Butterflies of every size and color fluttered in a wicker cage of the finest reeds. Coton, Silent Patriarch of Qotal, carried the cage up the steps of the pyramid. His other hand held a colorful array of blossoms, still smelling of moist earth. Although a litter of pluma rested beside the base of the pyramid of Qotal, Coton preferred to climb the stairs on his own.

Besides, this structure was not nearly as lofty as the Great Pyramid, which supported the temples of Zaltec, Calor, and Tezca. Coton soon reached the top, and here he set the cage on the white quartz block that was his altar. The stone gleamed in the light of the noon sun.

The pyramid raised the lone cleric high above the houses of Nexal, and he allowed his gaze to linger in each of the four directions. Toward each side of the table-sized altar he laid an assortment of colorful blossoms. Then he raised the door on the cage.

One after another, the butterflies fluttered from the cage, bouncing erratically through the air, climbing away from the pyramid. Butterflies of every bright hue imaginable took to the air. One by one they climbed into the sky, like a dazzling thread of color reaching from the altar to the heavens.

And then they were gone. Coton, his spirit tingling after the ceremony, quickly descended from the pyramid. He was not surprised to see Lord Poshtli waiting in the courtyard below.

Naltecona's nephew wore the full regalia entitled to him as an Eagle Warrior. His lower lip, drilled long ago, now held a plug of pure gold. His mantle and headdress blazed with a riotous array of plumage. New sandals covered his feet, bound all the way to his knees. A fan of pluma swirled over his head, shading him and ruffling his finery with a faint breeze.

"Coton of Qotal, I wish to speak to you. You know many things about the True World, and I know little. Perhaps all I know is that I need to learn."

The mute cleric paused for several seconds, studying the young lord. Poshtli had studied under Coton years ago, before the cleric had become a patriarch and taken his vow. The lad had been the brightest of Colon's students and a natural leader of the other, even bigger and stronger, boys. The priest of Qotal had been pleased to watch him grow to manhood.

Poshtli had shown the same sentiments for the cleric. Whereas most youths who aspired to warriorhood soon slashed their arms in penance and sought captives for the altar of Zaltec, Poshtli had turned instead to the path of the Plumed God. He sought the Eagle Knighthood, highest and most exalted military order of all Maztica.

The Jaguar Knights all followed Zaltec because the hishna magic of the claw required blood sacrifice, and without this power the Jaguar Knight was nothing. Warriors of the Eagle creed, however, could worship the god of their choice, and many chose Qotal. But the many years of study, the harsh tests – both mental and physical – and the rigorous discipline caused nine of ten aspiring Eagles to fall short of their lofty goal.

Even among such as these, Poshtli shone as a man of exceptional skill, valor, and intelligence. He had captured many prisoners in battle, prisoners who gave their hearts to the altars of Zaltec or were sold into slavery in the great plaza. Recently he had commanded the army of Nexal on a mission of reconquest: the subject state of Pezelac – a valuable source of obsidian, salt, and gold – had shown signs of rebellion. Poshtli's army had done a prompt job of punishing the rebellious elements while swiftly resuming the tribute paid by Pezelac to Nexal.

Now Colon sensed that the lord faced a crucial choice. Though the cleric could not speak to him, he could still listen.

"My uncle, the great Naltecona, has become the greatest of the great." Poshtli spoke softly. "He is mightier than any counselor in the long history of Nexal. Never have our people collected such tribute, held sway over such vast regions."

Cotton nodded. He knew Poshtli to be a brave warrior, but also unusually perceptive. He displayed a sense of thoughtful deliberation that Colon found exceedingly rare in the younger warriors. The cleric waited for the warrior to continue.

"Our city grows daily, claiming more and more land from the waters as the floating gardens extend their reach. More treasure, more cocoa and mayz and feathers – and more gold – all flow into mighly Nexal, Heart of the True World. More hearts are offered in sacrifice to Zallec than ever before.

"Yet you, Colon, you come here and you release your butterflies. You place your blossoms and say nolhing." Poshtli's eyes did not waver from the cleric's steady gaze.

"You say nothing because you show us much, and yet we fail lo understand." Something – could it be assent? – colored Colon's eyes. "You show us, I think, what we once were and what we might be again. You show us, and we fail to see.

"Now, Coton, I have had a dream. I believe this dream is a vision from Qotal, and so I go to seek the will of the god." Poshtli paced slowly, carefully remembering the details he related to the mute cleric.

"I dreamed of a vast desert, a desert that included Nexal! I crossed the desert on foot, suffering from heat and sun, lacking water. Then suddenly I was surrounded by little men, and these men had a great wheel of silver." Poshtli noticed that Colon's eyebrows raised slightly at his description.

"In the wheel, I saw the reflection of a feathered snake, a long, sinuous thing of brilliant plumage and great wisdom. And this snake was the voice of Qotal! I am certain of it!"

Poshtli remained silent for many minutes, patiently regarded by Coton. Finally he looked up and spoke.

"I will leave Nexal in search of this truth. Perhaps it lies with the strangers. I have seen them, flown above them, as they come to shore in Payit. Perhaps it lies somewhere in between our ways and theirs, or perhaps I may not find it at all." Poshtli stared straight into Colon's eyes. "But I must find this silver wheel!"

Colon's eyes flickered upward, to the clear blue sky. The cleric's gaze flickered once to the south, then again focused vacantly in the distance. Poshtli saw the guidance in the gesture.

"I will walk. My feet, not my wings, will carry me through the True World – perhaps to this knowledge that still eludes me, perhaps not.

"But I will find it, or die in the attempt."

Daggrande imagined the salt spray eating at the steel, corroding the gleaming sheen of his helmet, pocking the flawless metal of his breastplate, even gnawing at the blade of his short sword. He led a troop of two dozen legionnaires, a mixed band armed with crossbows and swords, toward the top of the stone stairway. Halloran and Martine had disappeared somewhere above some few minutes earlier.

"Damn that woman anyway!" he grumbled to himself. "Now Cordell tells me to follow Martine, to 'keep an eye on her'!.What am I, a nursemaid?" Daggrande suspected, of course, that the Bishou had a hand in the order. The dwarf had seen Domincus glowering after his daughter and Halloran when the two had started up the bluff.

"I thought the kid had more brains than that," he complained. "Course, he's only a human, but I expected more from him."

Abruptly Daggrande ceased his musings, becoming every inch the warrior. He could not define what aroused him, whether it was the scent of blood, the faint sound of combat, or something more primeval, but he instantly signaled his crossbowmen to raise their deadly weapons.

The dwarven veteran stepped carefully up the last few stairs. He saw the top of the bluff, a brushy strip along the escarpment backed by dense rain forest perhaps a hundred paces beyond.

Daggrande moved carefully onto the brushy plain, crouching, with his crossbow held ready. With the same care, he ordered his men off the stairway, deploying them in a semicircle as they reached the top.