Jacqueline Carey

Achtuatli led me toward a large structure. At a distance, I thought it a gazebo of sorts, but as we drew nearer, I saw that it was an aviary built of wood and wicker, filled with growing trees. There must have been a hundred birds since leaving Bhodistan.
"See there?" He pointed to a bird with emeral-green feathers and a ruby breast. It perched on a branch, regarding us with big round eyes. Splendid green plumes as long as my forearm trailed from its tail. "That is the quetzal. It is a sacred bird".
I glanced at Achtuali's headress, recognizing the plumes, and lifted one hand involuntarily to touch the feathers on my own.
"Yes," he said as though in answer to an unsasked question. "It is an honor to wear them."