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  The hard-eyed young Aztec bounded up the seven steps on the east side of the platform, sharp-toothed weapon held ready for a slash to right or left. Natac waited in the middle of the circle, the feathered club held casually at his side. The young man stood a hand-span taller than the Tlaxcalan, and he all but sneered at the wounded, underarmed xochimilche-a broken warrior who was apparently resigned to a quick death.

  It was in that arrogance that Natac foresaw the Mexican’s doom. Predictably, the man charged with a sudden sprint, raising his maquahuitl high above his head. Those stony eyes never wavered from Natac’s face as the weapon came down in a swooping rush, a blow deadly enough to cleave a man from crown to sternum-if the attack could but strike such a mortal target.

  Calmly meeting his attacker’s cold glare, Natac feinted to the right with a drop of his shoulder. The move turned the Aztec slightly in his onrush-and then the Tlaxcalan dodged left with whiplike quickness, bringing his club through a bone-crushing smash into the wrist of his enemy’s weapon-hand. The lethal maquahuitl clattered to the stone as the man staggered to a stop at the far edge of the platform. With a quick rush Natac charged and kicked the Aztec in the chest, sending him toppling backward off the Warstone.

  The stunned Mexican clutched his broken wrist and groaned weakly on the ground below as two priests closed in, but Natac didn’t watch as the clerics hoisted the vanquished warrior to his feet and started him toward the great pyramid. Instead, the Tlaxcalan turned to the south stairway, where another determined warrior-a scarred and stocky veteran armed with a javelin as well as a maquahuitl-ascended to do glory for his god and his nation.

  His predecessor’s fate apparently gave this warrior little pause, for he, too, charged with headlong speed. Natac started to retreat, but then sprang forward to stab his club, head forward, between the careless guard of the Aztec’s javelin and sword. The blow smashed into the padded quilt with enough force to crack the man’s ribs, and he collapsed soundlessly. Looking at his enemy’s lips, which were already blue, Natac knew he had died from a bruise to his heart.

  The Tlaxcalan crossed to the other side of the platform while more priests dragged the warrior and his weapons away. Since the man was already dead, they wasted no time in slicing open his chest and raising that stilled heart toward the sun. The slick red muscle was then placed in a wicker basket and borne toward a nearby temple by a swiftly trotting apprentice.

  Before the end of that brief ceremony, an Aztec warrior had climbed the west stairway to the Warstone. This man bore only a maquahuitl, and he moved with feline grace, balancing on the balls of his feet and weaving back and forth unpredictably. He might have the quickness to become a Jaguar Knight someday, Natac suspected-if he had tenacity and strength, as well.

  It was at that moment that the Tlaxcalan was struck by an odd thought: His own death at the hands of one of these young Mexicans would greatly exalt that aspiring warrior’s status. The victor might be granted command of a hundred warriors, or even that exalted knighthood in the orders of the Jaguars or Eagles. The notion gave rise to a strangely calming sense of tranquillity.

  The graceful Aztec approached with caution, circling warily. Natac allowed him to hold a respectful distance as the two combatants faced each other like dancers, slowly pivoting around the stage. They sparred with quick slashes, the clash of their weapons harsh in the still plaza until, as if by mutual plan, they separated.

  Over three sharp exchanges the young man revealed quick reflexes in defense, but also displayed a predilection for a high, slashing attack. The fourth time that catlike swipe whipped past his face, Natac was ready with his own counter. He ducked into a full squat and struck from his crouch, a vicious sideswipe that shattered the Aztec’s knee. Sobbing in disbelief, the promising young warrior was borne toward the temple of the war god as a fourth fighter, this one climbing up the north stairway, took up the challenge.

  And he was followed by a fifth, and then a sixth.

  When the seventh man fell, knocked senseless by a blow to the head, several heartbeats passed without the next challenger appearing. A freshening breeze cooled the sheen of sweat that glistened on Natac’s nearly hairless skin. He was vaguely aware of a stillness, a sense of awe that had quieted the once boisterous crowd.

  When he looked around curiously, he saw the reason: Sternly upright amid the framing plumage of slave-borne fans, Moctezuma himself had come to observe the duel.

  The Eloquent One, most powerful ruler in the known world, was resplendent in his bright feathered mantle and the brilliant headdress of long, emerald-colored plumes lofting half again above his own height. A large plug of turquoise and gold graced his lower lip, which was now curled downward in a pout of displeasure. In Moctezuma’s wake crowded a retinue of nobles anxious for a look at the Tlaxcalan xochimilche. Yet all left space around the Eloquent One, and hastened to back away from the ruler’s every gesture or move.

  The next warrior climbed to the Warstone, no doubt deeply honored by the exalted observer, and charged at the waiting Natac. A heartbeat later, larynx crushed by the wooden club that had long since lost its feathered totems, the Aztec tumbled away to a slow death by strangulation.

  “Enough!”

  The cry came from the Eagle Knight, Takanatl. The veteran stared at the purple-faced corpse, then looked to Natac, his expression tortured. Finally the helmed warrior turned toward Moctezuma, kneeling and bending his face to the ground with a graceful sweep of plumage.

  “My lord-I beg leave to battle this captive myself! I offer his blood, and my own, in the name of Huitzilopochtli!”

  “This is the man Natac, captured by you in the recent battle?” Moctezuma, still scowling, regarded the Tlaxcalan. As Natac returned the Aztec ruler’s gaze, he realized that he was the only person in the plaza who was looking upon that face-the tens and tens of thousands of Mexicans in view all had their eyes turned respectfully downward or away.

  “Aye, lord.” Takanatl spoke from the depths of his bow, addressing the ground at his feet.

  “And he has been your foe, and ours, for these last three tens of years?”

  “Aye, lord. Always Natac was at the forefront of the attack. He has killed and captured many of our warriors. In the battle of seven days past, it was he who led the pursuit that turned our withdrawal into a disgraceful rout.”

  “A shameful outcome,” Moctezuma declared, addressing Takanatl sternly. “This Tlaxcalan’s capture was the only moment of good news in a valley full of disasters. I should hate to have it be the cause of your own loss, as well.”

  “My lord-I beg you! He is the greatest foe I have ever known. Behold today: Even in capture, in defeat, he decimates my company and slays my best men!”

  “Very well.” Moctezuma turned to Natac. “You have heard my Eagle Knight. I shall grant his request, an honor I bestow graciously. But know, Tlaxcalan, that he shall be your last opponent. If the gods so decree, he will give your heart to the gods-but should you defeat him, the honor of the Mexica will compel me to set you free.

  “Now”-the Eloquent One turned to Takanatl again-“commence the fight.”

  The Eagle Knight leapt up the steep stairway in three giant strides. His dark eyes, warm with relief, pride and martial fervor, met Natac’s, and the Tlaxcalan felt a profound wave of joy.

  “I regret the rules of the ritual-it would be better if you had a real weapon,” the Eagle Knight said.

  “I know. But the club serves well enough.” Natac allowed himself a tight smile, seeing his dark humor reflected as chagrin in the Aztec’s eyes.

  Natac met Takanatl warily, deflecting a dazzling series of slashing blows-attacks that steadily whittled away at the battered stick that was the Tlaxcalan’s only weapon. Yet despite the onslaught, his wounds, and the strain of the previous duels, he had no sensation of fatigue. Indeed, he felt as if he was only now gaining true understanding of his deepest skills. He ducked and weaved and dodged, supple as a gust of wind swirling around a great bird of prey i
n flight.

  The Eagle Knight’s shield deflected each smashing blow. Several times the obsidian teeth of his maquahuitl sliced Natac’s skin and flesh, and for the first time that day Tlaxcalan blood spattered onto the Warstone. Quickly following each advantage, the Aztec veteran pressed his enemy hard, and now Natac was forced to evade the whistling slashes with ever-increasing desperation.

  He lunged right, desperately skipped left as the jagged sword slashed. Only then did he see that the attack had been a feint-now Takanatl used his shield as a weapon, smashing the hardened wood against Natac’s injured, swollen hand. Pain shrieked through the warrior’s nerves, staggering him, dropping him for a brief instant onto one knee. For the first time he saw defeat, certain death, awaiting him at the end of this fight.

  But not yet. His mind still clouded by agony, Natac lunged to the side, dodging a nearly fatal swipe. Forcing his thoughts into focus, the Tlaxcalan groaned and slumped in apparent weakness.

  And then Takanatl made his mistake. A vicious blow curled past Natac, gouging the Tlaxcalan’s bicep, but this time the xochimilche dived past the shield of his lifelong foe. Springing to his feet in a lightning attack, Natac swung the wooden club past the bottom of the Aztec’s wooden helmet, smashing the Eagle Knight where his neck merged with his shoulders.

  Bone snapped as Takanatl grunted in surprise, then collapsed onto his face. He lay motionless, making a strangled, choking sound.

  Quickly Natac knelt and turned the Eagle Knight over. The Aztec’s eyes were open and focused, shaded by an intense fear that was very disturbing to see in this battle-hardened veteran. His head lolled to the side, drool trickling from his mouth until the Tlaxcalan wiped his lips and gently turned him to face toward the sky.

  “I am already dying… my body is gone from me… my legs… my arms… like smoke…” Takanatl’s words were weak, forced out by lungs that strained just to sustain his life.

  “I am grateful that we journey to Mictlan together, my enemy,” declared Natac sincerely. He took one of the Aztec’s hands, surprised at the utter flaccidity of the limp fingers.

  “Yes, my life-enemy. It seems that the gods have conspired to keep us… together… even beyond…”

  Takanatl coughed again, a violent spasm that flecked his lips with foam, and then the Eagle Knight was still. His eyes, sightless to views in this world, stared in the direction of that pure blue sky.

  “Enough of killing my warriors!” cried Moctezuma, his rage a scythe that shivered through the Mexican crowd. “Go back to Tlaxcala and be done with my city!”

  For a moment Natac blinked, startled, even tempted, by the prospect of walking away from this place. But then he remembered the peace he had made with his gods, the destiny that had stood before him with this dawn, and he was disappointed in his own momentary weakness.

  “My lord, you do me high honor… as I have intended high honor to the gods. Please allow me to bestow that honor with my heart and my life.” Only then did a pragmatic and decisive thought occur to Natac. He held up the swollen hand, and the black lines of blood poisoning were clearly visible to the ruler of the Aztecs.

  “And in any event, it seems that the wound inflicted by Takanatl’s ambush will see to the end of my life. My time as a warrior is finished.”

  The Eloquent One, no doubt considering the recent toll upon his own fighting men, looked skeptical at Natac’s words. Yet he continued to listen as the Tlaxcalan pointed to a nearby temple, the lone edifice atop its pyramid. The site was conspicuously silent, empty of activity amid the panoply of festivities.

  “I ask that my heart be offered to the Smoking Mirror. Doubtless you know that Tezcatlipoca is the patron god of my people. It is in his honor that I have waged a lifetime of war, and to his honor that I would dedicate my death.”

  Moctezuma laughed a sharp, bitter bark of sound. “You choose sacrifice on the altar of the Enemy on Every Side? Somehow, that seems a fitting end to this ceremony.”

  Priests flanked Natac as he descended from the Warstone to continue his journey toward the realm of death. The crowd parted, allowing the xochimilche and his clerical escort to cross the plaza, circling the great pyramid close enough to see the blood pooling at the base of the stairs. Finally they approached the pyramid of Tezcatlipoca. A surge of anticipation filled Natac as he thought of the black mountains of Mictlan and the dangerous and exciting journey he would soon undertake. So it was with firm steps that he started up the steep stairway of stone.

  Atop the pyramid, Natac could at last see the dazzling lakes that surrounded the island city of the Mexica. Sunlight sparkled in broad swaths, liquid silver shimmering to the verdant horizon. Closer, he saw the vast plaza and surrounding streets, all thronged by crowds, while the canals beyond were thick with canoes. Banners floated and lofty headdresses danced above the people like magically enchanted snakes and birds. It was a wondrous scene, a perfect vision of man’s crowning achievement as allowed by the benevolence of the gods.

  Finally the priests closed in and Natac laid himself across the altar without any assistance. Now his eyes turned upward, to the sky of that perfect blue. He felt a fleeting moment of sadness as he beheld the surreal hue, knowing that in the blackness of Mictlan he would miss such beauty.

  He smelled shit on the nearest priest, and that made him sad, too.

  Then the knife was there, blocking his view of the sky, plunging, cutting his chest with a shocking rip of pain. In a brief moment the agony was gone, and Natac felt only numbness as he stared into the grime-smeared face of the leering holy man. A filthy hand came forward, and he was vaguely aware of fingers penetrating, pushing into his flesh.

  He strained for breath, but there was no air.

  Blackness fringed his vision, a circle swiftly drawing tight. Then Natac saw his own heart, red and bright and dripping, pulsing with the last vestiges of vitality.

  Finally, the darkness was everywhere.

  And in the black infinity he sensed a woman. Her musk surrounded him, a tangible spoor that teased and cajoled, moving him with a raw and sexual summons. The feeling intoxicated Natac, drew him with a promise of unprecedented delight.

  Even so, he was rather startled to find himself utterly, tumescently, aroused.

  PART ONE

  1

  A Sage-Ambassador

  Know that it is carved in the Tablets of Inception:

  The Seven Circles remain, and in their balance stands the hope of all futures.

  The First Circle, called Underworld, is the realm of rock; it lies below.

  The Second Circle, called Dissona, is the realm of metal; it lies across the Worldsea, in the direction of metal.

  The Third Circle, called Lignia, is the realm of wood; it lies across the Worldsea, in the direction of wood.

  The Fourth Circle is Nayve, sacred realm of flesh. It is the center of the Worldsea, the center of all.

  The Fifth Circle is Loamar, realm of dirt; it lies beyond the Worldsea, in the direction that is neither metal nor wood.

  The Sixth Circle is Overworld, and it is the realm of air; it lies above.

  The Seventh Circle is the universe called Earth, realm of water; it lies in the directions of everywhere and nowhere.

  Belynda read the words again. She knew them by heart, but there was always comfort to be gained from the calm repetition, the silent mouthing of text reciting the fundamental order of the cosmos. Yet, for some reason, today even the massive, gold-bound tome-her personal copy of the Tablets of Inception-was not enough to calm a vague sense of disquiet. An edge of tension thrummed in the back of her mind, a sensation she was unable to banish.

  She found her eyes drifting, seeking the cloudy globe that rested so snugly in its alcove. There was no glimmer of light in the milky glass, nothing to suggest the powerful magic she had worked only a few minutes before. But the memory of her failure lingered like a sour taste, casting a pall over the rest of the day.

  Decisively she rose and crossed to the magical sphere pe
rched on a marble pedestal of classic simplicity. Belynda placed her hands on the smooth surface, already cool.

  “Caranor… hear me. Please heed my call,” she whispered, using the pressure of her hands to squeeze the words into the glass, vaulting her magical message into the distant wilds of Nayve. She placed extra force behind the summons, a nudge that should awaken the enchantress if she were sleeping-though it was unthinkable that any dignified and proper elf would be asleep this long after the Lighten Hour.

  And the sage-enchantress Caranor was a particularly industrious elf. She lived alone, as did all the most powerful spell casters, but she was ever laboring to help the less fortunate members of her race. Yet even at her busiest, Caranor should have heard, and replied to, the magical call of the sage-ambassador.

  The knock on Belynda’s door was like a sudden crash of thunder and she gasped, sitting upright with a start that put a crick in her neck.

  “What?” she demanded crossly, and then immediately regretted her harsh tone. “Please, come in,” she said in a more inviting voice.

  For a moment there was only silence beyond the solid oak door to her apartments and meditation chambers. Finally, she heard one soft word:

  “No.”

  She sighed, smiling in spite of herself as she recognized the speaker. She addressed the door politely.

  “I’m sorry, Nistel. I promise that I’m not mad at you-or anybody, really. Now, won’t you please come in?”

  “You won’t yell?” The voice was injured pride tempered by a tremolo of worry.

  “I promise.”

  The door opened to reveal a person who was reaching upward to turn the knob. His face was masked by a bush of white whiskers, a beard that hung straight down to a point just below his belly. He continued to cling to the brass doorknob while he scrutinzed Belynda, clearly ready to flee at the first sign of displeasure.