Feathered Dragon - Douglas Niles [13]
Erixitl sighed, squeezing her husband’s hand, for this was an old argument. “I’ll be fine. You cant expect me to ride, when old men and women, even little children, all walk on their own feet.”
Among the throng of refugees were some fifteen horses, all that were left of the forty brought to Maztica by the Golden Legion. The others had almost certainly perished in battle or in the convulsions of the Night of Wailing. If a few had escaped to freedom, which was possible, they were of no use to them now.
“But…” Hal groped for new reasons. “You’re too important-to everyone! The people look to you for leadership, for comfort!”
“Why?” Erix’s tone became sharp. “Because I wear the Cloak-of-One-Plume?” She sat up abruptly and gestured toward the colorful mantle hanging from a tree branch beside her. “I’ll gladly give it to anyone who wants it’”
Halloran sat back, deeply disturbed. He wanted to offer comfort, but Erixitl’s tension held him at bay. Finally she relaxed slightly, turning back to him. He could see that she was thinking about something else,
“I hope my father’s all right,” she said softly. “I’m afraid for him, though. Palul is so close to Nexal, and he’s so helpless. If the creatures of the Viperhand come there, he wouldn’t have a chance!”
Halloran thought of the blind featherworker, Lotil. His wife’s father had seemed to be a very wise man, very keenin his understanding of the world despite his lack of sight. He worked the magic of feathers-pluma-and his gifts were with them now, in the amulet that Erix wore and in his own wristbands, jokingly termed Erixitl’s “dowry” by the old man.
The powers of Erixitl’s amulet had offered them protection against a variety of threats. Conversely, the bands that he wore had increased the strength of his arms to that of ten men when Hal’s energies focused on battle. Surely a man with such potent skills could save himself from the chaos sweeping the land. At least, so Hal hoped.
Erix turned back to Hal, her expression once again peaceful. “Can you send for Poshtli? I’d like to talk to him.”
Hal’s heart twisted in pain, a hurt that showed clearly in his face, and his wife’s expression grew concerned. “What is it?” she asked. “Has something happened?”
“Don’t you remember?” he asked softly. “The volcano… the Night of Wailing? Poshtli was with us when the explosion occurred, but he didn’t have the protection of your cloak. He’s… gone.” The man couldn’t force himself to say that the noble warrior was dead.
“But he’s not gone,” Erixitl countered, still strangely calm. “I remember all that-how could I forget?-but Poshtli did not die there, He’s nearby… he comes to us!” She smiled gently, as if Hal were the one having flights of fancy. Even against the beauty of her face, Halloran nearly wept to see how pale she was, how distant was the look in her eyes.
A shadow flickered off to the side, and Hal looked up to see Xatli, a priest of Qotal, approaching.
Like the others of his order, Xatli prided himself on personal cleanliness, but now his once-white robe was tattered and stained from the rigors of the flight. His cheeks, plump and rosy two months earlier, now formed sagging jowls on either side of his face. The eldest of the priests among the refugees, he had become the unofficial spokesman for his sect, which had become once again the dominant faith of the people.
Ironically he had been about to take the vow of silence that was the highest badge of honor known to his order
when the disaster that the Nexalans called the Night of Wailing had disrupted his plans. Now he employed his skills as an eloquent speaker often, to raise the spirits of the refugees during their long marches through the desert.
”Can I do anything to help?” the cleric inquired hesitantly. The blessings of the Plumed One have given me some small measure of healing.” ‘
“No. No thank you,” Erixitl said, tensing.
“If not for you, think of the other life that grows within you,” said the priest quietly, kneeling beside her.
Erix looked at him in surprise as Xatli smiled gently and continued. “The