The coals lay cold in the firepit. Dank humidity lingered in the air of the lodge, a reminder of the steam that had permeated the low house many hours earlier. Poshtli sat alone, as he had sat throughout the long hours of the night, long since the other Eagles had departed for their homes and beds and women.

Faint outlines of sunlight cracked through the door, telling him that the new day had dawned. But still he could not bring himself to leave.

What was there for him, beyond the sanctuary of this hallowed lodge? Though his face remained an expressionless mask, Poshtli's soul writhed in an agony of torment. Never had he felt so powerless.

Once again, on the previous night, Chical had warned him against interfering in the fate of the two he had brought to Nexal. Poshtli regretted their decision to come here, for he felt he had done nothing but lead his friends into a great trap.

True, Halloran seemed safe enough for the time being. Naltecona had seemed to take a liking to the soldier, spending many hours each day talking to Hal about the world across the Eastern Sea. Certainly his uncle would not order harm to his guest.

But other, darker forces seethed below the surface, and these were the powers against which Chical had warned him. The priests of Zaltec clamored softly, but with increasing agitation, for the heart of the intruder. Of the woman, Erixitl, they said nothing, but the Eagle Warrior had seen the glint in Hoxitl's eye as the high priest had observed her in the sacred plaza. It was a look he imagined upon the face of a great hunting cat before it sank its fangs into the flesh of its gentle, unsuspecting prey.

And so the agony of his own helplessness tore at him, aggravated by the sense that it was he who had brought his companions into this danger. For Hal, he could do little – indeed, he could do nothing, without renouncing the sacred vow he had taken to his order.

Finally Poshtli rose to his feet with liquid smoothness, despite the long hours of immobility. Perhaps, for Hal, he could do nothing.

But he decided upon a plan to protect Erixitl.

The days in Nexal passed quickly for Halloran, but not so for Erixitl. Every day the soldier was summoned to another audience with Naltecona. The Revered Counselor pressed him for details about Hal's world, about the lands of Faerun, the gods that were worshiped there, the magic that was practiced there.

Hal grew more and more torn between fascination with this beautiful, ornate culture, and horror at the underlying butchery required by these peoples' gods. He felt a genuine respect for Naltecona, perceiving the counselor as a man of wisdom and pride, not afraid to admit that he didn't understand everything about the world.

And the wonders of Nexal! He saw little of the city beyond the walls of the sacred plaza, yet even within that small area, there towered structures of dazzling height. Around him, painted on the sides of the pyramids, a myriad of bright patterns and colorful murals caught his eyes. The gardens and fountains were clean and fresh, more serene than any he had known in his homeland.

But atop the pyramids, he knew that a steady, routine slaughter occurred night after night. The priests of Zaltec were everywhere, with their blood-caked hair and filthy, scarred bodies. They looked at him hungrily, and he met their gazes with a harsh, disdaining stare of his own. So far, neither he nor the priests had blinked.

Never after that first day did Naltecona again suggest that Hal accompany him to a sacrifice. Often he asked him about Helm, and Naltecona seemed interested to note that Cordell, the leader of the strangers, also worshiped this god.

Meanwhile, for Erix, there were hours of solitude in the peaceful garden, which felt every bit as much a cage as ever. She wanted to see the city with Halloran, or Poshtli, but instead she found herself walking about with an escort of palace slaves. Somehow the sights that she had always expected to dazzle her seemed disappointingly mundane.

At other times, the strange shadows surrounded her, threatening to block out the sun, even the world itself. They became so dark, occasionally, that she couldn't see the ground beneath her feet – though full, cloudless daylight reigned overhead. She grew hesitant to raise her eyes upward, for always she saw the looming presence of Mount Zatal. It seemed, to her suddenly keen vision, that the mountain swelled like a festering sore, ready to explode its putrescence across the True World. Often she felt the earth rumbling beneath her feet, though others around her seemed to take little note of the tremors.

She began to wonder if she was losing her mind.

She found occasional moments of pleasure in the great marketplace. Among the presents that had been placed in their room were sacks of cocoa beans, and feathered quills filled with gold dust – the two principal forms of currency in the great city. For the first time in her life, Erixitl had her own money to spend. She also had the most elaborate marketplace in the True World to spend it in.

There, vendors from all the lands of Maztica – except, of course, for Kultaka – offered their goods for sale or barter. The most common means of exchange was the cocoa bean, which she had seen in the abundance of its harvest in Payit. It amused her now to see peddlers counting the brown nuggets, one by one, in order to conclude a sale.

They traded for fine bolts of cloth, for bright shells and long quills filled with gold dust. Carvers offered tiny replicas, in wood or stone, of the gods. Stonechippers presented sharp-edged macas and knives, and obsidian-tipped javelins and arrows. Bowyers sold their weapons, hewn from the most resilient willow or the hardy cedar.

She stopped once, momentarily enthralled by the pluma offered by a humble featherworker. The craftsman, a wrinkled old man whose nimble fingers belied his otherwise arthritic appearance, held up a cape for her inspection. The garment was a fine mesh, interwoven with tiny tufts of the most brilliant feathers she had ever seen.

Almost ever seen, she reminded herself, unconsciously touching the token at her throat. That gift from her father was more than a decade old, yet though its feathered fringes were single, delicate strands of color, the amulet hadn't lost a single plume over the years.

"I see you know of pluma" said the old man sagely. He let go of the cape, and it hung motionless in the air. The man made a curt gesture, and the cape swirled around Erix to settle softly about her shoulders.

"Take the mantle," offered the featherworker. "May it protect your skin as the amulet protects your spirit."

Erix was about to protest, to offer the man some payment for the cape. Indeed, it was the first thing she had seen in the market that really attracted her attention. Yet the featherworker was suddenly engaged in an earnest sales talk with a tall Eagle Knight. Though Erix came past this spot a little later, she saw no sign of the old man nor his blanket of goods. Strangely, none of the other vendors nearby seemed to remember him.

But the cloak was soft and warm on her shoulders and seemed to lighten her spirits somewhat as she returned to the palace, to the apartments around the garden. And as she expected, there was no one there.

This time her solitude was short-lived, however. The rattle of the doorway curtains told her that someone stood without, and she looked up to see Poshtli, silently awaiting her permission to enter.

"Come in," she said, delighted to see the warrior. His face, which had been unusually taut since they had arrived in Nexal, seemed once again smooth and untroubled.

Erix spun, allowing the feathered cloak to rise from her shoulders and circle her in the air, a brilliantly colorful frame for her own brown skin and swirling black hair. "Do you like it?"