“There are many reasons why they will not. Here, see.” The druid narrowed the picture until he saw two great boats, each draped with white swaths of cloth. Smoke spewed from the flanks of the vessels, inflicting horrible damage upon each craft. He saw men scrambling about the decks, realized that these ‘boats’ were in fact the size of small palaces, with multiple floors. Quickly he understood that they were propelled by the wind, that the great sheets of cloth were in fact arrayed like vertical wings to catch the force of the blowing gusts.
“These are sea-ships of the Europeans. And see this:”
Miradel showed him a place she called Flanders. A hundred men were mounted on a rank of the pawing, prancing animals Natac had learned were called horses. The great beasts looked terribly fierce, with flaring nostrils and wide, flashing eyes. The men wore shirts of metal, and bore long spears, weapons that were dropped to point forward as the company, in unison, charged. Standing against the riders were hundreds of metal-wearing footmen, and these turned to run as the horses bore down. Natac was appalled by the slaughter as the lancers rode through the broken ranks of the fleeing enemy.
And then there was a line of pathetically feeble-looking men, standing in a row and bearing long, narrow sticks that lacked even the pointed tip of a spear. Nevertheless, these men pointed their weapons at the riders-and then the weapons, in unison, spat a long billow of dark smoke. The attack reached farther than the smoke, dropping a half dozen riders from their saddles, and then the cavalry broke away.
“How… how can an army stand up to warriors like that?” Natac asked. “To those riders, and to sticks that spew fire and death?”
“No army on Earth is capable,” Miradel said. “Though you should know that the different tribes of Europeans expend most of their energy battling each other. Still, they have good ships now, and thriving populations… Already, just twenty years ago, one of their boldest sailors returned from a crossing of the ocean to report the existence of hitherto unknown lands-including the place of your own homeland. The final tie in doom’s knot is this: Europeans have a passion for gold above all things, and nowhere else in the world is gold concentrated as it is in the city of the Aztecs.”
Next Miradel showed him other facets of life on Earth. He saw small churches and great cathedrals, a multitude of temples, minarets that were narrow spires jutting as high as a great pyramid, and shrines decorated with the rounded image of a plump, boyish god. There were other pyramids too, massive structures of stone that the druid stated were tombs for dead leaders, beings now exalted to godhood. And everywhere Natac saw people of different shapes and sizes, with skin colors ranging from pale to charcoal-black. He found himself looking at Miradel, at the high cheekbones and deep lines of her face outlined in the glow of the magical candlelight.
“Are you a human, too… from Earth?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“From which part?”
She moved the picture back across the great ocean, but instead of the mountainous country of Mexico and Tlaxcala, she turned the picture south, toward a region of dense forests and flat, endless ground.
“The lands of the Maya,” Natac grasped. “I have heard of that place, those people… your people?”
She nodded, her violet eyes alight with remembrance-of pain or pleasure, Natac could not discern.
“How did you come here?”
Miradel drew a breath, those slender shoulders rising. “I, too, was given to false gods… Still a virgin, I was thrown into a well and drowned, in an effort to keep the water from draining away.” She laughed sharply, bitterly. “I failed.”
“But I know of the magic you used to bring me here. How did…?”
Now she smiled. “I came as all druids came, brought before the Worldweaver in the Center of Everything. I was birthed before her whole and adult, and granted a life on Nayve in return for… things that had happened, that I had done, on Earth.”
“What could you have done in such a short life?” he asked, not accusingly, but very curious.
“It was not just one life. Humans live a multitude of times, and each time they are given the chance to be proved worthy of the Goddess’s gift. Those she rewards she brings to Nayve as druids.”
And some druids bring warriors here, he remembered, completing the cycle in his own thoughts. Yet that still left the gnawing question: Why had she made such a sacrifice, thrown away eternal life, to bring him here?
The candle abruptly sputtered and began to fade. Miradel put the crystal down and once again Natac was looking at a plain white wall, a surface marred by shifting shadow as the wick fizzled away. When the druid pushed the door open, he was startled by the strength of the light, and was forced to squint as he followed her through the kitchen and out onto the terrace. All the while he was thinking, analyzing what he had seen.
“The men riding the horses… it’s not just the speed of movement that give them a great advantage, but the combined weight of the animal and man in the charge. It must be terrifying to stand in the path of such an attack-and if you did stand, you’d probably die.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about the weapons that spew smoke. They must hurl solid objects as well, do they not?”
“You are very perceptive,” Miradel said, with a smile of self-satisfaction. “Yes. The large ones are called cannons, and the small ones are arquebuses. Each hurls a projectile, the cannon shooting a large stone or ball of metal that can crush wood and sink ships. The arquebus shoots a small stone, or a pellet made of metal-and that missile is enough to pierce flesh, break bones, and puncture hearts.”
“Can cannons be moved without a ship?”
“It is difficult,” Miradel allowed, “though-and this is the way of humans-the weapons are getting smaller and more powerful as time goes on. Sometimes a cannon will be loaded with a whole bucketful of small pebbles and bits of metal. When it is fired into a mass of people it can wreak horrible destruction.”
“And our warriors, Tlaxcalan, Aztec, all of us, fight in tight ranks.” Natac felt a growing sense of shock. “Truly, Tlaxcala is doomed-You are right, even the Aztecs are doomed.” He looked at her in despair, self-pity tearing at him. He choked out the words, biting back the strength of his own anguish. “It will be the end of my people-and I am condemned to watch it!”
The druid merely shrugged. “It may not be the end of the people in your world-but without a doubt the gods of the Aztecs will be thrown down, and perhaps that is not such a bad thing. The priests who will come with the Europeans have their own foibles, and they, too, will wage war justified by the commands of their god. But they will not rip the hearts out of their captives just to ensure that the sun comes up.”
“But those priests, too, worship false gods?”
“All gods are false… they are creations of people, stories and beliefs invented because of some human need to claim understanding.”
“You yourself talk about a Goddess-the Worldweaver!” Natac challenged. “You said that it was her tapestry we saw! And now you claim that all gods are false!”
Miradel shook her head, undaunted by his accusation. “I meant all gods of Earth. The Worldweaver dwells at the Center of Everything, and she alone is real.”
Natac would have argued longer but they were interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming through the villa. “Miradel?” The word was called out in a woman’s voice.
“Belynda?” The druid turned away from Natac.
The newcomer, Natac saw, was a woman with hair so blond it was almost white. Her eyes widened at the sight of Miradel, but the rest of her expression remained bland. If she was shocked by the aged appearance of the druid, she did a good job of covering it up.
“I… I was going to send you word, after a little more time passed,” Miradel said softly.
“Cillia announced the news in the Senate forum,” Belynda said bluntly. “I came as soon as I heard.”