She returned to her own chamber and pulled the curtains behind her. At the sight of her makeshift spellbook, in which she had collected most – but not all – of her original spells, her hatred for Halloran flashed hot again. One day, soon now, the man would pay for his audacity.

But for the time being, she would make do with the powers she possessed. Seating herself before a low table, she began to study.

Darien was acutely aware that the moment of her destiny drew near.

Halloran slept comfortably in the sleeping chamber of his house, awakening slowly to the light of an overcast, gray day. The rigors of their stealthy journey to Nexal had drained his wife as well, and Erixitl still slumbered beside him.

For a brief moment, between sleep and full awareness, a sense of sublime bliss and contentment swept over him. His love for Erix pushed all other concerns into the background, and the luxurious sense of peace urged him back to sleep. Around his wrists, he felt the smooth, feathered bands that Lotil had given him. He dozed, thinking of Erixitl's father.

But in another instant, full consciousness claimed him, and he remembered the perils that would face them on this day. The sunset after tonight's would bring the rising of the full moon. Today they must enter the palace of Naltecona and find Poshtli.

Erixitl stirred beside him, and he placed an arm around her, delighting in her slow smile as she awakened. Then she, too, felt the full weight of reality, sitting up with an expression of deep seriousness.

"You must let me go to the market," she said, immediately resuming a discussion they had waged before retiring very late the night before. "I can find one of Poshtli's comrades – someone who can help us get in to see him."

"It's too dangerous." He shook his head vehemently. "We have every reason to believe that the priests will still be searching for you."

"How are we going to get through the plaza to the Palace of Naltecona?" she shot back. Gankak had told them about the thousands of Kultakan and Payit warriors encamped there, watched carefully by a host of Nexalan warriors and priests.

"I have an idea," Halloran said, crossing to the saddlebags where he kept his possessions. The night before, he had recovered the bags from the hole where he had concealed them. He rummaged for a moment, then held up a small bottle containing a clear liquid.

"The potion," observed Erix, less than enthusiastically. She vividly remembered her shock when Hal had drunk a similar liquid, one that caused him to immediately grow to a height of some twenty feet. The effect had been temporary, but her memory of the incident still caused her to shiver at the thought of the powerful magic stored in the innocent-looking liquid.

"Invisibility!" Halloran reminded her. "We can each take a drink of this and disappear for an hour or so. It should be long enough for us to slip through the gate and get into the palace."

Erixitl stared, frank skepticism showing clearly on her face.

"Our only hope is to find Poshtli," Hal reminded her "If we can tell him of your vision and convince him of the danger to Naltecona, he'll help us to rescue his uncle. We've got to get Naltecona out of that palace before the full moon!"

Halloran no longer held any questions about the menace implicit in Erixitl's frightening dream. For both of them, the coining full moon represented a looming presence that could spell the doom of all Maztica.

Erixitl looked at the bottle again and considered the possibilities. She came up with no reasonable alternatives.

"Very well," she finally agreed. "We must try."

From the chronicles of Colon:

Sharing the pain of the??????????? languish in growing despair.

Poshtli visits me again this morning. He wears well the brightly feathered cape and mantle of a lord, yet still he walks with the pride, the commanding bearing of the Eagle Knight. As the load he bears weighs him down, I sense his desire to return to the simple black and white plumes of his old order.

Pain pours from him as he relates the shocking orders of Naltecona. To Poshtli – to all of us – the gold of Nexal is as nothing more than a pretty metal, with uses for simple ornamental tasks.

Yet as the gold is nothing, our pride is everything. I feel for the debasement he senses in its surrender, yet again I can offer him no hope of alternative.

Throughout the city, as word spreads of Cordell's demand, resentment and suspicion grows. There is talk that the Revered Counselor is spellbound, incapable of leadership. Many mutter that Poshtli himself should take the role and lead us in uprising against the stranger.

Poshtli is devoted to the great Naltecona, however, and so he can only obey.

"I am ready to see Chical now," Poshtli told the courtier who stood at the door of the throne room. With a deep sigh, he collapsed into the feather litter, having just dismissed the leaders of Nexal's merchant consortium. He did not look forward to this next meeting.

The traders had objected vehemently to his orders to provide their gold to the strangers, but Poshtli had convinced them with a combination of threats and pleas. After all, the merchants – a small group of individuals who controlled, from Nexal, trade across all the realms of the True World – depended on the Revered Counselor and the army for their influence. They couldn't very well dispute those sources of power without risking their station in the society of Nexal.

The Lord of Eagles, Poshtli knew, would be a different matter.

Chical stalked through the door. Unseen hands closed it behind him, leaving the warrior and the nobleman alone in the great chamber. Poshtli saw from the look in his old comrade's eyes that Chical already knew of the orders concerning the nation's gold.

"Thank you for coming to see me," began the nobleman. Despite his break with the order, he found that his affection for this crusty veteran remained undimmed.

Chical, however, seemed anything but affectionate. "How can you order our possessions given to the strangers?" he demanded. "Have you lost your senses? Your pride?"

Poshtli held up a weary hand. A day earlier, such an array of questions would have sent him flying toward Chical, hands clutching for the man's throat. Now, he reflected sadly, it had to be expected.

"My uncle has ordered it. He feels that there is a hope of making peace with the invaders, that if we fulfill their demands, they may leave us."

Chical scowled. "Why does he so desire this peace? Are we not a nation that has always gained our ends through war? And have we not emerged victorious from those wars? Why, now, this talk like an old woman?"

Poshtli rose to his feet and stepped toward the unflinching Chical. "You must remember your manners, my old friend. I will bear your insults so long, and no longer. And you shall not degrade my uncle's name!"

The venerable warrior's eyes widened slightly in surprise and perhaps a little pleasure at his former student's show of spirit, "Tell me," Chical repeated, trying to keep his voice reasonable, why has peace become so important?"

"Have you remained unaware of the portents, the signs?" asked Poshtli. Now it was his voice that took on an edge of hardness. "Naltecona has had dreams, visions that showed him the war that would result from a clash with these strangers. I, too, have seen these visions."

"The result, looming before us, is a world gone mad! This is no war such as you and I have known all our lives. This is a war that would wrack the land and leave only death in its wake – a war that cannot be allowed to happen."

Chical glared at Poshtli, and the younger man met his glare with a challenging stare of his own. Finally the Lord of the Eagles sighed.