The owl man staggered, white froth on his lips, laughing at the shadows hiding in the corners of the Dark House of the Cord. His hair, which reached almost to his waist, was matted with dried blood, and the black mantle around his shoulders gave him the appearance of a hunched and malevolent crow. Motecuhzoma, the Angry Lord, Revered Speaker of the Mexica, watched, the turquoise plugs in the piercings of his ears and lips reflecting the glow of the pine torches. He whispered his questions to Woman Snake at his elbow. Woman Snake repeated the questions carefully. “Owl Bringer, can you see through the mists to the future of the Mexica?” The owl man lay on his back on the floor, laughing hysterically, helpless to the grip of the peyote liquor. “Tenochtitlàn is in flames!” Motecuhzoma shifted uneasily on the low carved throne. The owl man sat up, pointed at the wall.
