The journey continued. Itzcoatl noticed something hanging from the branches of nearby trees. When he looked more closely, he saw ribbons, garlands of flowers, and straw figurines woven into wreaths. After a while, he began to hear faint sounds in the distance—music, singing, laughter. It sounded like some wild, joyful celebration.
"We're almost there," Cuathli said with a genuine smile.
At that moment, Itzcoatl heard a strange rhythmic noise. Soon he saw a group of men riding toward them on massive antlerless stags. They were armed, but Cuathli signaled to them calmly.
One of the riders approached and greeted him.
"High Priest Cuathli! Welcome to Mirosławice."
"Greetings, Darboż. Still serving in the prince's retinue?"
"Yes, still. I must say, priest, you chose the perfect time for your visit—Jare Gody are in full swing."
"Let's go, then."
After a short while, they arrived at Mirosławice. Itzcoatl could hardly believe what he saw.
In the center of the settlement stood a massive interdimensional gate, as tall as the pyramids of Aztlan. The houses were built of timber and thatch, each one decorated with wreaths, ribbons, and flower garlands.
Along the roads stretched wide fields, full of both familiar and entirely foreign plants. Among them grew trees heavy with white blossoms. But what struck him most was what he saw between the houses: bonfires burning on every roadside, people dancing around them, singing songs of love. Boys shamelessly invited girls to dance. Couples jumped over the fires. Children ran everywhere waving branches and ribbons. The elders blessed the homes with herbs. No one seemed disapproving—on the contrary, laughter filled the air. And everywhere, without restraint or moderation, alcohol flowed like water.
Itzcoatl was stunned. Cuathli had told him this was a festival of fertility and the welcoming of the rainy season—but this was utter chaos, as though the gods of drunkenness themselves had descended upon the world. In Aztlan, no one would ever behave like this.
Citalli said nothing, though her gaze was sharp and disapproving. Cuathli merely smiled faintly.
As they continued, a sudden explosion of cheers and laughter erupted nearby. People raised their cups, singing and dancing more wildly than anywhere else in the city. Their guide explained:
"He's finally done it."
"Who? Done what?" Itzcoatl asked, puzzled.
The guide laughed heartily, almost mockingly.
"Mirmił proposed to Lubawa! Looks like she accepted. Now he'll have to make sure he doesn't end up under her heel!"
They all chuckled lightly.
At last, they reached the palace of the ruler. Cuathli warned them that their host was not an ordinary man. When Itzcoatl heard that, he expected a nagual. But one look at the lord of Mirosławice told him this was no shapeshifter. From his head grew a pair of horns, and his eyes glowed crimson. There was something of a being from the deepest depths of Mictlan about him.
"High Priest Cuathli, welcome to Mirosławice. Will you introduce me?"
His voice was inhuman—a crackling blend of fire and the sound of obsidian being polished.
"Citalli, Itzcoatl," Cuathli said, "this is Medogost, Lord of Mirosławice."
Itzcoatl bowed deeply—after all, this was a ruler. Citalli met his gaze directly. After a moment, Medogost laughed and touched his horns.
"Ah, so that's what's caught your eye. Servants! Bring beer, not mead. Take some for yourselves too. I'll tell you how I got these horns."
According to his tale, one day his homeland had been attacked by a demonic general serving Weles—a being he described as akin to Mictlantecuhtli. Believing he would surely die, Medogost challenged the demon to a drinking contest, intending to have one last drunken night before his end. The demon accepted. They drank and drank—until Medogost not only outdrank the general but all his officers as well. A mortal had drunk the demons under the table.
Weles, enraged, turned him into a demon himself so that no one could ever say a human could outdrink one of his own.
Itzcoatl could hardly believe it. This was a whole new level of drunkenness—one even the Centzon Totochtin, the four hundred rabbit gods of intoxication, might envy. Cuathli merely smiled into his cup, while Citalli sniffed the drink cautiously.
"I smell hibiscus," she said.
"You're correct, lady," replied Medogost proudly. "This brew was made in my brother-in-law's meadery—a fine triple mead crafted from hibiscus nectar."
Citalli took a sip and smiled—something Itzcoatl had rarely seen her do.
Their host clapped his hands.
"You must be hungry! We'll talk business later. For now—let's eat!"
They sat at a great table. Itzcoatl quickly realized that their cuisine was as foreign to him as their customs.
They were served grains called kasza (groats), sour vegetables known as pickles, and something called bread. For someone used to soft tortillas, it was difficult to chew—but delicious nonetheless. There were small crescent-shaped dumplings, tiny round beans with vegetables, chunks of smoked meat, eggs, and a soup red as blood. At the center of the table stood a whole roasted peccary.
And the alcohol—there was so much alcohol. Drinks of every kind he could imagine and many he could not: golden beverages called beer, the mead he'd already tried, and colorful herbal liqueurs.
The Lechites ate and drank heartily, laughing boisterously. They spoke loudly; the serving girls flirted openly—even with him. With every cup, Itzcoatl thought more and more about how different Mirosławice was from Aztlan.
The next morning, he awoke with a terrible headache and a mouth dry as sand. Beneath him was dry grass, above him a wooden ceiling. He turned his head—and saw a girl lying beside him, naked on the straw, positioned so he had a perfect view of her most secret place.
He tried to get up—but another girl was lying across him. Looking around, he saw two more. All of them naked. His maxtlatl was tossed into a corner.
Then the door opened, and sunlight blinded him.
"Well, looks like Jare Gody were a success," someone said.
"Oh, yes," came the answer.
"Four? At once? I've got to say—respect!"
Itzcoatl could only mutter one thing:
"Never drinking again."
The Lechites burst out laughing.