He had time to retie the dressings in place before the doctors reappeared. He hadn't retied them very well, but the two priests either didn't notice or didn't care. They spent most of their time examining Blade's injuries in detail, and the rest in feeling his muscles, testing their tone and condition.
«You heal well, as you should,» said the older of the two priests. «The tree of life gives strength. This is pleasing to Ayocan. And Ayocan shall be pleased.» The two priests conferred in low voices, and then the older one turned back to Blade.
«You are a warrior of your people, are you not?»
«I am.» Blade saw no point in denying the obvious.
«That is good. A warrior's spirit is especially strong. But it is stronger if his body is also strong. You will exercise your body from the time the pail is emptied to the time the first meal is brought in. If you do not do so, your spirit will become surrounded by weak flesh. Ayocan will be displeased at that.» And the two priests intoned together, «And Ayocan shall not be displeased.»
Blade could not keep a grin off his face. The priests took that as indicating acceptance. «Your spirit is already dreaming of the day when it will be free of the flesh, free to nourish mighty Ayocan. That is good. You will be the greatest sacrifice the Supreme Brother has yet offered. He will be pleased, as well as Ayocan.» Then the two doctors left Blade alone.
Blade's existence settled down to a routine that made it fairly easy to keep track of time. The «day» began with the arrival of a priest to take out the bucket. Blade then set about exercising for the prescribed time, which turned out to be about an hour. He found it amusing that he was being ordered to do the exercises he would have done anyway, even at some risk. He wanted to be in good condition when-and if-the time came for him to escape.
After the exercises came the first meal. It was invariably fruit, cheese, bread, and alternately hot gruel or cold spiced porridge with milk. A long, dreary day, and then dinner. That was always generous, if not quite as monstrous as his first meal in the temple mound. Then a physical examination by the priests, not as thorough as the first one, but careful enough. And then sleep.
On the third «day» they added something new. They sent him a woman, one of the flawlessly clean, blank-eyed creatures he had seen on the way through the corridors. If there had been any life or spirit in her, Blade would have found her highly desirable, for she was a graceful, clean-limbed little blonde. But there was neither life nor spirit in her. Even the erotic motions she went through seemed mechanical and programmed. It was like making love to a robot. If the priest who brought the girl in hadn't hinted that failure would show a weak spirit displeasing to Ayocan, Blade would have failed. He would not have minded demonstrating the strength of his spirit with one normal woman-or two, or half a dozen. But this poor drugged creature could hardly be called a woman. He was glad that no more were brought to his cell.
The «days» passed slowly one by one. Blade used the spoon they gave him with his meals to scratch a mark for each one on the floor under his bed. There were ten marks there on the «morning» the door opened and nine priests filed in. Eight carried another litter. Blade recognized the ninth as the chief priest from the battle by the lake.
The priests put the litter down and picked up the rope, motioning to Blade to lie down so that they could bind him for travel. Blade hesitated for a second. Was this a reasonable chance to escape? He decided against it and lay down on the litter. Even if he wiped out all nine of these priests-and he would dearly love to do something to the chief priest-that wouldn't mean escape. There would be too many Holy Warriors on the surface, and they might even turn loose some of those drugged berserkers in the bat-masks that he had seen.
The priests bore him quickly to the surface and down the mound to the landing on the river. There was a tenth canoe drawn up on the shore now. It was longer than the other nine, with outriggers on each side and a high prow crowned with a blue enameled bat's head. It was painted a brilliant white, and the warriors sitting in it wore nothing but white cloth and leather.
Blade was loaded aboard carefully but quickly, and then the chief priest climbed aboard after him. A Holy Warrior in the bow hauled the anchor aboard, and another in the stern shouted orders. The Holy Warriors along the sides sprang to their places, paddles dug into the water, and the canoe backed off the beach and out into the river.
In midstream it turned downriver, which Blade judged to be approximately to the south. He watched the mound slip out of sight, then tried to make himself as comfortable as the narrow canoe and his bound hands and feet permitted. He suspected that his worst discomfort on this voyage downriver was going to be sheer boredom. But he would just have to resign himself to that.
This turned out to be a good idea. Blade spent five interminable days in the canoe as it glided endlessly, monotonously southward. The cushions in the bottom of the canoe protected his remaining bruises, but nothing could protect his mind from the sheer tedium of lying trussed like a Christmas turkey, unable to even watch the passing scenery very well. As they had done at the temple mound, the priests in the canoe fed him generously, bathed him carefully, and examined him thoroughly every day. But they made camp only well after dark, and they were on the move again well before dawn. Blade had no way of knowing where he was, where he had been, or where he was going. The only clue he had was an occasional reference by one or another of the priests to the «High Sacrifice in Tzakalan.»
On the morning of the sixth day, though, he saw tall green trees by the river, swaying in a warm, damp wind. By noon he could hear a distant roar ahead. It grew slowly louder. And an hour after noon the canoe suddenly swerved toward the bank and ran itself solidly aground.
As the warriors lifted Blade from the canoe, he saw why they had stopped. Barely a hundred yards farther on, the river suddenly vanished. Instead of the slowly flowing clear blue water, there was a belt of tumbling, foaming brown. Then nothing-nothing except a solid wall of mist and spray as the river plunged out of sight.
On the bank above where the canoes had grounded was another temple mound, only a quarter the size of the one by the lake. But the warriors who lifted Blade out of the canoe did not turn up the path toward the temple mound. Instead they turned toward the west, and settled down to a steady loping pace. For several hours they jogged briskly along the edge of the cliff. Blade had occasional glimpses out into space, down toward a misty greenness that seemed very far below indeed.
Toward evening they reached a cluster of white-painted wooden buildings perched between the edge of the trees and the edge of the cliff. At the very edge stood an enormous windlass, more than twenty feet long and six or more feet in diameter. Wound around its drum was an equally enormous mass of heavy yellow-orange rope. Beside it stood something that looked like two large wicker baskets set at opposite ends of a light wooden framework.
Blade's mouth opened to ask a question. Then it stayed open as the answer hit him. They were going to lower him down the face of the cliff? In those baskets?
Yes. They lifted him from the litter and lowered him into one of the baskets. The chief priest climbed into the other. One of the Holy Warriors looked at the chief priest and said, «Is it safe, this late in the day?»
«The oranki have never come forth in this much light, as you should well know. Sakula will be displeased if he-«jerking a thumb at Blade «-is not present for the High Sacrifice in Tzakalan. He would not be happy at having to make do with any lesser spirit.»