WHITE. BLUE. GRAY-WHITE, mottled. A rushing in his ears; cool air against his body, a balm to his aches and lacerations. Weightless. His eyes closing in weariness. Mind floating. His hands gripped the soft, trembling plumes. A vast fluttering. Fans of TenchÅ, so far away. A great rippling. His eyes opened by force of will. Day. Because it was still light. Time enough to sleep when darkness falls. He stretched, peering downward. A break in the cloud layer, marble parting. Far, far below him the flat sea arced away from him, following the curvature of the world. The hot sun’s reflected light, chopped up into pin points of dazzling whiteness, dancing along its surface, caused him to think of a cauldron of molten gold. Searching for a black speck, invisible within the gold. Where are you now, Moichi? Thus Ronin rode Kukulkan, the Great Plumed Serpent, out from the crumbling limestone, the cracking wood of the humped island upon which was built the stone city of Xich Chih, gone now in a swift, fireless quake.
