21

As the procession moved toward the plaza, saluted at each cross street by a sentry presenting arms, Mercy stood as if dazed. The fierce-looking soldier must be Crescencio Poot. What offer could Xia make that would occasion this state visit and great ceremony? It must go beyond seeking an alliance with Chan Santa Cruz. Mercy had a frightening conviction that Xia’s plan was dangerous to Zarie, or at least to La Quinta.

And what if Xia saw her! Mercy’s stomach knotted and it was hard to breathe. When Xia learned the woman she’d betrayed into Eric’s grasp had escaped him, she’d probably make sure that Mercy never returned to La Quinta.

With Dionisio gone, Mercy’s only protection was her importance to the tatich. She had to hope that would be enough.

“Come, woman,” snarled the spy, giving her a push after the escort.

“I … I’m sick. Please excuse me.”

He gave her wrist a painful jerk. “Not so anxious after all to meet Crescencio Poot? Hurry up! The tatich wishes you to observe. You’ll do so if I have to drag or carry you!”

There was no help for it. Her only hope was to avoid detection. She was wearing a scarf over her hair. As she unwillingly kept pace with the spy, she untied the cloth and draped it as concealingly as possible around her head and shoulders. If she kept her eyes cast down and her face shielded, perhaps she could escape Xia’s attention.

Reaching the plaza with her guard, Xia was being presented to the tatich by the general. She sank on her knees with smooth fluidity, kissing the Cruzob leader’s hand.

“A miracle has come among my people,” she told him in a clear, ringing voice. “I bring a sign and a message, Great Father, for la santísima, the Talking Cross.” Unwrapping red silk from the object in her arms, she lifted high a branch with pale green compound leaves. “The Heart of Heaven has sent new strength and vigor to his Mayan children! He has sent us Pacal, priest-king at the flowering time of the Mayas.” She handed the copal branch to the tatich. “When Pacal appeared among us, this dead branch burst into leaf. I bring it as a sign from God and from Pacal, whose messenger I am.”

“I will hear your message in my house,” said the tatich. “If it’s worthy, the cross will give us an answer.”

He turned to his palace, followed by Xia and the general of the plaza. Mercy hoped she’d be allowed to slip away, but the chief spy waved her toward the palace.

Pacal? What did it mean? What did Xia want? Out of the tumult of questions racing through Mercy’s mind, one stayed constant, a looming dread. Could she avoid Xia’s recognition? If Xia saw her, then what?

The tatich received Xia in his reception chamber, which was filled with officers, the Interpreter of the Cross, the Organ of the Divine Word, and the maestro cantor. Mercy stood near the back of the room, trying to obscure herself behind soldiers and the spy, who kept a vigilant eye on her while listening intently to the exchange of Mayan. Since the tatich and the woman spoke solemnly and slowly, Mercy caught most of the words, listening with growing fear.

Pacal had walked out of the forest, Xia said, and the copal branch, dead these seven years since it was found on the cross, a transmutation of the dead body of her son-sacrifice, had come at the instant into full leaf, and the incense on the altar began to smoke and perfume the air. Pacal had been sent by the ancient ones, but he was ready to revere the Talking Cross and join with the Cruzob in a great holy war that would force the ladinos into the sea, breaking their power forever.

The tatich, who had for years helped maintain the mechanisms and trappings enhancing the cross’s mystery and rule, wasn’t visibly impressed with Xia’s miracles, but he questioned her much as the owner of a theater would interview a magician or stage act, trying to calculate drawing power and effect.

At last, rubbing his plump chin, he asked abruptly, “Why should the cross aid this Pacal? What does he offer that we don’t have?”

“A fresh miracle, Great Father.” Xia bowed her head respectfully. “In the weeks he’s been among us, he’s visited and won the support of a number of villages along the frontier that don’t presently serve the cross. At least a thousand men will follow him. And, Great Father, he will lead in battle himself, an inspiration to the soldiers.”

Was the tatich’s cold stare a rebuke for Xia’s subtle reminder that he no longer led excursions and attacks? He summoned forward Crescendo Poot, and he examined him with careful, deliberate questions that were answered with the same dispassionate caution.

Had the general of the plaza talked with this Pacal? Was he an impostor?

Pacal was magnificent, fit to be a king. As the tatich knew, it was sometimes more important to have the appearance than the fact. There was no doubt that Pacal had captured the enthusiasm of the frontier Mayas.

Was he capable of leading them?

Most capable. And lead them he undoubtedly would, with or without the Cruzob.

The tatich stared at the aging but formidable soldier who, with him, ruled the Cruzob. “Does this mean, old friend, that you, general of the plaza, would be willing to fight beside Pacal?”

“Yes!” Poot’s answer rang out like clashing machetes. “Whether he really is the returned king of Palenque, I don’t know or care. He can make even Pacificos eager to fight. You know already, Great Father, that I believe we should take advantage of the ladino revolution to reclaim the whole country. If we waste this opportunity, can the cross forgive us?”

Pondering, the tatich suddenly ordered all the soldiers out except for Poot. “Now,” he said, “we can consider this matter without fear of false impressions getting out. General, you need not guard your words. Tell us in detail your observations of this Pacal.”

Poot did so, clearly finding in Pacal a hope for achieving the long-awaited Mayan dream of freedom from the dzuls, with Mayan country wholly back in Mayan hands, united by the Talking Cross.

Next the tatich cross-questioned Xia. After probing her at length about Pacal, he rapped out suddenly, “Your child was crucified for power. Through his death, you won the place you enjoy. What will you not do to dominate men’s minds?”

Xia’s eyes glowed. She controlled herself with obvious effort. “My brother sacrificed my son, as commanded by God, to give the Mayas a savior. It pleased God to replace my son with a copal branch that has worked many cures and is much revered. As a mother, I mourn my child. As a Maya and servant of the Heart of Heaven, I’d offer him again if it would hearten our men to overcome the foreigners!”

“If a dead copal branch can be replaced with a leafed one, such a branch can also be substituted for a boy’s body.” The tatich’s dark eyes bored into the priestess. “Did you hide your son away in some village? Does he still live?”

Mercy cast a side glance at the spy. Could his men have uncovered the truth about Salvador? Or was the tatich attacking to learn all he could?

“I didn’t change my son’s body,” returned Xia. “I saw my child on the cross and swooned and prayed and wept. When I roused, the branch hung there.” She added softly, “It was a sign from God. Whatever else, it was that.”

Novelo motioned her to one side and called the tata nohoch zul forward. It was soon clear that his spies had learned nothing to discredit either Xia or Pacal.

The tatich seemed lost in meditation. At last, sighing, he said, “Where is this Pacal?”

“He fasts and prays at a sacred grotto an hour’s journey from here,” said Poot.

“Send for him.”

The general knelt, was blessed, and left the chamber. The tatich commanded that Xia be given a room in his palace, and he called in a guard to escort her to it. She passed within a few feet of Mercy, who shrank as much as possible behind the chief spy, averting her half-covered face, holding her breath as Xia moved past her without a glance.

“Now, señora,” called the tatich, “I will hear your thoughts.”

Her weakened knees slowly regaining the ability to carry her, Mercy obeyed his gesture and sat on the stool he indicated. “I hardly know my thoughts, señor. I have only questions.” Thinking fast, she decided, why not be open with him? What had she to lose? “That’s the woman who betrayed me to the Englishman,” she said, “the one I already told you about. Of course, I don’t trust her. Where did she find this Pacal? Who is he, really?”

“You don’t even consider that he could be the king resurrected?”

“No more than you, señor.”

A slight smile edged his lips at that. “Leaving that aside, if the Mayas rally, if they overwhelm the ladinos, what do you think would happen? Would the outside world leave us in peace?”

“I’m no prophet, señor. Ask your H-men or the Talking Cross.”

“I ask you!”

Mercy shrugged. “I would guess that Mexico couldn’t blink at a rebellion or the loss of Yucatán’s products. The only way you could hold them off would be through an alliance with some major power.”

“Like England?”

“Yes. But if you make such a pact, the United States would see it as a European intrusion. As you yourself said, señor, Yucatán might become a battlefield for two foreign powers.”

The weary eyes lanced into her. “You’re to marry a wealthy dzul. You say what you think will help him.”

“I say what I think, as you ordered, señor.”

“Why did the priestess lure you for the Englishman?”

“She greatly desired my fiancé.”

“You hate her?”

Mercy thought back to Eric’s assaults, to the times she’d suffered in his hands, but even more to how those she loved at La Quinta must have despised her for presumably running away to the States. “What’s hate?” she said at last. “Xia is to me a deadly viper.”

“You don’t want her to know you got away from Belize. That’s why you draped that absurd scarf over your head.” When Mercy didn’t answer, the tatich surveyed her under down-dropping eyelids. “I thought to use you for a miracle to strengthen Chan Santa Cruz, but now we have a leafy copal branch and nothing less than Pacal! If he impresses me as much as he has our general of the plaza, there’ll be no need for you at the shrine. The batab can have you.” The tatich chuckled softly. “Strange, wouldn’t it be, if the batab sold you to your dzul in time for you to be our prisoner again?”

He made a sign of dismissal. The chief spy followed Mercy out, saying harshly in her ear, “You will not wander in the woods today or until I give you leave. The tatich may want you.”

Mercy didn’t answer. He knew, damn him, that she had to obey. As she made her way along the edge of the plaza, where soldiers still talked excitedly and peered toward the palace, she hoped desperately that this Pacal would annoy or disappoint the tatich; otherwise, it seemed all too likely that the cross would speak, decreeing war.

Was there any way to warn La Quinta? Any chance that Poot would somehow arrange to spare one ladino hacienda? In all-out war, that seemed impossible, though the general’s gratitude might stretch to sparing Zane’s life if it rested in his hands.

And Xia? Why did she plot the destruction of the man she loved? Could it be this Pacal was now her lover, that she no longer wanted Zane?

If only Dionisio were back! He might be able to sway the tatich. And at least Mercy wouldn’t have felt so sinkingly, horribly alone with her worst enemy likely to see her. Had it been wise to tell the tatich that Xia was her foe? He may have known, anyway. With his network of spies, his bits and pieces of information must be like a magpie’s trove, full of glittering bits, some useless, some to be patched together for valuable clues.

Unless Pacal’s group traveled at night, which it almost surely wouldn’t, it couldn’t reach Chan Santa Cruz before tomorrow.

It would be an excruciating wait.

Her sleep was full of nightmares. A dead Mayan king pursued her with a copal branch writhing with serpents’ heads while Xia smiled at the tatich, who kept his back to her. Dionisio fell into a swamp, then sank out of sight till his outstretched hand was swallowed up. Zane came home to a La Quinta burned and overgrown by the jungle, while she screamed soundlessly from the tower, which flamed around her.

Unrefreshed, both desiring and fearing the dawn, Mercy was up at the first light. Avoiding the palace area, she went to the cenote and did her laundry, spread it to dry around the bushes by the hut, and wished she had more work, something to keep her busy. After a breakfast of coffee and a leftover tortilla with honey, she brushed her hair, braided it, and, deciding the tatich wouldn’t want to see her that day, settled down with her father’s letters. How she wished she had some of Zane’s!

Why didn’t that war end so he could come home and see to things? While revolutionists were trying to take Mérida, a Mayan attack could demolish both sides, and if the man she loved hadn’t been in the line of fire, she could almost have hoped the Mayas would win.

But not quite—not to butcher Doña Elena or the helpless, or slaughter thousands who’d been born and reared in Yucatán and knew no other home. If war was agreed upon, Mercy knew she’d have to try to find some way to send a warning before the frontier started going up in flame.

The head spy’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Why haven’t you come to the tatich, woman?”

Mercy got up from the log stool. “I didn’t think he’d want to see me today.”

“It’s not for you to think,” returned the spy sourly. “Come immediately!”

Grabbing her scarf, Mercy arranged it as protectively as possible around her face while she accompanied this most detested of her captors. She’d hoped the tatich would be in his private rooms, where Xia would be less likely to appear, but Novelo was at his usual ease in the hammock on the arcade.

“Tell me all you know of this Xia,” he said at once. He consumed several mangoes with lime juice while Mercy told him what Zane had told her, except for the substitution of the copal branch for Salvador and what had become of the boy. She was determined to reveal nothing that spies couldn’t easily learn.

“You’ve said the priestess had a lust for your dzul,” the tatich mused. “She’s very lovely. Do you think him so virtuous as to refuse her?”

Mercy flushed. “He … admired her.”

“They were lovers?”

“How would I know? I have no tata nohoch zul.”

The tatich laughed but persisted. “Women know such things.”

“You must remember that we became engaged only a few days before Señor Falconer left. Till then I was his employee—bond-servant, really. It was not my place to pry into his personal affairs.”

“How decorous!” scoffed the mestizo. “You almost persuade me, though I know women in love are governed by nothing—certainly not by etiquette!”

“Nevertheless.” Mercy spread her hands.

The tatich flashed ivory teeth. “You will watch when this Pacal arrives. Who knows, he might be some ambitious soul lured off your dzul’s hacienda! What I must know is: Is he Xia’s tool, or is she his, or are they evenly matched?”

“I can’t judge,” Mercy protested. “I met Xia only once. That last time, in the dark, scarcely counts.”

The tatich smiled and mimicked Mercy’s gesture of widespread hands. “Nevertheless.”

It was doubtless part of his strategy of learning all he could about everybody that led the tatich to command Mercy’s presence at Pacal’s reception. And if Xia recognized Mercy, her reaction would give the tatich, that wily manipulator, further insight into her aims and character.

Getting out the cloth she’d cut from the bottom of one leg of her second divided skirt in order to walk more freely, Mercy opened the wide hem and fringed the material. It made a respectable shawl, much better for concealment than her small scarf. This took a long time, which seemed longer because, as her fingers unraveled threads, her mind tugged vainly at the snarled tangle entwining her life and love with Xia, the Cruzob, and this mysterious Pacal.

She was sipping corn gruel when the Buddha-like young spy came to the door, tinkled the bells, and said she was wanted in the tatich’s reception room. Pacal was approaching.

Again there were sentries at the cross streets, the band playing incongruous polkas, and soldiers massing in the plaza. Her escort took Mercy through the crowd to the palace. The tatich’s throne-like chair was empty, but his religious assistants were there and there were enough officers and guards for Mercy to hide behind.

The tatich came in, followed by the tata nohoch zul, who took a truculent stance behind the chair of state. Voices and shouts swelled outside, rising above the music.

“Pacal! Pacal!” “Death to the dzuhls!” “On to Mérida!” And running through it all was the chant: “Pacal!” “Pacal!”

Mercy thought the tatich’s mouth hardened at the tribute. He couldn’t like this popularity of another leader, though to survive as he had, Novelo knew to a hair’s fineness how to use enthusiasms and men. He could temporarily grant prominence to Pacal, but he would see that the would-be hero vanished or was discredited when his purpose was served.

“Pacal!” “Pacal!”

The cries grew to a roar, filling the plaza, pressing into the tatich’s audience room. Rumor had swiftly permeated the barracks, or Xia’s followers had excelled in conversions. This eagerness to believe, to applaud a new crusade, must prove to the tatich that his people had reached a level of security and well-being that could become stagnation if they weren’t challenged, drawn out of their personal lives by a new miracle.

The tatich’s task would be to exploit this hunger to the strengthening and glory of the Talking Cross. That was why he’d played with the idea of using Mercy as a shrine healer.

Nurturing and directing the Pacal cult would be dangerous, but much was at stake—complete Mayan sovereignty in Yucatán. The general of the plaza was for it, and, though the tatich was nominally commander of the army, he’d probably hesitate to wager his prestige against Crescendo Poot’s. No, the tatich’s personal wish might be for calm and peace, but if the prevailing mood of the companies and officers was for war, the Talking Cross could always give orders through another tatich while Novelo’s peace might deepen quickly into that of eternity.

The general of the plaza stepped into the long room. The man behind him paused in the archway, filling it. A sighing murmur ran through the chamber.

Pacal was a giant. To enter, he had to bend his towering feather headdress, and the quetzal plumes shimmered and moved. He wore a beaked eagle mask, a kilt of feathers and a jaguar skin draped his broad shoulders. His skin was painted green and crimson. Barbarically splendid, decked in feathers and hides, his size alone would have made him awesome.

His size …

Mercy choked back a cry. Eric!

Of course it was, behind the paint and costume! He hadn’t died in the raid. But what was he doing here? Why would he lead a Cruzob assault on the north?

Shrinking behind the Buddha-spy and an officer, she prayed Eric wouldn’t see her, notice the face shadowed by the fringed cloth, but he stared at her for a heartbeat and she knew she was discovered. The tawny eyes swooping pitilessly from the eagle mask seemed to consume her. She had to steady herself with a hand against the wall as he turned and advanced on the tatich, followed by Xia, whose white cotton dress shimmered with embroidery.

“The old faith bows to the true one,” he said in carrying tones, kneeling to kiss the tatich’s hand, but standing haughtily erect when he resumed his normal stance. The thundering sound of blood in her ears forced Mercy to concentrate in order to hear. “Your brave struggle against the ladinos has stirred your ancestors, awakened the old powers. I’m their emissary, chosen to aid in restoring the greatness of the Mayan domain.”

“How do I know this is true?”

“Watch me lead a few battles.”

The tatich laughed. “I have a bull that has a deep chest and a fierce bellow. I haven’t given it command of my armies.”

Xia stepped forward, saluting the tatich’s hand. “Great Father, Pacal has eight companies of men ready at his word. If your bull could commit to you that many warriors, I think you’d give it a chance to command.” Laughter swept the room, easing the strained tension.

“Eight companies?” The tatich frowned.

“I’ve seen them, Father,” said Crescendo Poot. “They’re drilling in their villages when they’re not busy with the corn.”

“And what of the corn?” growled the tatich. “What will happen if the men are off fighting at harvest time?”

“Aren’t there old and young able to harvest, though not able to fight?” asked the general. “Besides, there are ladino stores and granaries. We could lose a harvest if we won the country and all its harvests forever.”

The tatich stared at this gigantic possible ally, possible foe. “We will talk more,” he said. “Then I must take your messages to the Talking Cross and wait for the wisdom of la santísima.” At a signal, everyone except Poot, the chief spy, Xia, and Pacal started to leave.

Her thoughts a despairing tumult, Mercy made herself small beside the ample Buddha and tried to drift out with the crowd. She must try to get away and alert the frontier and La Quinta. But how, guarded as she was? And Eric had recognized her! If only Dionisio would come! He might know some way to rouse the Mayan from this bloody dream before it brought fire and death to thousands, Cruzob as well as ladinos.

And Eric. What would he do about her? She couldn’t believe he’d let her remain long in her hut. But it was Xia who suddenly stepped before her, blocking the way to the door, snatching away the shawl.

“You!” The priestess’ eyes blazed with hatred, then dilated. She flicked her tongue across her lips and smiled. “This time we’ll teach you to stay where you belong!” Grasping Mercy’s wrist, she swung her toward the tatich. “This dzul slave! What price is on her?”

“She’s a healer,” said the tatich. Pacal hadn’t moved, though the eagle mask made him seem to lean avidly forward. “And she’s the captive of an allied batab.”

“Then I’ll buy her from him!”

“Not presently. The batab is on a journey.”

“So easy, then, for a slave to die or run off,” suggested Xia with a smile as coaxingly sweet as if she begged for candy.

“Not this one. She’s brought a dead child to life. She’s valuable to the shrine.”

“With Pacal you don’t need an herb doctor who was lucky once.”

The tatich slapped his thigh resoundingly. “I decide what’s needed! Let the captive go!”

Xia had the sense to duck her head submissively, but she gave Mercy’s arm a cruel dig with her pointed fingernails before she released it.

“Señora!” the tatich called to Mercy. “Wait in the arcade!”

The head spy came to watch her from the door and the Buddha arranged himself patiently in one of the archways. There was nothing for Mercy to do but take her usual seat by the empty hammock. And wait.

The Buddha seemed to doze, but every time Mercy moved, his eyes opened wide, fixed on her. Once she went to stand in an archway. The tata nohoch zul followed to stand so close that she could smell his breath. She quickly went back to the stool.

What was happening inside? The tatich had heard his soldiers hailing this new leader, had to believe what the general told him about eight companies ready to answer a call against the ladinos. The tatich must be deciding whether to go against the mood of the moment or how best to shape it to his own ends. And he was wily enough to know that a Cruzob leader who wouldn’t fight would very soon be past any need to.

Mercy felt too overwhelmed to think about her own fate. Both Eric and Xia had recognized her. About the only hope she could have was that Eric hated her now and wouldn’t want her for himself. Whereas previously Mercy had prayed Dionisio would come, now she was afraid he’d endanger himself to protect her.

It seemed forever, but at last the tatich came out of his chamber, Pacal looming behind him. Xia wore a pleased smile, and the general of the plaza had a confident spring in his step.

“Tonight,” the tatich told them, “we will listen for the Talking Cross. La santísima will decide.”

Pacal and Xia kissed the tatich’s hand and went to their own rooms in the palace, though Pacal stood for a long moment watching Mercy through the eagle’s mask. Novelo loosened his sash and sank thankfully into his hammock, reaching for a mango as he glanced at Mercy.

“Old friend,” he said to the general, who was gazing north, as if picturing future conquests, “this captive was to marry Zane Falconer, son of a foreigner who, so I understand, saved your life long ago.”

Poot turned to examine Mercy. It was hard to believe that a man could cause so many deaths over so many years and still look like a grizzled planter of corn. “That was long ago,” he said. “In the ordinary counting of days, I’d spare the son for the father’s sake, but in the kingdom Pacal will bring, there’ll be no place for dzuls.”

He strode off to his own residence across the plaza. Mercy hadn’t expected much from him, but this was worse than nothing. She’d been deliberating as to whether or not to reveal Pacal’s true identity. Poot’s attitude made it clear she had nothing to lose.

“Señor!” she cried out to the tatich, her tone surprising him so much that for a moment he stopped chewing. “That man who claims to be Pacal is really an Englishman, Eric Kensington, the man who abducted me!”

“You’re sure?”

Mercy grimaced. “I know his body! And his eyes!”

“So Marcos Canul didn’t kill him,” muttered the tatich. “You understand him, señora. Why would he fight with Cruzob against dzuls?’

“He’s sold guns to the Cruzob for years,” said Mercy. “The whites aren’t English, so he doesn’t feel that he’s betraying his own kind. I doubt that he’d care if he did. He knew Xia before. When he lost so much, he must have thought she could help him recoup.”

The tatich listened, his brow slightly knit. “If this is her idea, it’s a good one. There’ll be much loot if the cross takes Mérida and Campeche.”

“If! You’re going to let Kensington deceive your people?”

“What is he but a symbol?” The tatich shrugged. “If he inspires the people, it doesn’t matter if he’s stuffed with cornhusks. But it’s useful to know what he is. I thank you for revealing the secret.”

Mercy got to her feet. “I wonder what would happen if I shouted it in the plaza.”

“Try it,” said the tatich, smiling. “You’d be hacked to death in seconds unless I interceded. My men want to believe Pacal, and so they will. You may go to your hut, señora.” As Mercy started to leave, he added, “Tonight the Talking Cross will speak. You must hear it.”

“I’m not Cruzob.”

“But you will come.” He signaled lazily. The Buddha spy moved after her. Mercy thought she heard, from a long way off, Xia laughing.

It was the longest day Mercy had ever known. She’d been afraid that Eric might visit her, but either he had no such wish or he judged it inadvisable. She still clung to the hope that if she could expose Eric to the common soldiers, they’d abandon the crusade. The tatich, tata nohoch zul, general of the plaza, and others of the ruling hierachy might know Eric was not Pacal, even that he was white. For them, used to wielding power through the Talking Cross, Pacal’s value lay in others’ belief, not their own. Real faith, to them, would be a drawback.

Somehow she must unmask Pacal in public when there was a chance of getting the soldiers to listen to her long enough to at least plant doubt. If she died immediately afterward, she could know she’d done her best to keep Yucatán from erupting in racial slaughter.

But how would she get that moment of attention before machetes ended her words? She was resigned to losing her life; she only hoped to sell it high.

She went to the cenote, trailed by her guard. She listened to the excited buzzing among the slave women as they chattered about the resurrected giant priest-king. They all seemed as credulous as the soldiers. Mercy had to clamp her teeth shut to keep from shouting out Pacal’s true identity. Even if she convinced these women, they had no influence. Anything they said would be taken as an effort to shield their people from Pacal’s victory.

No, Mercy told herself, wait for the right time, the right place—maybe tonight when the cross speaks.…

After carrying water home, she bathed and washed her hair and stepped outside in back of the hut to dry it in the sun. But soon she went inside, inhibited from tossing and fluffing her hair by the ever-present young Buddha. Juanito’s mother brought venison for dinner, along with special tamales. A feast was being given for the visitors and the plaza was rapidly filling with men, women, and children from nearby villages who had come in to hear the commands of the Talking Cross.

Juanito’s mother had a child by a major who’d certainly be mobilized if war came. It couldn’t hurt to leave a message in case she, Mercy, failed in exposing Eric. So, as the woman’s eyes widened, Mercy told her who Pacal really was and asked her to tell her major when she saw him.

“He’s using the Mayas to do more than regain his power and wealth,” Mercy warned. “It’s possible that he’d try to make himself ruler of Yucatán. He doesn’t care a bit for Cruzob rights, or anyone else’s. To him, Creole, mestizo, and Indian are all un-English, hence, inferior—to be used and dominated.”

“You’re sure of all this, señora?” The woman swallowed. “I … I don’t want to get my man in trouble. If he opposed what the tatich approves, he could be executed very fast. I’ve seen it happen.”

“Your major would have to find a good chance to prove Pacal’s an Englishman,” Mercy said. “But if he did this, it might save both Cruzob and ladinos tremendous suffering.” She put a comforting arm around the frightened young woman. “I’ll unmask Pacal if I can. In case I fail, I wanted someone else to know.”

“I owe more than my life to you, señora; I owe Juanito’s. If necessary, I’ll tell my major.” She caught Mercy’s hand. “What will happen to you if you’re not believed?”

“What will probably happen, anyhow.” Mercy shrugged. “The priestess hates me. Unless the Englishman wants me, I’m sure she’ll find a way to kill me.”

“If only your batab were here!”

“I’m afraid he’d only lose his life. But when he does come, tell him. He was a bond-servant on Kensington’s estate, and he knows him well.”

Mercy froze. It could be fatal for Dionisio, unprepared, to meet Eric, who was bound to learn how Mercy had been brought to Chan Santa Cruz. Even if Eric didn’t crave Dionisio’s life for his closeness to Mercy, he’d remove him as a person who might guess the truth about the face behind that eagle mask.

“I must ask you another favor,” Mercy pleaded. “Warn the batab about the Englishman before they can meet. Otherwise, Eric might kill him before Dionisio grasped what was going on.”

Now it was the woman’s turn to comfort Mercy with an embrace. “Don’t worry about that, at least, señora. I’ll get word to your batab. But please, don’t risk yourself till you have to!”

Unwilling to distress the young woman further, Mercy didn’t say that she was already risked. Xia knew her; so did Eric. Instead, she thanked the woman and sent her away.

Considerably relieved that Pacal’s secret would be known where it might destroy his scheming, Mercy slowly ate the spiced meat and delicately flavored tamales. She could hear the band in the plaza and the soft, distant rumble of singing voices, swelling as night descended and more and more villagers streamed into the shrine city.

When would the Talking Cross speak?

From dreading a summons, Mercy began to wish for it as minutes dragged into hours and the night wore on. Let it happen! her tortured mind told her as she paced from door to door and stepped outside always to see the dim figure of the Buddha spy watching from where he could see both entrances. Whatever will be, let it be! Just so it comes quickly while I’m still in command of myself!

At last, wearied, thinking perhaps plans had changed, she lay down in the hammock and dozed fitfully. She dreamed Pacal was tearing her apart with his eagle beak when a voice reached through her terror.

“Señora!” It was the Buddha spy. “You will come now to the church. At midnight the cross will speak.”

Icily awake in a second, Mercy put on her sandals, tidied her hair, and slipped the shawl around her, though it could no longer act as a disguise. It made her feel a little less exposed, though.

Would she be coming back? Was her life to end in this Cruzob city, severed by causes she’d never heard of a year ago? Would Zane ever know what had happened to her? And what would become of him and of everyone at La Quinta, on the frontier, and in Yucatán?

She touched his black coral necklace, tried to find strength in their love, and followed her guard.

Torches burned here and there along the plaza, flickering light and shadow on the Mayas thronging the plaza. Passing through the praying, singing crowd, Mercy was brought through an completely darkened church, also massed with worshippers, made to stand in a clear space that she supposed must be near the altar.

Was this the time? Should she shout out that Pacal was a fraud? How far would she get, and would anyone believe, before she was hushed? Mercy was keying herself up to seize the first pause in the chanting when a soft hand gripped her shoulder and a fine dust was thrown into her face. It entered her lungs in a gasp, and when she tried to cry out a hand closed her mouth.

More dust filled her nostrils. Suddenly she was floating, light and free. Nothing mattered, especially not whatever she’d wanted to say. The only truth, the only reality, was this pure high drifting. In a moment she’d be part of it, merged completely, entirely at rest. The blackness was bright, dazzling, colors she’d never seen, colors to hear and smell, the taste of the rainbow filled her mouth, penetrated, became her.

She scarcely knew when the singing stopped, but she felt the silence, reverberating with a sound like thunder rumbling from a long way off.

There was a trilling, piercing whistle, silence that made the darkness a thick, living, palpable thing, and then a voice spoke from the middle of the air.

“I welcome my son Pacal, who kneels to me, as is fitting. He worships me. His heart is no longer heathen. But the old powers are still strong, so I send them a present, a gift to obtain their blessing as you, my children, march on the dzuls. I command that the white captive known as Mercy be thrown into the cenote, where the Lord Pacal awaited my invitation, and where the yuntzilob told him they required this woman.”

This woman? One layer of her mind knew what was happening. It didn’t matter. But because there was something, deep, almost forgotten, that didn’t matter, she tried to speak. Her mouth wouldn’t open. Her tongue couldn’t move.

There was more dust in her face. The colors exploded, and she sank into them.