A Magic of Dawn

ILLUMINATIONS
Niente

Citlali was not one to hide his anger and displeasure. Niente suspected that was true of all Tecuhtli-when everyone is below you in stature, there’s no need to conceal your feelings.

Citlali’s face was nearly as ruddy as the eagle tattooed on his bald skull. Even the black, geometric lines of the warrior across his body were dimmed. Behind him, the well-muscled form of the High Warrior Tototl loomed. Citlali pointed at Niente as he entered the tent. “You’ve lied to me,” he said without preamble.

Niente grasped his spell-staff tightly, feeling the power of X’in Ka trapped within it, and wondering if he would need to use that today. He forced his bowed back to straighten as best he could. He ignored the screaming of his muscles and the urge to sit down. He lifted his face to Citlali and Tototl, let them see the scarred and withered horror that his use of the scrying bowl and the deep enchantments made in the name of the Tecuhtli over the years had made of him, how he aged far more than his years in the service of the Tehuantin. His blind and white left eye stared at Citlali. “Tecuhtli, I have never-”

“Your own son tells me this,” Citlali interrupted. That, Niente realized, explained why Atl had avoided him this morning, remaining far down the army’s column from the Tecuhtli and Nahual’s escorts. “He says that he also has the gift of Axat’s far-sight,” Citlali continued, “and he insists that your path at Villembouchure nearly led us to disaster. No, be silent!” he roared as Niente started to protest. “Atl said that had we followed the path that Axat showed him, we would not have needed to leave our fleet blocked and tangled in the A’Sele, that we wouldn’t have had the losses we had in the river or at Villembouchure. He says we could have gained an easy victory there, and have sailed with the fleet on up the A’Sele to Nessantico.”

“And after that?” Niente asked, almost afraid to voice the question. “What did he see past that point?” If Atl could glimpse the twisting paths of the future that far ahead, there was nothing he could do. He would fail in his task, now, and the future he’d seen would slip away entirely.

Tototl’s face was impassive, but Citlali shrugged. “Atl said that Axat granted him no glimpse of the future past that point. Still, an easy victory at Villembouchure, not having to abandon the river for the road…”

The army of the Tehuantin had taken all they could from the ships, the deep channel they needed hopelessly blocked by the wreckage of the lead vessels of the fleet, the A’Sele effectively barricaded by their own wrecked, halfsunken ships. Now it was the army who carried everything on their backs, or on groaning, scavenged carts pulled by stolen horses and donkeys. Where the wind could have carried them on the backs of the ships without effort, now they were obliged to walk the long miles to Nessantico, to arrive later, to endure the constant attacks of the defenders who would sneak toward their lines, shower them with arrows or attack them with black sand and vanish again.

Niente understood Citlali’s foul temper.

“If Atl could see nothing beyond Villembouchure, that is the issue,” he told Citlali and Tototl, and that statement deepened the scowl on the Tecuhtli’s face. “Atl does have Axat’s gift. And I forgive him for coming to you-it was his duty to tell you what he’s seen, Tecuhtli, and I’m pleased that he understands his responsibility. But his far-sight isn’t as deep as mine, and that’s where he’s mistaken. As he admits, he doesn’t see far into the mist. Yes, there was another path that would lead to victory, one that seemed easier and better. But had I advised you to follow it and had you taken that advice, it would have led to our destruction later. We would never have taken Nessantico.”

Citlali narrowed his eyes, the wings of the eagle moving in concert, and Niente hurried to continue his explanation-to give Citlali the lie he’d prepared against this. His voice was quavering; that only seemed to lend verisimilitude to the tale: the worried Taat explaining the mistakes of the inexperienced son. “In a few days, the remnants of the Easterners’ own fleet would have caught us-from both behind and forward. We would have been snared in their trap, and our army would have drowned in the A’Sele without being able to fight. That was the fate that awaited us, Tecuhtli Citlali. Now…” Niente lifted his hands. “Now our ships hamper those coming up the A’Sele in pursuit and the rest of the fleet can turn to handle them; with our army on the road, the rest of their ships can do nothing to us. This is the way of victory, Tecuhtli, as I told you. I never promised that it would be an easy path, or is it that the High Warriors are now afraid of the Easterners?”

The last was a calculated risk-the Nahual should be outraged that his skill was being questioned. There should be anger in response to anger, and if he could blind Citlali by the accusation, then perhaps the lie might be accepted easily.

“Afraid?” The roar was the response Niente had expected; the flush deepened on Citlali’s face, as well as on the face of Tototl. Tototl’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, ready to hew Niente’s head from his shoulders should the Tecuhtli order his death. Niente grasped his spell-staff tighter.

This was one of the futures he’d glimpsed, and in it, his life was exceedingly short from this point…

But Citlali laughed, suddenly and abruptly, and Tototl’s fingers loosened on his sword hilt. “Afraid?” Citlali roared again, but this time there was no fury in his words, only a deep amusement. “After the dead Easterners I’ve already left behind me?” He laughed again, and Tototl laughed with him, though Niente saw him gauging Citlali closely-Tototl would undoubtedly be the next Tecuhtli, if they all lived long enough. “You promise me that you see me in their great city, Nahual Niente?” he asked. “You promise me that you see our banner flying over their gates?”

“I promise you that, Tecuhtli Citlali,” Niente told him. His hand had loosened from his staff, and he let his head droop and his spine sag.

“You need to speak with your son, Nahual,” Citlali said. “A son should believe his Taat, and a nahualli should believe his Nahual.”

“I will do that, Tecuhtli.” I will, because this was far too dangerous a moment… Niente bowed to the Tecuhtli and the High Warriors. “I will indeed.”

When he returned to his own tent, Niente pulled the scrying bowl from his pack. He filled it with fresh water, took the scrying powders from the pouch at his belt and sprinkled them over the surface once it had stilled. He chanted over the bowl, the ancient words of the X’in Ka coming unbidden as he called upon Axat, praying to Her to show him again the paths that might be. The water hissed, and the emerald light burst from somewhere in the depths, the mist rising above the water. He leaned over the bowl, opening his eyes…

There was the great city, with its odd spires and domes, and there was the fire of spells and black sand trailing smoke in a grim sky. He was outside the walls with the rest of the nahualli, and like the rest of them, he was exhausted. They couldn’t hold back the assault. A fireball screamed down from above them, and though Niente raised his spell-staff to block it, there was nothing there. The fire descended like a shrieking carrion bird, and it slammed into him, and in that future, even with the Tehuantin razing Nessantico to the ground, in the mists beyond that time he also saw the pyramids of Tlaxcala tumbled in smoke and ruin and the eagle banners cast down, with Easterners walking amidst the rubble…

… In the mists, he sought the path that he’d seen before, but the landscape had changed and the futures were all tangled and snarled, the mists rising high in all but that first, terrible vision. He could still see it, vaguely: the two armies clashing in fire and blood, the battle turning suddenly and unexpectedly as Niente-was it him? The mist made it difficult to see-raised his spell-staff a last time… And beyond, in the the future of that path, a city rising higher than before in the east, and the pyramids of Tlaxi strong against the backdrop of the smoking mountain…

… but there was a figure standing before that path, barring it, and Niente tried to pierce the mist around the man. It was his own face gazing back at him… No, it was a younger version of himself, the features shifting… Atl! It was Atl, his spell-staff raised in defiance, and lightnings crackled around him, licking hot and fierce toward Niente…

Niente lifted his head from the bowl with a gasp. The green mist was swept away, vanishing in the sun and leaving Niente staggering in the midst of a reality that seemed thin and unreal. He shook his head to clear it, allowing himself to come back from the vision. His legs threatened to stop supporting him, and he sank onto the ground, the rickety table that held the scrying bowl falling over. The water spilled from the bowl, the brass bowl rang as it hit the stony ground, and one of the nahualli stuck his head through the tent flaps. “Nahual?”

Niente waved him away. “I’m fine,” he said. “Go away.” The nahualli stared for a moment, then withdrew.

Niente sat there, hugging his knees to himself. Atl… It was Atl who now made the path he’d glimpsed difficult to find. It was Atl who blocked the way.

Atl. “You can’t give me this burden,” he said. He was weeping-from the exhaustion, from the fear, from his love for his son. “You can’t expect me to pay this price.”

Axat, if She listened, remained silent. Niente stared at the bowl, upturned in the grass, and he shuddered.