He called upon all of his restraint, keeping his voice dispassionate as he addressed Naltecona.

"I am grateful for your invitation," he said quietly. "But I cannot attend your ritual. My god will not permit it"

Naltecona took a sudden step backward, almost as if he had been struck. His eyes narrowed. Over his shoulder, Hal saw Hoxitl's smoldering gaze break into a raging fire of hatred. Colon, on the other hand, looked mildly amused. Time seemed to come to a halt as Naltecona stared at Halloran.

"Very well," said the counselor abruptly, whirling around and stalking back to his throne, the feathered cape floating dreamily through the air behind him. For a moment, Hal stood still, wondering if he should leave. Then Naltecona stopped and turned back to his guest. The Revered Counselor's eyes gleamed like cold, black ice.

"Take his gifts to his apartments," he barked at the two slaves who had brought the parcels forward. Then he turned back to Hal. "You are dismissed," he said shortly.

Erixitl paced around the luxurious apartment. The lush garden, the splashing pool, the fabulous ornaments, everything seemed suddenly like a metal cage that imprisoned her spirit and sealed away her future.

Something about the pool reminded her of a stream she remembered from her childhood – a crystalline brook that splashed through the town of Palul, her native village.

Palul. The town that she knew was a bare two days' journey away, now that she had reached Nexal. She had been stolen from her home ten years ago by a Kultakan Jaguar Knight who had sold her into slavery. From there, she had been traded to a priest from distant Payit, where she had been taken just before the strangers' arrival.

But now she had come back to the land of Nexala, to the city of Nexal. She wondered if her father still lived, if he still worked his colorful pluma. Unconsciously she touched the amulet at her throat, her father's gift to her. The feathered token had power, she knew – power that had saved her life more than once.

Lotil the featherworker had been a good father, a simple man who worked with his hands and loved color. Indeed, he used varieties of hues and shades in ways Erixitl had never seen elsewhere.

She remembered, too, her brother, Shatil, who was just beginning his apprenticeship to the priesthood of Zaltec at the time of her capture. Had he been accepted into the order? Or had his heart been given to that bloody god in ultimate atonement, a common end for apprentices who failed?

She had always assumed that she would return to visit her village once the journey to Nexal had been accomplished. Now they were here, and Palul seemed to beckon. Halloran, who had once been so lost in Maztica, now seemed self-assured and at least moderately fluent in the Nexalan tongue. Still, she knew that she didn't want to leave him. Indeed, her thoughts about Halloran had grown increasingly, disturbingly warm. She wanted him to need her.

And Poshtli – what had happened to Poshtli, anyway? The Eagle Knight certainly didn't require her presence. Let both of those men get along without her, she decided suddenly. Turning toward the door, she momentarily considered marching straight out of the city and striking out on the road to Palul.

But she stopped when she saw the tall figure at the door. Poshtli nodded once and stepped into the apartment. Though he didn't wear his helmet, his cloak of black and white feathers made his shoulders broad, and his eagle-claw boots seemed to add authority to his step.

The knight looked around, apparently to see if Hal was present. Then he stepped toward her.

For a moment, she saw him as a magnificent man. He was such a grand warrior, so tall, so proud, so handsome! He reached his hands out to her shoulders, and the look in his dark brown eyes was warm with smoldering heat. Not fully understanding why, she shyly removed his hands and turned away from him.

"Has anyone bothered you here?" he asked, his voice strangely intense.

"Bothered us?" She turned back to him in surprise. "No, of course not. What do you mean?"

Again he fixed her eyes with that look of intensity, and she squirmed under his gaze, "There may be danger," he said, suddenly looking away, as if distracted. "More than I anticipated." He looked back at her, and she heard the deadly seriousness of his voice. "Erixitl, please call me if you see anything that frightens you – anything at all!"

Erix suddenly felt alarmed. "What is it? Why should we worry?"

"It's nothing," the warrior scoffed, abruptly casual. "I want to make sure the palace slaves are treating you well. And Halloran? He… is well?"

"Of course he's well!" Erix detected a strain in Poshtli's voice as he mentioned the other man's name, and she felt a little thrill. "He's gone to speak with your uncle. Naltecona didn't desire to see me, however. I suppose I… What is it?" She noted, with annoyance and then alarm, that Poshtli had ceased to listen to her.

"Remember, I shall be nearby," said the knight. "Do not hesitate!" Once again that smoldering heat flushed his eyes.

"If you need help, call me." Then, with a swirl of black and white feathers, Poshtli was gone.

The long road inland twisted back and forth across the face of the mountain. Like a long snake, part feathered and part armored, the column wound along the turns of the trail, slowly creeping away from the coast.

The Golden Legion marched at the head of the column, the mercenaries setting a brisk pace even over the rough ground. The companies of footmen marched two or three abreast on the winding trail, armor-plated swordsmen leading the way. Helmeted crossbowmen, led by the redoubtable Daggrande, followed, and then marched the spearmen, the cavalry – resplendent in shiny breastplates on their prancing, eager mounts – and the ranks of lightly armored swordsmen.

Several dozen large, shaggy greyhounds bounded beside the column, obviously delighted in the return to the march. Cordell watched the dogs with mild amusement, remembering the shocking effect they had had upon the Payit, who had never seen a dog bigger than a rabbit before.

Behind the Golden Legion trailed the colorful spectacle of five of the huge regiments, called "thousandmen," of the Payit. That nation, conquered by these strangers from across the sea, had now thrown its military weight behind that of the metal-shelled invaders.

The azure waters of the Ocean of the East, known to the legion as the Trackless Sea, slowly slipped from sight, now barely visible through a notch in the hills behind them. The trail they followed worked its way up to a high, saddle-shaped pass between two snow-capped summits. This, their Payit scouts had told them, marked the border to the lands of the warlike Kultaka.

Cordell, at the head of the column, dismounted when he reached the pass. He tethered his horse beside the trail as his troops marched past. Climbing several dozen feet to one side of the pass, the captain-general looked from the ocean to the east, past the column of his troops, into the green bowl of the Kultakan farmland to the west.

For a time, his eyes lingered on the ocean. He remembered the turquoise purity of those coastal shallows, a deeper, richer blue – or so it had seemed – than any shore along the Sword Coast. He blinked, momentarily melancholy, for he knew that he would not see his homeland again for a long time. Some of his men, he suspected, had laid eyes upon it for the last time. Shaking his head, he quickly banished the morbid thought.

"They're watching us, you know."

Cordell turned to regard Captain Daggrande. The dwarven crossbowman had clumped to his side and now stood looking over Kultaka.