Obsidian & Blood

SIXTEEN

Setting Forth

"You're mad," Neutemoc said, flatly. He was sitting in his room, on a reed mat, looking up at me as if I'd just offered him a chance to witness the birth of the Sun God.

It wasn't wholly unexpected; but it still grated that he'd dismiss everything I said, as if I had no intrinsic value.

"Look–" I started.

"There's no 'look'. Do you seriously expect me to believe those lies about Eleuia?"

"The peyotl was real."

"And the rest are your own delusions." Neutemoc's voice was cold.

That stung. But the conversation had been going on for a while, in much the same fashion, and I was beginning to see that I'd never convince Neutemoc of Eleuia's guilt. He might have accepted the fact that she might have had an ulterior motive for seducing him, but not that the motive was silencing him. That was too great a setback.

But I'd thought of other arguments to convince him. "Come into the courtyard, will you?"

I'd already traced a quincunx on the ground. Neutemoc stared at it. "There had better be a good reason," he said, his face darkening.

"It's not going to be long," I snapped. "Are you going to listen to anything I'm saying?"

"I'm not sure," he said. But he still let me put him in the centre of the quincunx. He did recoil when I dabbed my blood onto his forehead – a slight movement anyone who didn't know him would have missed – but he didn't say anything.

When I finished casting the spell of true sight on him, he stiffened and stood still as the world went dark around him. I knew what he would be seeing: my blood pulsing at his feet and, behind the shadowy walls of his house, the creatures, frantically crowding to leach the magic from the wall.

Even imagining them nauseated me. Whoever had made those things had a sick, sick sense of what constituted life, or a very good idea of what could frighten men.

Neutemoc stood still. His lips moved, without sound. Then, in a heartbeat, he crossed the courtyard, and crouched by the wall. He watched them as he must have watched enemies before an ambush.

"Those are the things that killed Quechomitl?" he asked.

"Yes."

"How long have they been there?"

I shrugged. "Two days. The only reason they're not getting inside is because Mihmatini is frighteningly good at what she does."

Ordinarily, Neutemoc would have reacted. He would have made some wry comment about Mihmatini. But he didn't. He just crouched there, one hand resting on the hilt of his macuahitl sword. His eyes had narrowed to slits.

"What do they want?" he asked, though he had to know.

"You," I said. "Your household, very possibly."

"My children?" His voice was flat, deadly.

For once, I was glad the anger wasn't directed at me. I didn't actually think the creatures were clever enough to draw Neutemoc out by attacking his children. They'd just kill anyone who might protect him. But I had to get him out of Tenochtitlan, and to Chalco, to know why his house was under siege.

I said – not quite a lie, but not quite the truth either: "Anyone close to you. There's a powerful sorcerer behind them. And trust me, they won't give up."

He was silent for a while. "And this has to do with Eleuia?"

"Yes," I said. The chance that it didn't was minuscule. "You know something," I went on. "Something that's dangerous to someone. And Eleuia did, too."

Neutemoc didn't turn. "I told you already. I don't know anything relevant."

"You may not think you do. Why not come with me to Chalco? It's one day's journey at most."

Neutemoc shook his head. "To Chalco, yes. But that's not the place you want to see, Acatl. Most of the battles of the Chalca Wars took place near Amecameca, at the foot of Popocatepetl's volcano. That's two days. And I really think there are better times to leave the city."

"When you're under siege by creatures you can't fight?"

"I never asked for that." His voice implied, quite effectively, that he held me responsible for this state of affairs.

It wasn't the moment to start another fight. I held my silence, though I chafed inside.

Finally Neutemoc said, "Two days to go, two days there, and two days to return. Not more, Acatl."

Six days away was both not enough and too much. Not enough, for we had no idea what we were looking for. Too much, because of the unknown sorcerer who was currently besieging Neutemoc's house – for all I knew, he might turn his attention away from my brother, and to some other part of the city, and that wasn't a pleasant thought. All I could do was pray that the Seven Serpent would grant us Her fickle luck, for the journey to be fruitful, and the city to remain safe.

"Very well," I said. "Six days."

Some things couldn't be put off forever. I went to my temple to collect some of the things I'd need for the journey – and found Ichtaca, waiting for me in the courtyard with his arms crossed over his bare torso.

"Acatl-tzin." His voice had the edge of broken obsidian.

I'd been putting our discussion off ever since the Imperial Audience, but I couldn't in all decency continue to ignore him. "Let's find a quiet place," I said.

The quiet place turned out to be the same room where I'd prepared for the hunt of the beast of shadows. Dried blood still stained the ground: the faded remnants of my quincunx, not completely subsumed into the earth.

Ichtaca sat cross-legged on the ground, looking up at me, but say ing nothing.

"You wanted to speak to me?" I said.

Ichtaca didn't move. I sat cross-legged in front of him; and we watched each other like a pair of jaguars after the same prey. Finally Ichtaca sighed. "Things have to change, Acatl-tzin."

"You've been angry at me," I said. "For not attending the Imperial Court?"

Ichtaca didn't speak for a while. He lowered his eyes to the ground, traced a line in the earth with his index fingers. "No," he said. "At least, not in the way that you would understand it."

That was more words than we'd ever exchanged. "You wanted the temple," I said, groping for reasons for his iniquity. "To be High Priest yourself?"

Ichtaca smiled. "You should know, Acatl-tzin. A Fire Priest for the main temple, no matter how competent, doesn't rise to that level – not so quickly, not without favour."

"I still don't understand–" I said, feeling more and more ill at ease.

"I'm Fire Priest of this temple. I see to its daily business," Ichtaca said. "I know my place. But you do not."

Whatever I'd expected, it wasn't such a reproach. "You–"

"You're High Priest," Ichtaca said. He raised his eyes, to look directly at me. "Head of the whole order. But you pass through this temple like a shadow."

What was he talking about? "I'm not sure…"

Ichtaca put both hands on the ground. "Listen to me," he said. "Then you can expel me from here, if that's what you want."

He and I both knew I couldn't really demote him. Ichtaca was only half-lying when he said his appointment hadn't been political: one did not become Fire Priest of a temple in the Sacred Precinct randomly, or even through talent. "Go on," I said, although I liked this conversation less and less.

"You have priests," Ichtaca said. "They serve, and do the vigils and the proper sacrifices. In return, they expect something from you."

I still didn't see what he wanted.

"You're High Priest," Ichtaca said. "Responsible for all of them. I run this temple, but you keep it together."

"I can't–"

"If you don't know the proper ways, I or someone else will show you, or replace you. If you don't want to attend the Imperial Audience, I can go. But you cannot detach yourself from what we do."

"I do the vigils," I said finally, still surprised that he'd judge me. I had not paid enough attention to him, seeing him as part of responsibilities I didn't want to accept. My mistake.

Ichtaca shook his head. The conch-shell around his neck clinked, softly, against his necklace of jade. "This isn't about vigils. It's about–" He pushed both hands into the ground, obviously frustrated at his inability to find the right words. He said, finally, "Someone has to stand for what we do. Someone has to make us into more than individual priests: into the clergy of Mictlantecuhtli."

"I'm not a leader," I said.

"Then be a figurehead," Ichtaca said. He sounded – not angry, but desperate. "Most priests in this temple haven't even seen your face. You keep to your house. You keep to yourself. It can't work. If all you wanted was this, you should have stayed in Coyoacan."

"Understand this," I said, annoyed now. "I didn't ask to be posted here. I wanted to stay in Coyoacan." Doing what I had always done: caring for the small, the forgotten; those who could not attain the glorious ends of warriors, but who would still be mourned.

Ichtaca made a grimace. Plainly, he didn't believe me. "It's a political appointment."

"Yes," I snapped. "The Guardian campaigned for it."

"You had to–"

"Refuse? How do you refuse an Imperial Edict?"

He knew, as I well did, that you couldn't.

Ichtaca was silent for a while. "You may not have wanted it, but it doesn't change anything. Everyone needs someone to look up to, and you're not filling this space."

"I can't," I said. "You know I can't."

Ichtaca's face tightened. "Be there. In this temple. Know what goes on. Speak to everyone, offering priest or novice priest. I can do the rest."

"And that's all you want?"

"No," Ichtaca said. "I want you to lead us. But it will have to do, for the time being."

"That's not…"

"It is possible," Ichtaca said.

"Not right now," I said, obscurely embarrassed. "I have to leave on a journey."

Ichtaca's face didn't move, but I knew the expression. Disappointment. Anger. It was the one Father had borne all his life; and even in the blankness of death I'd still seen it engraved on his face.

"When I come back…" I said.

Ichtaca smiled, half-sadly, half-angrily. He didn't believe me. And I couldn't blame him. But I'd never been meant for this place, for this function. Everything in this temple confirmed that I was just a fraud.

If only I could resign. But it wasn't a possibility.

"I'll be gone for six days," I said.

Ichtaca smiled, though there was no joy in it. "On an official journey?"

"No, not quite," I said, embarrassed. "It has to do with Priestess Eleuia."

Ichtaca pursed his lips. I didn't like the light that had come into his eyes. "It's an official journey, then. Take two of the priests with you."

"But–"

"I won't let it be said that our High Priest has no escort when he goes on temple business."

He looked at me: like Teomitl, waiting for me to defy him, to contradict his authority. Knowing that I couldn't. "Very well," I said. "I'll take the priests. We'll talk about the rest when I come back."

I was once more avoiding confrontation, but there was no other way. Huei had to be avenged; and I had to understand who was threatening Neutemoc, who was threatening Mihmatini and my nephews and nieces.

Because they were the only priests I knew, I asked Ezamahual and Palli to come with us. Both of them looked surprised by the request. In fact, knowing their taste for staying inside the temple, I would have expected them to refuse. But of course, no one could refuse their High Priest.

"Where are we going?" Ezamahual asked.

"Chalca. And then to the foot of Popocatepetl's volcano."

"I'll take some supplies," Palli said.

He also took along Ezamahual, who as a novice priest was beneath him in the hierarchy of the temple. When they both came out of the storehouse, Ezamahual was burdened with equipment: he carried several cages containing macaws and owls, and a heavy bag that Palli would not let me open. "You never know what you might need, Acatl-tzin."

We went back to Neutemoc's house. My brother was waiting for us in the courtyard, with one slave by his side: a tall, dour fellow by the name of Tepalotl, who carried my brother's bag.

"Priests?" Neutemoc asked, looking sceptically at Ezamahual and Palli.

Palli bristled. "The High Priest's escort," he said.

"I see," was all Neutemoc would say. "Mihmatini said she had something to give us."

My sister finally emerged from the house, with a bundle of maize flatbread. "You'll need that," she said, handing it to Palli. The smell of spices wafted from her callused hands – and for an eerie moment she was the image of Mother, standing in the courtyard, watching Father go out to the fields, in those bygone days when Neutemoc and I had still been children, daring each other to dive in the lake.

I shook my head, still hearing Ceyaxochitl's voice. Everyone has to grow up, Acatl.

"Anything wrong?" Mihmatini asked.

She'd always been perceptive. Too much, perhaps. "No, nothing. Thank you," I said.

"I'll put more wards up," Mihmatini said. "That might just fool them into thinking Neutemoc is still here."

It might. It couldn't hurt, in any case. "Don't overexert yourself."

She shrugged. "I can handle it."

Neutemoc and Tepalotl were already outside, waiting for me, not speaking. With my spell of true sight still on Neutemoc, he'd had some misgivings about stepping so near the creatures. But Mihmatini's protection still held: the creatures approached, but could not see him, and soon lost interest.

We walked the first section of the journey in silence, Palli, Ezamahual and Neutemoc's slave in tow. I kept looking back, to see the creatures still frantically attacking the walls of Neutemoc's house. I feared they'd follow us, that one of them would turn and see my brother. But they didn't. Our protection spell hung firm, and we were soon out of sight.

We went south on the crowded Itzapalapan causeway, looking for the nearest boat to Chalco. Women from the southern suburbs passed us, going to the Tlatelolco marketplace to sell the wares on their backs: woven cloth of maguey fibres, ceramic bowls and tanned leather skins.

The Itzapalapan Causeway was the largest of all three causeways linking the mainland to Tenochtitlan. It forked near the shore: depending on the path you chose, two or three hours' walk would lead to Culhuacan or Coyoacan. On the fork was a fort manned by warriors with the Imperial insignia and, a little further down, a harbour where Palli bargained with a fisherman for passage to Chalco.

Ezamahual stood at my side, watching his fellow priest. "He's always been good at this," he said, with an encouraging smile at me. Trying to draw me out, I guessed – and was grateful to him for the attention.

"So I see."

"He's the one who trades at the marketplace for the storehouse." Palli finished his bargaining, and handed the fisherman a small purse. "There you go," he said. "A day's journey."

The fisherman's reed boat was larger than the ones our temple owned, and the small one in which Oyohuaca and I had chased Huei through the canals. We fitted, quite comfortably, in the front, even with Ezamahual's load of equipment.

As the fisherman pushed away from the shore, Neutemoc turned towards the city of Tenochtitlan, outlined in the morning sun: the gates leading to the southern districts of Moyotlan and Zoquipan; and the shadow of the Great Temple rising above all the pyramids of the Sacred Precinct. His face was a mask, and he did not speak a word.

In silence, we went south, leaving Lake Texcoco for Lake Xochimilco and the maze of Floating Gardens that sustained Tenochtitlan's agriculture. Even though it was daytime, I kept my eyes out for ahuizotls; but there was nothing in the water but weeds and algae. The steady splash of the oars was the only noise punctuating the journey: the boat, navigating unerringly between the rows of artificial lands, passed from Lake Xochimilco into Lake Chalco – before leaving us, late in the evening, at the limestone gates of the city of Chalco.

Before the gates, soldiers in feather regalia manned a fort much like the ones at the exit of Tenochtitlan. They had throwing spears and feather-covered shields, adorned with an upright coyote. They watched us with a bored air: we were only the last of a steady stream of travellers seeking passage through the city.

There were inns for travelling merchants, but Neutemoc had no wish to mingle with those he saw as his social inferiors. He was being ridiculous, and I argued with him about this, but he wouldn't budge. We ended up camping in a field, some hundred measures away from the city's first houses.

The air was warm, saturated with the promise of rain. The dry season was still upon us: Lake Chalco had sunk to low levels, revealing the woven mat-and-branches structure of the numerous Floating Gardens in the vicinity.

Neutemoc sat against a wizened tree, his whole body tense. He had spoken few words during the journey, sinking into a silence I wasn't sure I liked.

"Acatl?" he asked.

I raised my head. "Yes?"

"Can you see whether those – things – are here?"

"They haven't followed us," I said.

"Is that a guess, or an observation?"

I had been keeping a watch, but had relaxed it on the last leg of our journey. "How would they come here?" I asked.

"So you're not sure."

He had some nerve asking me this, after seemingly not caring about staying in his besieged house. "No," I snapped.

"Can you see?" Neutemoc asked again.

I was tired, and the last thing I wanted was to draw more of my blood to fuel a spell. But it was clear Neutemoc was going to work at me until I gave in.

I turned to Ezamahual, Palli, and Neutemoc's slave Tepalotl, who had been watching this in silence. "Can you do a spell of true sight?"

Palli shrugged. "Not a problem. What are we looking for?"

"Anything suspicious," I said. I described the creatures as best as I could.

In the waning light, Ezamahual's face became pale, leached of colours. "They don't sound very friendly," he said.

Palli was already rummaging in Ezamahual's pack, withdrawing a caged owl and a purse of what looked like dayflower. "Come on," he said. "Let's go."

Neutemoc said, "Take Tepalotl if you're going far away from the camp. You'll need some kind of protection while you cast those spells." His lips were pursed: clearly he didn't believe in their fighting abilities.

Neutemoc's slave Tepalotl followed my two priests in silence, leaving both of us at our improvised campsite. Neutemoc and I unpacked the maize flatbreads and the flasks of water, preparing the small meal we would eat. Kneeling in the mud, we looked at each other for a while, the same thought on our minds: could we start a fire here?

Neutemoc was the first to shake his head. "Too damp," he said. "Unless you have a spell."

"You don't summon gods for trifles," I said.

Neutemoc smiled, briefly. "Then we'll just be damp, won't we?"

Palli, Ezamahual and the slave Tepalotl were walking back towards us. Ezamahual was carrying the limp body of the owl in his hands, and looking puzzled.

"Nothing," Palli said, curtly, when they reached the camp. "Not a trace of anything magical."

"Good," Neutemoc said. He inclined his head a fraction. "Thank you."

I couldn't help feeling relieved. It was one thing to have Ceyaxochitl's assurances that all would be well once we left Tenochtitlan, and another to actually see it happen.

Palli, Ezamahual and Tepalotl took their share of food, and drew back from us: my two priests at the edge of the camp, talking quietly among themselves, and Neutemoc's slave a bit further, standing guard in the darkness.

Neutemoc didn't speak for a while. He reached for one of the maize flatbreads, and cradled it in the palm of his hands, staring at the darkening skies.

"It brings one back," he said at last. "All of this."

I swallowed a bite of my flatbread. If he was in a talkative mood, I'd be a fool not to draw him out, to understand why someone was threatening him. Although I feared it was going to cost me. So far, I hadn't seen much to explain why he'd behaved in such a spectacularly foolish fashion. "It must have changed in sixteen years."

"Not that much," Neutemoc said. "Places don't change. People – that's another story." His voice was bitter.

"Eleuia?" I asked.

Neutemoc didn't answer for a while. "Let's not bring her up, shall we? We'll disagree. And I wasn't thinking about her."

He was in a melancholy mood tonight. "About whom, then?" I asked.

He smiled, a flash of white teeth in the growing darkness. "There was a time when all I wanted was the certainty that I would live until the morrow."

"War is that way." I felt like an impostor. I'd never been to war, after all.

Two days ago, Neutemoc would have risen to the bait, taunting me with what I'd failed to accomplish with my life. "Life was simpler, back then," he said.

"Yes." I thought of my small temple in Coyoacan, of comforting the bereaved, tracking down underworld monsters. Simple things. But life, it seemed, was no longer that simple, either for Neutemoc or for me.

Neutemoc finished the last of his flatbread, and wiped his hands clean. "Things change. You grow stale, complacent. Sometimes, you deserve your own fall."

Stale? Yes, stale. His growing indifference to Huei had certainly done little to close the growing breach between them. As for his attempted adultery with Eleuia…

He went on, "When I first came here with the army, I used to go for walks at night, to think on the following day's battle. One night, I met an old peasant carrying a basket of maize kernels. He asked what I wanted to do with my life. I told him of my dreams – to earn fame and fortune on the battlefield; to have a grand house, and a loving wife, and to move through the Imperial circles."

The story's familiarity pulled me from my angry thoughts. "And?" I asked, though I suspected where the story was going.

"He just smiled. 'You will have all of this and more, young warrior. But remember: I always hold the dice.' And he was gone as though he'd never been."

I nodded. "Tezcatlipoca." The Smoking Mirror, God of War and Fate: He who controlled the destinies of men.

"Whoever he was, he was right." Neutemoc sighed. "Life is just another, vaster patolli board on which the gods move us at Their whim. The things you have, you can lose so easily. They're just not worth holding."

"You're a warrior," I said, finally. "You're not supposed to wallow in your own misery."

Neutemoc's eyes flashed in anger, but he didn't answer. "We need someone to stand guard," he said, rising. He walked to where Palli and Ezamahual sat, and said something to them in a low voice. They nodded.

Neutemoc came back, and lay down on the ground, ready to sleep. "They'll take turns," he said.

I nodded, not feeling inclined to talk further with him.

"We'll reach Amecameca tomorrow at noon," Neutemoc said. "There's a hill where Eleuia buried the body of her child. You'll see for yourself that he's dead."

I shrugged. "Maybe." Even if my instincts were wrong, and the child had nothing to do with this, something had happened in the Chalca Wars: something that Eleuia had wanted to hide so badly she'd been ready to kill for it.

I woke up at dawn, my clothes soaked by the mud and the morning dew. Neutemoc was already up. He was going through some exer cises with his macuahitl sword, hacking and slashing at cacti as if they'd personally offended him.

Palli, Ezamahual and I withdrew from the camp, making our offerings of blood to Lord Death. The sky was cloudy, and the sun nowhere to be seen: a gloomy, wet pall stretched over the marshes, clinging to everything it touched. I hoped it wouldn't rain today. There were few more unpleasant things than finding oneself without shelter on marshy ground.

We ate one of the flatbreads, waiting for Neutemoc to finish killing innocent plants.

"Feeling frustrated?" I asked.

He didn't even rise to my jibe. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

We walked the rest of the way to Amecameca, with the snowcapped heights of Popocatepetl's and Ixtaccihuatl's volcanoes looming ever larger over us.

The land became drier, the lakes forgotten behind us, and the ground deepening into valleys and hills, with grass and conifers gradually replacing the sparse marsh vegetation.

Neutemoc didn't speak much. From time to time, he'd point out a place, and say things such as, "This is where we fought the first Chalca regiments." But he was again sunk into that melancholy mood he'd shown in Chalco, reliving the past and the carefree days of his youth.

Towards mid-afternoon, we reached Amecameca, a small town nestled at the foot of a hill. Neutemoc pointed to the heights above us. "That's the place," he said. "The hill of Our Mother."

I craned my neck. At the top of the hill was a small, ornate adobe building with red flags: a shrine to Teteoinan, Mother of the Gods.

"We took it sixteen years ago," Neutemoc was saying. "A hardfought battle."

"That's where Eleuia buried her child?" I asked.

"You'll see," Neutemoc said.

It was a small hill, dwarfed by the much larger volcanoes behind it. The ascent wasn't long. A steady flow of pilgrims came from Amecameca to make their offerings at the shrine: peasants, with their hands full of maize and feathers, and a procession of merchants leading a woman slave in a white cotton tunic, who would be sacrificed to the goddess.

Neutemoc stopped halfway up the hill, on a grassy knoll. Not knowing what else to do, we stopped as well.

"Let's see," he said. He closed his eyes for a moment, and a fleeting expression of nostalgia crossed his face. "That way," he said.

He walked to a place in the middle of the knoll, and stopped. "Here."

"You're sure?" I asked. Not that I disbelieved him. But still, it had been sixteen years.

Neutemoc pointed to a handful of rocks, arranged in a circular pattern. "I remember those." He knelt, rummaged within the grass, and gave a small grunt of triumph. "Her marker's still here."

Eleuia's marker was a small rock, engraved with two fragmentary glyphs: one for "water", and one that might have been "blessing" or "luck". They looked much like the ones she'd tried to draw in the Floating Gardens – while she was held captive by the beast of shadows, waiting for those who would torture her and push her into the lake. Odd. It wasn't any spell I recognised; and no magic that I could see hung over the tomb.

I turned to Palli. "Can I see the contents of that pack?"

The young offering priest smiled. "Of course, Acatl-tzin."

He'd brought many things: obsidian blades, herbs to heal wounds, to curse a man; a variety of containers for blood, their shapes ranging from eagles with an open beak to chac-mools, small men holding a blood-stained bowl in their outstretched hands. Among them, I finally found what I was looking for: a small, pointed shovel, which I withdrew from the pack. "Thank you."

"Do you need help, Acatl-tzin?" Ezamahual asked.

I shook my head. "There's only one shovel, and it's not a large grave. I'll work faster if I do it alone." I whispered a brief prayer to Mictlantecuhtli and to the Duality for what I was about to do – disturb the rest of an innocent child – and hoped They'd understand, if not forgive.

I hoped my instincts didn't turn out wrong about this.

It was harder than I'd thought: the ground was mostly rocks, mixed with a little soil. I had to go carefully in order not to break the bones, which would be small and fragile. Neutemoc had stepped away with a stern, disapproving face, and didn't offer any help.

At last, I overturned something that was neither earth nor rocks: a cloth with faded colours, sewn closed at both ends. I withdrew it from the hole, and brushed the earth from its folds, gently. Then, using one of my obsidian knives, I sliced through the threads.

Small, yellowed things spilled into my hands: the pathetic, familiar remnants of someone who hadn't had a chance at life.

"Bones," Palli whispered, by my side.

Yes, bones. But they felt wrong. Deeply, fundamentally wrong. They were the right shape, they had the right touch. But my skin was crawling, and the longer I held them the more ill at ease I felt.

"Neutemoc?" I asked.

My brother turned, saw what I was holding. "You've found what you wanted," he said, flatly.

No. I hadn't. They were wrong, subtly wrong, but I couldn't see why.

"You were with her when she buried the child?" I asked.

"Yes," Neutemoc said. His gaze said, "I told you it was a waste of time."

"Did she do anything particular?" The bones were still in my hand, and everything in me wanted to throw them down.

"Particular?" Neutemoc looked at me as if I were mad. "No," he said. "She sewed them in that cloth, buried them, and carved the marker."

"That's all?" I asked. What was wrong with those bones?

Neutemoc said nothing for a while. "She went into a cave to say a prayer to the Duality," he said. "The same one where she gave birth."

"A cave?" I laid the bones down in the clothes. The uneasy feeling on my skin abated, but didn't cease. Nausea welled up in me, sharp, demanding – I struggled to focus through it.

A cave was a good shelter to give birth in with impunity, especially in this arid country. And praying to the Duality for a child wasn't extraordinary, since They watched over the souls of babies. But the Duality was worshipped in the open air, or on pyramid temples. I'd never heard of such a temple in a cave.

I took the baby's bones and wrapped them back into their cloth. "Can you take us to the cave?" I asked.

• • • •

It was further away than Neutemoc remembered: we had to go down the hill to another one. Shelves of rock rose around us as we trudged on the steep path. The air was cold, crisp with a bitter tang that insinuated itself into my bones.

The cave had a small entrance, half-obscured by a fall of debris. Faded paint stretched on both sides, and traces that might have been bloody handprints, weathered away by the rain. A wet, pungent odour like that of a wild animal rose as I ducked under the stone ceiling.

Inside was only darkness, the sound of our own breathing – and, in the distance, the steady sound of dripping water. "Is anybody here?" I called.

No answer.

"Some place," Palli said behind me.

I paused for a moment to light a torch with some flint and dry kindling from Palli's ever-useful bag. The flame shone over moist rock walls, reflected in a thousand shards of light.

"It must have been abandoned some time ago," Neutemoc said, defiantly.

"If it ever drew large crowds," Ezamahual said. He sounded sceptical. "Everything looks faded here."

"I know," I said. I shone the torch towards the back: the cave narrowed into a rock corridor. Having no choice, I headed straight ahead.

My footsteps echoed under the stone ceiling: a deep, faraway sound, as if the place had been twice as deep. And as I made my way deeper into the cave, a sense of wrongness slowly crept up my spine. It was the same thing I'd felt when holding the baby's bones, but much, much stronger: a growing disquiet, an impression that the world around me wasn't as it seemed – a sense of a cold power coiling around me like the rings of a snake.

"Neutemoc," I whispered, but there was only silence, and the feeling of something immense, barely contained within the walls. Something that hadn't yet seen any of us; but that might, at any moment, turn its eyes our way.

"Acatl-tzin," Palli whispered, and I heard the same fear in his voice.

I reached towards the knife at my belt, with agonising slowness – and closed my hand on the hilt. The dreary, familiar emptiness of Mictlan rose: a welcome shield against whatever lay in the cave. It wasn't strong, and it waned with every passing moment. But it would have to do.

"Use your knives," I whispered to the two priests behind me. "Mictlan's magic will ward us."

Neither of the priests answered. I pushed ahead, stubbornly, and heard their footsteps behind me, more hesitant. They were falling behind.

The corridor ended in a circular place, filled with the sound of water dripping onto the rock. There was a pool at the centre, with barely enough water to reflect the light of my torch; and small tokens, scattered around the rim: dolls of brightly-coloured rags, fragments of chipped stones and seashells.

Offerings. This was – had been – a shrine, till not so long ago.

I shone my torch around the room: the paint had run, but frescoes still adorned the walls. The sense of disquiet, of wrongness, was rising, slowly drowning out Mictlan's rudimentary protection. I had no intention of remaining in that cave any longer than I had to. Close by, the frescoes were hard to identify. Characters in tones of ochre moved across a narration in smudged glyphs: fighting each other, or perhaps handing something to each other?

"What is this place?"

I started. I hadn't heard Neutemoc for so long that I'd almost forgotten that he was there. He stood by the pool, looking ill at ease. Neither his slave, Tepalotl, nor my two priests were anywhere to be seen.

"You should know," I said, more angrily than I'd intended to. "You took Eleuia here."

"No," Neutemoc said. He sounded angry as well. "I waited outside. I've never set foot in here."

"Well," I said sombrely, "the one thing we can be sure is that this isn't a shrine to the Duality." I held my torch up to the frescoes again, hoping for a clue, for anything that would allow us to get out of here and leave behind that great, sickening presence. But the glyphs were too smudged by the incessant fall of water, and the details of the frescoes similarly erased.

I walked away from the pool, fighting an urge to scratch myself to the blood.

The frescoes on the furthest wall were also badly damaged, but some details had survived better. One character appeared constantly in the vignettes: a being with dark skin, brandishing various objects: a fisherman's net, a rattle, and several bowls holding offerings.

I knelt by the oldest of the frescoes, peered at the details. The eyes were dark, accentuated by black marks, and a plume of heron feathers protruded from His head.

Tlaloc! Eleuia had given birth in a shrine to Tlaloc, God of Rain.

We met Palli, Ezamahual and Tepalotl halfway out: they had been unable to push past the sense of uneasiness. Tepalotl, being a slave, didn't look as though he cared much one way or the other; but my two priests were sheepish.

"We could have followed you, Acatl-tzin," Palli pointed out, once we were safely outside.

Ezamahual said nothing. He was clenching and unclenching his hand around his obsidian knife, frowning. "I scarcely feel anything," he said.

"The magic is here," I said, finally, not knowing what else I could tell him. "It takes some practise to open to it, that's all."

Ezamahual looked doubtful. "I suppose," he said.

"Acatl-tzin would know," Palli said, looking at his companion severely.

Ezamahual said nothing. I could tell he wasn't completely convinced. He should have had confidence in me, but I hadn't been capable of proving my abilities to him.

Huitzilpochtli curse me.

"It doesn't matter," I said. "We have what we need."

"We do?" Neutemoc asked, behind me. "I, for one, haven't understood anything."

I didn't react to his sarcasm. I weighed the baby's bones in my hands, thoughtfully. After the shrine, the small feeling of wrongness was almost restful. "Neither have I." But one thing was sure: the Storm Lord wasn't a god of childbirth. There had been no reason for Eleuia to go into that shrine to give birth unless something else was going on. "But I don't think Eleuia's true allegiance was to the Quetzal Flower."

"And that solves the matter for you?"

I shrugged. "If she was to become Consort of Xochiquetzal's husband, she couldn't afford the worship of another god." Hence the need to silence Neutemoc, who might remember the child; who might remember this place and cause someone else to realise what Eleuia had done.

Neutemoc said nothing, but he didn't look convinced. That wasn't what bothered me. The bones that I held in my hand, however… What kind of child had Eleuia given birth to?

It's dead, my conscience pointed out, reasonably. Whatever happened, she didn't carry it to term. But that wasn't enough to dispel my growing feeling I'd missed something.