Miradel taught him more about Nayve during the morning, showing him the beautiful lake with its verdant island. She told him that the valley in the middle of the island, and specifically the silver spire rising high into the sky and visible even from the villa, was the exact center of all existence. This was a concept that remained unclear to him, but he nodded and let her keep speaking.
Late in the morning he had a chance to view a spectacle she called “the casting of the threads.” Miradel directed Natac’s attention to the distant silver tower. He watched in awe as a sparkling ring of brightness rose into view, apparently starting from the base of the tower-though that foundation was concealed from his view. The light rose higher and faster until it reached the summit of the spire. From there it crackled into the air in bolts of white brilliance, flashing like lightning upward into the sky until the bursts dissipated in the distance.
He had many questions, but the druid informed him that he would have to wait for those explanations. For now, Miradel prepared a midday meal that they enjoyed in the garden, dining on succulent meat and beans spiced with familiar peppers and other exotic flavors unlike any Natac had ever tasted. Only then did they start out from the villa, walking along a mountain trail that gradually curved around a tall summit and then descended toward a forested valley that sheltered a string of sparkling lakes.
“Our timing is chosen on purpose,” she explained. “This way you’ll be able to meet Fionn and Owen after they’re awake-but, if we’re lucky, they won’t be drunk, yet.”
“Drunk?” Natac knew the word, at least in the context of his native tongue, but he couldn’t understand why it would be relevant here. Then he had a thought: “Is this some ritual day of celebration? A festival that they begin with the noon, perhaps?”
Miradel smiled sadly and shook her head. “For the most part, Owen and Fionn get drunk every day-they keep six or eight druids busy, just making wine for them.”
“These warriors have druids serve them-are they slaves, like Fallon is for you?”
“No… they do so out of choice.” She looked at him frankly. “And you should know that Fallon is no slave-he, too, does the work that he chooses to do. You will find no slaves in Nayve. Some druids, it seems, enjoy the… company of warriors. And these men have persuaded them to do their work.”
By then they had come around the shoulder of the mountain. The pathway overlooked a green meadow, and in the center of the clearing was the strangest house Natac had ever seen. It was made of wooden timbers-he could see that much by the ends of logs jutting from the corners. But the walls had been overlaid with large animal pelts to make a large, apparently weatherproof enclosure. Smoke billowed from a wide stone chimney, and the yard nearby had been divided into sections by pole fences. Several bizarre animals grazed or lolled within these separate sections.
Natac was about to ask about those creatures, when he was startled by a booming voice emerging from the woods at the clearing’s edge.
“Fionn! You sheep-buggering Irishman! Come out and defend yourself!”
“That’s Owen-and it seems that we’re too late.” Miradel sighed. “Or else they’re still drunk from the night before.”
“That’s a human?” asked Natac. The man who swaggered into view was huge, easily head and shoulders taller than the Tlaxcalan. His face was obscured by a thick, shaggy pelt of yellow hair, which darkened to brown as it extended across his torso and well down onto his legs. Some kind of armored shell covered the top of his head, an inverted bowl that was the same dark color as the iron Natac had seen in the villa. Owen bore a staff that was taller than himself, and as stout around as a man’s wrist.
“I said come out, Fionn-you cow-loving son of a mare!”
“Owen?” The one called an Irishman emerged from the house. He was as big as the other warrior, and similarly shaggy-though his hair was like the red of tarnished copper. He wore a cap of leather, and carried a thick cudgel. “You faerie Viking! Why are you back-did you run out of little boys down at the fjord?”
Fionn was trailed by a pair of females who wore diaphanous gowns and clung to the big man’s arms as if to hold him back. Natac saw that Owen, too, had brought women with him, a trio of maidens who now ran out to follow him across the field.
“Those are druids?” asked the Tlaxcalan.
“Yes-as I said, some of my Order enjoy warriors.” Miradel looked at him through narrowed eyes. “No doubt you, too, will eventually have your pick.”
He looked away, unwilling even to consider her words.
“We’d better wait here for a while,” Miradel said. “But watch-you might find it interesting.”
“Those are both men?” Natac pressed.
She nodded. “They are humans from a different part of Earth than Mexico-but yes, they are of a people who are cousins to you and your own.”
He shook his head in disbelief, half expecting to feel the ground shake as the two warriors approached each other. Owen had his staff raised, while Fionn swung his club back and forth, holding the narrow end in both hands.
“Liar!”
“Bastard!”
“Faggot!”
“Blackguard!”
The insults flew thick and loud, and Natac lost track of who was hurling the epithets. And in another moment it didn’t matter as the pair flew at each other, wooden weapons whistling through the air. Fionn’s club smashed Owen’s iron hat with a loud clang, while the staff landed with stunning force on the Irishman’s knee. A fist flew, bloodying a nose, and then came the loud crack of wood landing against a skull.
It was Fionn who went down, and Owen straddled him, ready to drive the staff into his foe’s belly. But somehow the supine warrior found the leverage to flip the Viking over, and by the time Owen landed, Fionn was on top of him, twisting the Viking’s massive leg around. Natac winced as he imagined the pressure, the pain-and then there came a loud snap of bone. He gasped, knowing that such a break, even if it did not result in a fatal infection, must cripple a man for life.
The Viking, his leg jutting at an unnatural angle, shrieked as Fionn rolled off him and stood. “Do you yield?” he asked, snatching up his club and raising it.
“Yes, by Thor-I yield!” snarled Owen through clenched teeth.
Immediately the druidesses gathered around the injured man. One woman stood with her arms spread, spilling something like water over the wounded man. Two more knelt at each side, stroking the mangled limb. By the time Natac and Miradel had reached the bottom of the slope, the Viking’s leg had been straightened. The astonished Tlaxcalan watched as Owen lurched to his feet and stood on the limb with no apparent limp. “That was a good twist, there, at the end,” he admitted grudgingly to Fionn, who beamed in triumph.
“What? Who’s this?” asked the Irishman at the sight of the two new arrivals.
The druidesses gasped in unison, and one of them advanced hesitantly. She was staring at the old woman, and finally asked: “Miradel?”
“Yes, Nachol, it is I.”
Immediately the woman called Nachol, who was a tall female with long hair the color of spun gold, blanched, then came forward and wrapped the older druid in a tearful embrace. Natac stood by awkwardly, conscious of the two warriors looking him over and at the same time wanting to ask Miradel a thousand questions.
“You went against the will of the council,” Nachol was saying. “Why?”
“I had no choice,” Miradel answered. “The threads of the Tapestry showed me that.”
“When?” The golden-haired druidess relaxed her embrace and was joined by several other women who looked at Miradel with expressions mingling awe, pity, and sadness. A few cast appraising, accusing, or suspicious glances at Natac.