Niente
“IT’S AS IF THE ASH HAS MUDDIED everything, Taat,”
Atl said. “I haven’t been able to see well since.” Atl’s voice was
weary, his face was drawn, and he sagged in the chair in Niente’s
little room on the Yaoyotl as if he’d
run all the way across the great island of Tlaxcala.
Niente grunted. The
ashfall had been so dense it seemed that the fleet moved through a
solid fog. The sky had first turned a strange, sickening yellow
before the ash had become so thick that it had turned day to night.
Lightning and thunder furiously wrapped the expanding cloud, and
the warm ash smelled of burning sulfur. The stuff was so fine and
powdery that it had insinuated itself everywhere. Their clothing
was full of it; it was in the food stores; it lingered in every
pore of the wood despite the efforts of the sailors to clean it
away. The sulfurous smell lingered as well, though by now they were
all accustomed to it. The ash was also abrasive—one of the
Tehuantin craftsmen had collected several pouches of the ash,
saying that he could use it as a polishing agent.
And yes, the ash had
tainted the purity of the water and the herbs that Niente used for
the scrying bowl. Since the ashfall, Niente’s own attempts to
glimpse the future had been nearly as clouded and useless as
Atl’s.
He hoped they were
still on the same path, the same route through the possibilities of
the future that could lead to the Long Path he’d glimpsed. The
Tehuantin fleet had entered the mouth of the A’Sele without any
resistance from the Holdings navy, though he was certain that by
now word must have come to Nessantico of what had happened and of
the appearance of the Tehuantin ships. If Axat’s vision still held,
then they would have linked the eruption of Mt. Karnmor with their
arrival.
For now, the wind
that touched his nearly bald skull and his ravaged face was cool
and smelled of sweet, fresh water rather than salt. They moved
through a jarringly monochrome landscape, the distant hills on
either side gray when he knew they should have been green and lush.
Streams of the finest ash floated by in the currents, heading out
to sea and back toward its source. They moved through a landscape
touched by death: Niente saw the carcasses floating past: birds,
waterfowl, the occasional sheep or cow or dog, even—once or twice—a
human body. This close to Karnmor, the devastation had been
terrible. There were only a few gulls winging hopefully alongside
them, far fewer than Niente remembered from his last visit
here.
Atl tossed the water
from the scrying bowl over the side of the Yaoyotl. That brought Niente back from reverie.
“What did you see?” he asked his son. “Tell me.”
“The images came so
fast and they were so dim . . .” Atl sighed. “I could hardly make
them out. But—once I thought I saw you, Taat. You, and a throne
that gleamed like sunlight.”
Niente felt himself
shiver at that, as if the wind had suddenly turned as cold as the
snowy summits of the Knife Edge Mountains. He had seen that moment
also, and more. “You saw me?”
“Yes, but only for a
breath, then it was gone again.” Atl’s eyebrows rose. “Is this what
you’ve seen also, Taat?”
He stood in the hall, surrounded on all sides by the dead
of the Tehuantin and the dead of the Easterners. The place stank of
death and blood. He saw the Shadowed One—the one who ruled here—but
the throne glowed so brightly that he couldn’t see the face of the
person who sat on the throne, didn’t even know if it was a man or a
woman. Niente had his spell-staff in his hand, and it burned with
the power of the X’in Ka, so vital that he knew he could have
blasted the Shadowed One, could have broken the glowing throne. Yet
he held back and didn’t speak the words though he could hear the
Tecuhtli screaming at him to do so, to end
this.
Behind the Shadowed One an even greater presence rose, one
whose powers were so fierce that Niente could feel them pulling at
him: the Sun Presence. That being held a great sword, and raised it
as Niente waited. But the sword did not come down. Instead, the Sun
Presence touched the sword and broke it in half as if it were no
stronger than a slice of dry bread, giving one part to Niente and
keeping the other.
Niente walked away from the throne, the Tecuhtli and the
warriors screaming curses at him, calling him a traitor to his own
people . . .
“No,” Niente told
Atl. “I’ve not seen that. I think your vision was confused and
wrong. It was only the ash speaking, not Axat.”
Atl looked
disappointed. “Give me the bowl,” Niente told him, holding out his
hand. Atl handed it to him, the brass heavy. “I’ll clean it and
purify it myself. We’ll try again, perhaps in a few days. You
should rest.”
“Rest?” Atl scoffed.
“A few days?” He waved at the fleet around them, at the gray land.
“We need Axat’s vision now more than ever, Taat. Tecuhtli Citlali
asks you constantly if you’ve seen anything—”
“The ash obscures our
vision,” Niente said harshly, cutting him off. “Even for me, but
especially for you, who are still learning how to read the bowl. I
tell you that we must wait a few days, Atl. If you can’t learn
patience, you’ll never learn to read the bowl.”
Atl glared at Niente.
“Is this more of your ‘look at me, don’t do what I did’ lecture,
Taat? If so, I’ve heard it too many times already.”
“I told you I would
teach you to use the bowl, and I will,” Niente answered, but he
cradled the bowl possessively to his belly. “You must show me that
you’re ready to accept the lessons.”
“There are other
nahualli who can teach me.”
“And none of them are
Nahual,” Niente answered, more sharply. “None of them have my gift.
None of them can show you as well as I can.” Then, afraid of the
expression on Atl’s face, as if his son’s face had been carved of
stone, he softened his voice. “You will be Nahual one day, Atl. I
know this. I’ve seen this. But for that
to be, you must listen to me, and obey—not because you’re my son,
but because there are still more things you must learn.” He pressed
the bowl to him with one hand and reached out toward Atl with the
other. “Please,” he said. “I want you to know everything I know and
more. But you must trust me.”
There was a
hesitation that tore at Niente’s heart. Atl’s mouth was twisted,
and even through the boy’s weariness, Niente could see his desire
to use the bowl again.
He remembered that
desire—he’d had it himself once, when he was his son’s age, when
he’d realized that Axat had touched and marked him, when he’d
realized that he might be a successor to Mahri, that he might even
rise to Nahual.
He knew what Atl was
feeling, and that frightened him more than anything
else.
But Atl finally
shrugged as Niente continued to hold the bowl, and took Niente’s
hand, pressing his fingers once in Niente’s palm. “I’ll do as you
ask,” he said. “But, Taat, I won’t wait forever. If I need to, I’ll
find another way.”
He released Niente’s
hand. He stalked away, and Niente could see him forcing his body
not to show the exhaustion he must be feeling.
It was what Niente
himself would have done, in his place.
