"How is it that none of my wisest priests can explain a portent of this magnitude?"
Naltecona rose from his bench and stalked back and forth across the dais. His wide cape, made of shimmering green feathers embroidered into the finest of cotton mesh, floated almost weightless in the air behind him.
The great ruler stopped, and pluma magic slowly lifted the great cape into a fan behind his collar, like the emerald splendor of a strutting peacock. Naltecona surveyed the priests before him with a mixture of contempt and desperation.
"You, Caracatl!" He fixed the trembling cleric with an icy gaze. "What does the Grand Patriarch of Ttezca have to say about this message from the gods?" Naltecona pointed at the man, whose face was smeared with pale ashes. He wore a robe of deep scarlet, and his body was thin from his many fasts.
"Most Revered Counselor," Caracatl began solemnly, just a trace of a tremor in his voice, "the fire that burns in the sky above Nexal is indeed a sign, obviously from crimson Tezca; god of the sun! Indeed, my enchantments tell me that we see the reflection of his great soul itself. It is a sign of the god's hunger, Most Excellent One. Tezca desires more blood at sunset to fuel his life-giving flame!"
Naltecona whirled from the priest, his cloak wheeling elegantly behind him. The ruler stalked past the timorous line of courtiers and attendants standing behind his throne. The brilliant plumes of his cape lashed across their faces as Naltecona passed. Though each of these was a wealthy individual, of noble rank in Nexal, to a man they wore garments of stained cotton, devoid of any ornament. Now each worthy noble trembled visibly in the presence of the counselor, and none dared raise his eyes from the floor when the great Naltecona passed.
The mighty ruler suddenly spun and faced another of the four priests standing upon the steps before him. "Atl-Ollin, perhaps you can cast some illumination on this matter. No doubt Calor wills the sacrifice of another child." A hint of irony played about the counselor's lips, but the cleric of Calor could take no note — his eyes were cast reverently downward.
This cleric, too, was a thin man. But while Caracatl's skin was lined with dirt and ash, Atl-Ollin's was scrubbed clean. Indeed, many abrasions covered his skin, where the cleric had injured himself as he vigorously applied the pumice stone that served as his ritual soap.
"I am afraid, Most Revered Counselor, that Calor has been distressingly silent in the matter of this omen." The blue-robed patriarch wrung his wrinkled hands. "None can doubt that this Star-That-Shines-By-Day, growing in brilliance as it has over the last tenday, is a portent of most cataclysmic import!"
"An honest answer, at the very least," mused the ruler as he spun once again to stride along the edge of the dais. Again the courtiers bowed nervously as the regal figure passed.
"And you, Hoxitl?" The Revered Counselor paused before a third cleric. "Pray share your tidings with us. What is the will of our First God?" Naltecona now addressed a gaunt skeleton of a man. This priest's skin stretched tightly over his emaciated frame, marred by the self-inflicted scars of penance required by Zaltec. His hands were blood-red, stained by the ritual dye used to distinguish the most loyal followers of Zaltec, those who wore the honored brand called Viperhand.
Most striking was the cleric's thick hair, for Hoxitl, like all clerics of Zaltec, used the dried blood of his victims to stiffen it into a mass of black, twisting spires.
"Zaltec seethes impatiently. Revered Counselor Naltecona. I must take the counsel of the Ancient Ones immediately. Indeed, I embark for the Highcave before dark. Only after I have spoken with them, when I have heard the wisdom of the Ancestors of Darkness, dare I speculate what means this sign."
The priest did not meet Naltecona's eyes, but neither did his voice waver. "Even so, I know that more than a year has passed without a victory feast. Perhaps our First God grows hungry."
Hoxitl, Patriarch of Zaltec, stood firmly before his ruler's gaze. Nonetheless, beads of sweat formed upon his brow. They trickled through the blood-caked peaks of his hair.
"We must have captives — many of them! — that we may claim their hearts for Zaltec!" Hoxitl dared to speak firmly, still keeping his eyes lowered. "Only thus may we drive the omen of ill from the skies!"
Naltecona did not turn in scorn from this cleric, though he shook his head in silent thought before looking to yet another priest. This one met the speaker's eyes with his own gaze of patient, silent thought.
"And you. Colon!" Naltecona spoke softly, his voice assuming a youthful wistfulness. "Would that you could speak, that I may hear you. What wisdom do you conceal behind that shield of silence?"
Colon, resplendent in a plain gown of purest cotlon, nodded respectfully but, of course, said nothing. Naltecona whirled again, agitation forcing him into a restless pace. Finally he paused before his throne. In the far wall of his chamber, high above his head, was a long window. Even now he could see the winking insolence of the omen, gleaming brighter than the most brilliant of stars, though the hour was barely past noon.
"Could you be the sign of the Return? Do you warn us that Qotal comes again to the True World?" He spoke thoughtfully, then lapsed into silence.
After a moment, he turned to a courtier, his voice now firm with decision. "Prepare a dozen slaves for the ceremonies of Tezca this evening. Inform my generals to prepare an expedition against Kultaka. Their mission is the claiming of prisoners for the flowery altar of Zaltec!"
Many thousands of miles away, a tower slanted crazily into the sky. The narrow structure, with a conical, tiled roof, rose from a wasteland of red sand, but instead of standing proud and tall like a spire in the sky, it careened at an angle half between upright and horizontal. Defying the law of gravity, it proclaimed by its very existence the might of a greater power: magic.
Inside the tower, all seemed normal. The walls appeared to rise and fall straight up and down. A stairway curved around the inside of the tower, leading from a room at the bottom to another room at the top. The rest of the tower was a hollow cylinder. The hollow center of the place was empty, at rest, except for one careful, deliberate figure.
Kreeshah… barool… hottaisk. Over and over, the phrase rang through Halloran's head. He studied the words, the verbal component of the magic missile spell, until his brains felt like mush. But still his master made him concentrate.
Halloran climbed the stairs carefully, holding the foaming beaker before him with both hands. Two more circuits to the top of the tower, to the wizard's laboratory, to…
To what? The lad did not want to find out.
The wizard Arquiuius's current casting, a potent summoning spell, frightened Halloran as had none of his mentor's previous incantations. The creature within the mage's pattern had been taking shape for three days and nights now, and each hour it seemed to add another oozing pustule, bloated tentacle, or drooping moist orb. Presumably these were eyes, Hal guessed, though they numbered several dozen on the bloblike form that now occupied the entire center of the laboratory.
Kreeshah… barool… hottaisk. He repeated the words again, but his mind threatened to wander. The hour was early, before the sunrise, and he had had scant hours of sleep during the course of his master's current incantation. Still, I should be more disciplined, Halloran reminded himself, thinking of all that he owed to the wizard. Arquiuius had found him as an orphan, a seasoned street urchin who had lost his family to war, and had brought him here. For the last years of his childhood, Halloran had worked at odd tasks for the wizard. Now, as he progressed through adolescence, he was beginning to learn the secrets of arcanery from Aquiuius. Perhaps, one day, Halloran would be a wizard as mighty as his master!