Path of Honor

ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, December 2004

Copyright © Diana Pharaoh Francis, 2004

eISBN : 978-1-101-03460-6

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

 

 

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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For Tony

Thanks go to Tony for all his support, for giving me time, and for making me laugh. To my mother and father for trumpeting the word to the planet about
Path of Fate.
To the Roundtable Writers, especially Fighter Guy. To Alan Pollack for yet another fabulous cover. And to my readers who spend their time and money to let me keep doing what I love. Thank you all.

“What’s better than a story about a stubborn, likable heroine thrust into events fraught with danger, wizards, and gods? Well, all of the above, plus a goshawk. . . . I thoroughly enjoyed
Path of Fate
by the talented Diana Pharaoh Francis and look forward to more of the adventures of Reisil and her goshawk, Saljane.”

—Kristen Britain, bestselling author of
Green Rider

 

“This is an entertaining book—at times compelling—from one of fantasy’s promising new voices.”

—David B. Coe, award-winning author of
Seeds of Betrayal

 

“In this delightful debut, Diana Pharaoh Francis caught me with a compelling story, intrigued me with the magic of her
ahalad-kaaslane,
and swept me away with her masterful feel for the natural world.”—Carol Berg, critically acclaimed author of
Guardians of the Keep

 

“Plausible, engrossing characters, a well-designed world, and a well-realized plot.”—
Booklist

Rain drove the wind through the canopy and washed down the mountain in fierce torrents. Nicxira bent crablike and struggled up the path. Water ran over her bare feet and hands as she grasped tiny outcroppings. Her fingernails tore, and her long hair clung to her arms and back. At last she came to the lip of the sacred road girdling the top of the mountain. She hauled herself over the edge and started running, her bare feet splashing in the swift river of rainwater. She came to the south basin, skirting it carefully. At the south basin, she paused at the shrine to offer a handful of kalmut grain from the pouch at her waist. She ran on, pain stitching beneath her ribs. She passed the east and north basins, repeating her offering, stopping at last at the west. She piled the kalmut offering in the shrine and stripped, leaving only the tiny, chipped-obsidian knife dangling on a leather thong between her breasts. She slid into the water, comfortably warm with the mix of rainwater cooling its heated depths. The bottom was curved like two cupped hands, making it impossible for her to stand. Nicxira bathed quickly. Somewhere ahead on the path was Kinatl.

She hoisted herself out of the basin and returned to the path, leaving behind her clothing. She found the stair upward and started climbing, her limbs warming. More than once Nicxira thought to rest, but though her legs burned and her lungs ached, she dared not. If Kinatl succeeded . . . She groaned. It was her fault. Taunting Kinatl, making such a show of having greater powers. Now Kinatl was going to ask the gods for more, for greater magic. As if the gods were so easily prevailed upon.

At last the stairs ended. Nicxira stepped out onto the mountaintop, the rain and wind battering at her, driving her back. She struggled forward, feeling the ridges in the stone beneath her feet. Long ago, the Monequi had been the sacred gathering place of the Teotl, the fifty-two gods. The top of the mountain had been sheared off as if sliced by a knife, and the names and faces of each of the gods had been etched in the stone.

Nicxira hunched her shoulders, cold making her flesh prickle like a plucked bird’s. She could not see Kinatl, but that meant nothing. Nicxira could hardly see her own outstretched hands through the streaming rain. She started toward the middle of the sacred circle toward the image of Ilhuicatl. Father of the gods and creator of the nahuallis, he was the one Nicxira would choose if she was seeking favor. She pushed slowly into the pummeling wind, hoping she’d be in time.

Of all the Teotl, only Ilhuicatl was represented in his entirety. Man-shaped, his body stretched more than a hundred paces. Serpents wrapped themselves around his legs and arms. His penis stretched in a great staff, sprinkling rain and life from its spearpoint head. In his hands he held a sun and a moon. On his head he wore a feathered head-dress, and around his neck was a string of skulls. His mouth gaped open. A trick of the mountain drained it so that the rainwater did not collect inside. Nicxira made her way around the god’s likeness, searching for Kinatl. But there was no sign of the other woman. Her stomach tightened, and she knew what she must do.

Nicxira paused beside Ilhuicatl’s gaping mouth. She dropped down inside. The flat, moist bottom was warm against her bare feet. Without hesitation, she lifted the obsidian knife from around her neck and sliced across her wrists. Blood ran from the wounds, mixing with the rain. Nicxira sank to the hot floor. She closed her eyes and began to pray, using the old words, those Ilhuicatl had given to the nahualli before the scattering.

Time passed. The heat intensified. If not for the rain, she thought she might have burst into flame. Her blood continued to trickle. Dizziness crept over her, and her words slurred. She felt her heart slowing and struggled to breathe.

“You have sought me. You have given me your blood. Your life. Tell me your need.”

The words rumbled through her like an earthquake. Nicxira blinked. She found herself sitting on a vast gold plain. Above there was blackness, and coiled in front of her was a tiny snake. Its head was triangular, and it was the color of fresh grass, its stomach as red as her blood. It stared at her with brilliant yellow eyes, the tip of its tail twitching.

Nicxira licked her lips, sitting up straight. What to say? She’d been prideful and foolish, and now Kinatl had risked herself, perhaps thrown herself away. There was no asking forgiveness, only help in restoring balance to the tribe. There were too few nahuallis now to chase even one away, and with her actions, she might have lost the tribe two. How could she balance that?

“I seek aid for my sister. She sought greater powers because I goaded her. If she has been punished for overstepping, then I ask to take her place so that she may return home.”

“Ah.” The snake’s bright yellow tongue flicked out. “She did not come to me. I have nothing to give you.”

Nicxira stiffened. Kinatl had not gone to Ilhuicatl? But surely she knew how capricious the others were, and how little they cared for the nahuallis. Nicxira swallowed, under the snake’s unwavering gaze.

“I fear for her,” she said. “How can I help her?”

There was the faintest pause.

“She has made her choices. She will become what she is meant to be. But what about you? Have you nothing else to ask?”

Nicxira shook her head. She’d been proud and greedy. She would not be so again.

“Nothing for all the blood you spend? Even now your body dies.” The voice was cold and reproving.

“I would serve,” Nicxira said. “I would ask you for a task. For balance.”

“Ah. And what if that task required great sacrifice?”

“I am nahualli.”

“Then you shall have your wish. There comes that which even the Teotl may not stop. Does that frighten you? Good. Because it will remake everything, including the gods. There may be no hope. I cannot see so far. But the Teotl takes what steps it may to salvage what we can. Go now to she who waits; serve her well. For in serving her, you serve us all.”

The snake’s mouth opened, tiny teeth shining. It struck her wrist where blood continued to spill. Nicxira screamed, pain sluicing over her in rising waves.

She woke again, this time in a glade. Pillars of silver and gold circled around her, hanging heavy with flowering vines. The grass was thick and soft. She dug her fingers into it. Never in all her wanderings had she seen a place like this.

“You are welcome here.”

Nicxira startled, yanking her head up. Standing before her was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Her honey-colored hair spilled down her back to her feet, and was twined about with flowers and leaves. A silver crown made of leaves circled her forehead. Her pale face was austere as she examined Nicxira. Her eyes were an unworldly green from corner to corner, and her fingers were tipped with talons of shining crystal. Beautiful as she was, she looked every inch the warrior, and around her the air was heavy and thick with power.

Nicxira trembled and bowed her head. “I am to serve you.”

“Are you? So says the one who sent you, but you must choose. I require your heart and your mind. If you cannot give me both, you are useless.”

Nicxira nodded, her mouth dry.

“You came here a powerful witch. You are no longer.”