sideways glance at Halloran. He had recited, by rote, the lessons he had learned as a youth. Now he thought of Hal's countrymen in the Golden Legion and no longer felt so certain.
Quickly he pointed into the distance. 'Lake Azul, deep and cold, named for the god of rain. And here, to the west, is Lake Qotal'
The latter was a brackish brown in color, obviously shallow, since tufts of grass and reeds extended far into the lake from its marshy shore. 'The small stagnant one,' Poshtli said, a hint of sadness in his voice. 'Named for the absent god Qotal, who turned his back on his people and left them to the hunger of the younger gods.'
Halloran tried to absorb the vista before him. His exhaustion vanished in the first moments of that stupendous view. The days of marching northward, finally leaving the desert behind, the fatigue of the long climb up this mountain, all disappeared in a sensation of reverent awe.
'Nothing you've said has prepared me for this,' he noted haltingly, not looking at Poshtli as he spoke.
'It is the place I have dreamed about,' Erix added quietly.
Hal looked at the three blue lakes, a rich deep blue, remembering that each was named for a bloodthirsty god of sacrifice. The fourth, the ugly brown one, they dedicated to the 'Plumed God,' the one who had disappeared. Still, he had learned that many Mazticans, including Erixitl, believed the tales that Qotal would one day return.
They lapsed into silence again, Halloran still staggered by the wonders below them: the city of white buildings and colorful plazas, covering many miles in breadth, the tall, terraced pyramids, gathered around and dwarfed by the mountainous massif the Nexalans called the Great Pyramid. He looked upon Nexal's sprawling palaces. He wondered at Nexal's great size, at the green fringes surrounding the buildings, extending into the lakes themselves. These floating gardens spread like a blanket of moss on the surface of the water, encircling the city in a belt of abundance.
The scope and scale of the city astounded him. He had seen Waterdeep, had lived in Calimshan and Amn, had traveled the length of the Sword Coast in the Realms. Yet none of those civilized lands could boast a city that compared to Nexal in size or grandeur. He estimated that a thousand or more canoes plied the waters of the lakes, while countless more maneuvered through the city's canals.
Erixitl of Palul saw the city for its beauty. She saw the profusion of flowers and their brilliant gardens, the glimmering blankets of feathers floating gracefully in the air above the markets. Fountains and pools reflected sunlight from a thousand large arboretums.
'My uncle is lord of it all,' said Poshtli, his voice proud but surprisingly subdued. He had led them from the desert, into the high mountain pass, and now he seemed oddly overcome himself, though he had spent most of his life in the great metropolis below.
'It surpasses anything I have ever seen — the colors, the setting, the sheer size of the place! With no wall for defense, no bastions…' Hal's voice trailed away. For a moment, he even forgot about the savage rites that were the centerpiece of religion in this amazing place below them. The colors seemed to wink at them in the undying sunlight, beckoning them to descend, to enter.
'Did I not tell you it was truly the grandest place beneath the sight of the gods?' boasted Poshtli, beginning to lead them down the trail. 'As for defense, no nation in Maztica would dare strike at Nexal. Even if they did, the lakes provide barrier enough. Now, come. We will reach my uncle's palace before dark!'
The path twisted down the mountainside, between looming Mount Zatal to the left, and another great peak, called Mount Popol, to the right. As they descended, the brush around them became thicker, soon towering into lush green trees that blocked for a time their view of the valley floor.
Soft breezes ruffled the trees, which reminded Hal of the tall cedars found along the Sword Coast. The steep descent passed easily, and they encountered no people along the forest trail.
After an hour, they reached a lush garden that surrounded a rock-walled spring. The trail circled the pool, and Halloran saw a stone-lined trench, filled with rapidly flowing clear water, leading away from the spring.
'An aqueduct!' he marveled, seeing the long span of stonework that carried water into the city.
'We have plenty of water in Nexal,' explained Poshtli. 'But this from the Cicada Spring is the sweetest to drink. It runs into the center of the city, where it can be sampled by all.'
He led them from the garden, and the trail again emerged onto a cleared mountainside. Vast, terraced fields of mayz, the plump grain that, in Hal's experience, seemed to feed all of Maztica, surrounded them, and they could look over the softly waving fields to the city again. With Nexal noticeably closer now, Hal saw clearly the wide stone causeways that led from the shore to the city on its bright, lush island.
Erixitl looked over the city as Poshtli described to Halloran the construction of the aqueduct, which had occurred when the Nexalan warrior had been a boy. She saw an abrupt shadow fall across the sun, though no cloud appeared in the sky.
Suddenly Nexal looked to her as it had in her dream: a cool, barren city illuminated by white moonlight. She felt a flash of terror and, with a short gasp of fright, she tried to turn away.
But she could not. She saw the darkness linger over the plazas and the great market. It centered around the Great Pyramid, with its bloodstained altars. As she looked upon the place of those scenes of sacrifice, the shadows grew darker still, until finally she forced herself to look away. For a moment, she closed her eyes, shuddering.
Finally she turned back, and the city, with its intense, fragile beauty, glowed again with a sense of vibrant vitality. She saw it as it was now and relished its grandeur. But still the memory of the shadows remained, and as they neared Nexal, the frightening darkness lay heavy on her mind.
All too soon, she feared, the brightness and vitality before her could be gone.
Naltecona rested, dozing lightly in the soft pluma of his great feathered throne. The cushion of luxurious feather-magic held his body effortlessly, floating easily above the dais in the center of the great ceremonial chamber. The Revered Counselor, comfortable in a soft gown, bedecked with bright feathers on his head, at his shoulders, and knees, enjoyed a rare moment of peace.
Around him the priests, warriors, and sorcerers who made up his court stood in awkward silence. Their attendance was not required while the ruler napped, but none possessed the courage to leave and risk awakening the great man by his departure.
Stirring slightly, Naltecona felt his surroundings and even sensed the awkwardness of his courtiers. Let them stand, he told himself. Let them learn some of the discipline that must guide my every move. He felt a vague sense of scorn for these old men who fawned over him and followed him, yet seemed to offer no help in those matters where the counselor most desired advice and wisdom. Matters such as the puzzling strangers who had landed on the shores of the True World and conquered the Payit in a single, brutal battle.
Dozing again, Naltecona dreamed of the presence of his nephew, Poshtli. There was a true man! A warrior of courage, a man of wisdom and restraint. Too bad he could not replace a dozen of these fools around him with one more like Poshtli.
The doors to the throne room opened softly, yet the movement was enough to waken the Revered Counselor. He looked up in annoyance.
A priest hurried forward, pausing to bow obsequiously three times before he approached the feathered throne. The emaciated cleric, his frail limbs and face covered with the scars of self-inflicted penance, finally stood before his ruler. His hair stood tall above his head, a series of stiff spikes caked with the blood of the priest's sacrificial victims. He waited silently, his eyes downcast, as Naltecona blinked and stretched.
'Yes, Hoxitl?' inquired the ruler, recognizing the high priest of Zaltec before him. Zaltec was the patron god of the Nexala, and his patriarch, Hoxitl, claimed powerful rights of counsel.
'Most Revered One, we have word out of the desert of your nephew, Lord Poshtli. It is said that he returns with one of the strangers as his prisoner. This news is pleasing to Zaltec and the Ancient Ones.'
'I have no doubt of that,' said Naltecona ironically. He understood that any new prospect of sacrifice was pleasing to the god of Hoxitl. He looked at his other courtiers. 'This is the proof for those who doubted Poshtli's eventual return. He left in search of a vision. I have no doubts that his visions have shown him more than most of you will ever know.'
'Indeed,' said Hoxitl, with another humble bow. 'The wisdom of Zaltec has blessed him.'
Naltecona's gaze penetrated the priest, though the still-bowing cleric seemed unaware of his ruler's stare. 'There is more than one source of wisdom in the True World,' he said sharply. 'Do not let your faith blind you to
