toward her and the palais, but at the last moment when it seemed to be about to strike the palais itself, it shattered into a thousand fragments, each hissing and glowing as they fell-a counter-spell must have found it. She wondered how many fires the sparks would set, and whether the fire-teni would come to put them out.
Rochelle ran to the nearest palais door. Locked: again, she took out the picks, manipulating them until she heard the snick of the mechanism opening. She opened the door just enough to slide inside.
She found herself in what must have been the servants’ corridor: a plain narrow hallway with cross-corridors opening off to either side and a large door at the end. If this was like Brezno Palais, as she expected it would be, then most of these doors would be unlocked. The servants needed to have access to all parts of the palais to serve their masters and mistresses, and to do so in the most unobtrusive manner possible. Doubtless, the palais was honeycombed with such passages.
But the back corridors of Brezno Palais had also been a bustle of activity. This one was silent, and Rochelle found that strange. She moved quickly to the main door, easing the door open a crack. She glimpsed one of the main public hallways of the palais; she could also hear voices. There were several people walking hurriedly away from another room just farther down. One of the men she recognized immediately: Sergei ca’Rudka, the silver nose gleaming on his wrinkled, pasty face, his cane tapping an erratic rhythm on the tiles. The woman alongside him was talking, in a hurried and angry voice. “. .. don’t care what you were thinking or what your reasons were. I’m furious with you, Sergei. Absolutely furious. And Talbot; why in Cenzi’s name didn’t you check with me? You knew I’d ordered the ponticas to stay up.”
“I must apologize profusely, Kraljica,” Sergei said, though Rochelle thought he sounded more pleased than apologetic. So that was the Kraljica. Great-matarh, I’m here for you… But not now. Not yet. There were too many people around her: Sergei, the one called Talbot, as well as a quartet of gardai.
“Your ‘accident’-if that’s what it really was-may have jeopardized our chance to assault the Tehuantin on the South Bank. Now there’s only one route over, so…”
Their voices drifted into unintelligibility as they walked down the corridor. Rochelle risked opening the door wider. There were two gardai stationed at the door from where the group had come. Rochelle ducked back into the servants’ corridor. She took the corridor that led off in the direction of the room with the gardai, counting her steps to judge when she’d walked the distance. There was another door a few strides farther down the corridor. She opened that door.
She found herself in the Hall of the Sun Throne. The crystalline mass of the Sun Throne itself dominated the hall on its dais. Fine. This would do: the Kraljica must come back here in time, and Rochelle could fulfill her promise.
She saw a flash of light through the high windows of the hall, and the palais itself shook as thunder grumbled. She could smell woodsmoke and the windows of the palais were alight with a dawn of flame.
Rochelle settled herself in to wait.
Niente dusted the water in the scrying bowl with the orange powder and chanted the spell to open his mind to Axat. The green mist began to rise, and he bent his head over the bowl.
They were encamped in the city itself, with warriors securing the streets and plundering the houses and buildings there-for food and supplies, had been Tototl’s orders, but Niente was certain that many of the warriors were also taking whatever treasures they could carry. Others had been set to building a catapult, and Niente had tasked the nahualli with enchanting the bags of black sand that the catapult would hurl onto the island so that they would explode upon impact. The chanting of the nahualli and the hammering of the warrior engineers filled the wide boulevard outside the fortress prison at the river’s edge. From the gates of the edifice, the skull of a horrible, many-toothed creature leered down at Niente-almost as if it could be the head of the winged serpent that flew on the Tecuhtli’s banner. That, Niente thought, was nearly an irony. Axat’s Eye had risen, and it seemed to watch Niente as he performed the ritual, watched him as intently as did Tototl.
The visions came quickly, rushing toward him almost too fast for him to see, the paths of the future twisting and intertwining. Niente could still see victory along the clearest, closest path, but now it was a victory won at terrible cost. There were changes wrought on the landscape, powers rising that hadn’t been glimpsed before, or that had been hinted at only in wisps of possibilities: the king of black-and-silver; the old woman who smelled of black sand; the young man with the wild, strange power. That last one… He was the most difficult of all for Niente to see, wrapped in mist and mystery. Around him, all the possible paths of the future seemed to be coiled. Niente wanted to stay with this one, but the mists kept pushing him away no matter how hard he tried.
In the mist, Niente could also feel Atl, so close that he almost thought that his son was standing beside him, peering into his bowl at the same time. Here. He tried to cast his thoughts toward Atl. See what I see. Let me find the Long Path, and hope you see it also…
But there was no response. He couldn’t show Atl what he had seen, nor could he see what Atl saw. In the mist, they stayed separate.
“Will they take down the other bridge?” Tototl asked. “If they do that…”
“If they do that, then we can’t get across to help Tecuhtli Citlali. I know. Now let me look…”
He’d already seen that: in the primary path, the Easterners inexplicably never destroyed either bridge. He didn’t understand that. With the bridges up, Tototl would win through to the Isle, though at terrible cost. The strange black sand weapons that the Easterners wielded would take down far too many warriors before they could, inevitably, overwhelm them. They would reach Citlali and still crush the Easterners between them, but this was no longer the overwhelming victory that Niente had seen in Tlaxcala. Everything had changed.
Which meant the Long Path had changed as well. If the Long Path were still there at all.
Niente bent his head into the mist again, searching. Please, Axat. Show me…
And She did.
The Storm’s Passing
“Well?” Tototl asked Niente as he poured the water from the scrying bowl onto the cobbles of the boulevard. Niente cleaned the bowl with the sleeve of his shirt and looked solemnly at the High Warrior.
“Do you remember, Tototl, that we talked about how something that appeared to be a victory might not be so?”
Tototl’s painted visage remained impassive. “I remember you saying that,” he said. “And I remember that I told you that I believed you saw more in the bowl than you were telling Tecuhtli Citlali. So tell me now, Uchben Nahual, what did you see? Tell me the truth.”
Niente placed the scrying bowl back in its pouch, feeling the texture of the incised patterns along its rims. He took up his spell-staff; he could feel the energy of the X’in Ka throbbing within the wood, captured and ready to be loosed. The smells filled his nostrils: burning wood, the scent of water, the odor of clothing worn too long. He swallowed, and he tasted the lingering tang of the green mist he had inhaled. His senses seemed too full and too sharp. He glanced up at the leering skull on the wall above him, and he could imagine the thing alive once more- teeth like ivory knives slicing open a victim caught in its powerful jaws.
“Listen to me, Tototl,” he said. “I said nothing to Tecuhtli Citlali because he couldn’t see beyond now and beyond his own ambitions. You have the imagination to do that. You could become a great Tecuhtli. One whose name would ring for generations.”
Tototl couldn’t entirely conceal the eagerness those words brought to him: Niente saw it in the the faint movement of the warrior’s mouth, in the slight widening of his eyes in their pools of red paint. There was ambition in the warrior. “You saw that?” he asked.
A nod. “It’s one of the futures. A possibility.” Niente paused. He looked at the catapult, nearly finished now. He looked at the bridge arching near them at the end of the boulevard, at the great building that loomed just beyond it, at the golden dome rising above the other rooftops in the middle of the island. “Tototl, victory right now hinges on a thread. You are that thread, Tototl. Without you, there is no victory at all. I’ve seen that.”
“What must I do?”
“You must win through to the island and to the other side, as you said earlier. You must bring your warriors to attack the Easterners from their rear. If you want victory, that’s what you have to accomplish.”
“Why would I not? That’s why we came here: to take the city, to avenge our loss with Tecuhtli Zolin, to rule
