S Farrell - A Magic of Dawn

He was Nahual Niente whose fame approached and even exceeded that of the great Mahri.

No, the nahualli were content to let Axat take Niente when She would. They were content to watch his body burn slowly away at her bidding, a little bit each day. The nahualli who might want his title were content to be patient, to wait.

Even his own son, who was also one of the nahualli.

Niente rubbed the golden bracelet around his right forearm: the sigil of the Nahual. Atop the teocalli, the youngest nahualli were lighting the oil cauldrons which would burn all night. They inclined their heads to Niente-“Good evening to you, Nahual Niente!” they cried, and he could almost believe the sincerity in their voices. The cauldrons were already lit on the other teocaltin of the city and atop the Calli Tecuhtli. All over the city, lanterns clawed at the night. Tlaxcala glowed yellow in the darkness of the valley, a city that never slept.

Niente slapped Atl on the shoulder. At two hands of age, his son had an athlete’s body, and though he was trained as a nahualli, he could as easily have entered the warrior caste. “Let’s get home,” Niente said to him. “I’m hungry enough to eat those dogs if they get in the way.”

He threw the water from the bowl onto the stones and wiped the brass with the hem of his robe. He slipped the bowl into its leather pouch and slung it around his neck. The two started down the long, steep staircase, Niente moving carefully and noting that Atl stayed close to his elbow. Had Atl been any other of the nahualli, he might have been insulted, but he was glad for Atl’s attentiveness.

As they descended, Niente saw a young man in the blue garb of the Tecuhtli’s staff hurrying up the stairs toward them-one of the Tecuhtli’s pages. Niente paused, letting the boy approach. The page bowed, prostrate on the narrow stone steps, at Niente’s feet. “Up,” Niente told him. “What’s your message?”

“The Tecuhtli requests your presence, Nahual.”

Niente laughed aloud at that, which startled the boy. “I guess the dogs will be well fed tonight,” he said to Atl. “Tell your Na’ Xaria that it’s the Tecuhtli’s fault, not mine.”

The Calli Tecuhtli was in the next calpulli, the neighborhoods into which the city was subdivided by the canals and large boulevards. Niente followed the page along the terra cotta flank of one of the aqueducts that provided fresh water to the city-the waters of Lake Ixtapatl being rather brackish-and over one of the many arching bridges of the island city to the plaza before Calli Tecuhtli. Ahead of him, the pyramid of the Calli rose like Poctlitepetl itself, its summit also smoking, not with ash and lava but with the fires of oil cauldrons. The plaza was bustling with people: visitors from the other cities come to see the glory of the capital Tlaxcala; citizens petitioning one or another of the innumerable bureaucrats who actually ran the city; scarred and tattooed High Warriors who served the Tecuhtli. All of them stepped aside before Niente with inclined heads and muttered greetings as he followed the page up the steps. At the third level of the pyramid, the page stopped, leading Niente to a curtained alcove a little way down. He tapped on the call drum outside and lifted the thick, woven tapestry, gesturing to Niente to enter.

The room-the outermost room of the Tecuhtli’s apartments-was lavish. The walls were brightly painted with figures of birds of prey and solemn warriors. Warm woven rugs covered the floor. Citlali sat in a carved wooden chair cushioned with many pillows, a table with several dishes steaming in front of him. “Ah, Nahual Niente. Sit. Eat with me; no doubt poor Xaria has already given up on you for supper.”

The red-dyed tattoo of an eagle, the insignia of the Tecuhtli, seemed to wriggle on Citlali’s wide, shaved head as he spoke. He gestured to a chair set on the other side of the table. “Thank you, Tecuhtli,” Niente told him, sinking into the chair with a sigh. “I’m afraid I forget the time too easily.”

“You look more tired than usual.”

“I am,” Niente admitted. “Axat is a hard taskmaster, and She doesn’t care what happens to Her servant.”

“And what did you see in the scrying bowl today?”

Niente leaned forward and lifted a cover from one of the dishes. He took a flat corn cake and slathered meat on it, folding it over. He gnawed at it hungrily. The battle raging in the waters of the scrying bowl… The strange architecture of the buildings… The enemy in their steel and shields… The blood, the fire, the death… And the long path of peace… And the cost of that Long Path; he knew that also. “I saw enough,” he said as he swallowed, “to guess why you’ve asked me here, Tecuhtli.” He sighed. “I don’t look forward to crossing the Lesser Sea again.”

Citlali laughed, clapping his hands together once. “You guess well,” he said. “I thought it would be enough for me to send the Easterners running back home like a pack of frightened dogs. I thought when I stood on the burning embers of their last fortress here on our cousins’ lands of the Hellins that I’d be satisfied. But I find I’m not. I keep dreaming of their cities and the loss we suffered there. I keep thinking that we haven’t yet paid for the souls of those great warriors and nahualli who died there.”

“More warriors and nahualli will die if you do this, Tecuhtli. Many more.” Even though he had seen the Long Path, no future was certain. He had also seen that there would be peace-for a time-if Citlali stayed here. But not forever. The Holdings would be back, and this time they would bring an army that would be terrifying.

“I know. Yet isn’t that what the true warrior desires?”

“There are still wars to fight here. Not all of our cousins beyond the White-Peak Wall pay tribute to Tlaxcala-you can add their skulls to the rack.”

Citlali nodded as Niente spoke, but his gesture was tempered with a shrug. Niente could see the vision of the scrying bowl in the Tecuhtli’s eyes, glimmering there in his pupils. He could almost hear Axat’s laughter. This is what She wants of you. You want to deny it, but you know it.

“I hear Tecuhtli Zolin in my dream,” Citlali said. “His spirit calls to me from the land of the dead to finish what he started.”

“Zolin is too proud even in death, then,” Niente said, and Citlali barked laughter at that.

“Zolin refused to listen to you, Niente. I’ll listen. If you tell me that Axat says I shouldn’t go, I won’t.”

Niente sat, silently. Do you throw this to me as a test, Axat? he asked, and thought for a moment that he heard the response of Her sinister laughter. “I can’t tell you that, Tecuhtli,” he said.

Citlali laughed again, this time with satisfaction. He clapped his hands together loudly enough in his pleasure that the page outside lifted the flap of the tapestry and peered in momentarily. “I was certain you’d argue against this, Niente,” he roared. “I thought you would warn me of what you saw in the scrying bowl as you did Zolin, and tell me that I was being foolish. I thought you would say that I tempt the gods, and they would strike me down for my arrogance and pride, as they did Zolin.”

Niente smiled, taking another bite of meat as Citlali spoke. No, he would not tell Citlali what he’d seen in the bowl, because Axat had made it clear to him that he must not, not if he wanted the vision of the Long Path to come to fruition. He only bowed his head to the warrior. “I will be at your side, Tecuhtli Citlali, as I was at Zolin’s. I will be your Nahual, and I will look again on the Easterners’ land.”

Citlali rose from his seat-his body was still that of a muscular warrior, but there was the beginning of a paunch around his waist. That explained much of his eagerness to Niente: unlike the Nahual of the nahualli, the Tecuhtli-the highest of the High Warriors-rarely reached old age before a rival arose to challenge and kill him. If Citlali wanted his name to be remembered long after his time, he needed to make his mark on the world.