move forward without her. Grimly she shook off the notion, standing and gathering her own possessions to herself. She couldn't allow that to happen, couldn't let the future plot its own course.

Control – her control – meant everything.

"Poshtli didn't return here last night, did he?" asked Halloran. He had slept late and now wandered sleepily into the enclosed garden, where he found Erix.

"Nor this morning," she replied. She sat quietly, looking thoughtfully into the garden's fountain. Idly she picked up a peach and took a bite of the juicy fruit. Halloran noticed his own hunger and took a half melon from the bowl of fruit that had been delivered to their quarters.

He carried the leather-bound spellbook with him. At first he had intended to sit out here in the garden and study it. His early training as an apprentice magic-user lingered in his mind, at least enough so that he could understand some of the simpler portions of Darien's book.

But now such a pursuit seemed a dull way to start the day, and so he returned the tome to his knapsack. There he found the two potion bottles. One, he knew, caused invisibility, but the effects of the second were unknown. He picked up the second bottle, looking at the clear glass vial curiously.

"No!" Erixitl's scream almost caused him to drop the vial. Instead he set it back in the pack and looked at her in surprise. Her face had paled with fear.

"That one – it frightens me!" she said softly. "Throw it away!"

"That doesn't make any sense!" he argued. He resolved to sample the vial and learn its contents sometime when Erix wasn't watching.

"So there has been no word from Poshtli?" Hal ventured.

Erix seemed relieved at the new topic of discussion. "I wonder what he told his uncle," she mused. "How much do you think Naltecona has heard about your legion?"

"It's not 'my' legion anymore."

Hal vividly remembered his last view of his former comrades, the elite company of lancers. Under the command of the brutal Captain Alvarro, they had ridden amok, stampeding like animals among the Mazticans who had gathered to watch the battle at Ulatos. Uncounted hundreds had died simply to slake the man's thirst for blood. Indeed, it had been Alvarro's charge toward Erix that had forced Hal to take up arms against the legion.

"I'm certain Naltecona has heard enough to make him concerned." Halloran spoke, as did she, in Nexalan, now feeling quite comfortable with the tongue.

"Poshtli will make him understand!" exclaimed Erix enthusiastically. "I know he will. He seems terribly wise for one so young."

Halloran turned away, suddenly tense. He looked at the beauty around them, but all he could see was a strange, foreign world. What did Maztica know of wisdom? Of understanding? These people marched complacently up the steep pyramids, offering their lives and their hearts to a god!

What kind of god would ask such a price? And what kind of people would obey? Maztica remained a dark puzzle to Hal, a place that made him feel very much lost and alone.

Yet, despite his loneliness, there was Erix. Hal couldn't help but contrast the frightening aspect of Maztica with her. Even if he had another place to go, Hal wasn't certain that he could leave her.

"Do you remember that night, back in Payit, when we thought we had escaped?" he asked her. The warmth of that night, which they had spent sleeping – albeit chastely – in each other's arms was a memory that seemed to grow warmer with each reminiscence. It had been a time before their enemies surrounded them, when the land had seemed to beckon them with opportunity.