Obsidian & Blood

TWENTY-ONE

The Great Vigil

When I arrived, the Duality House was all but deserted.

"The priests?" the warrior at the gates asked. "I'm not sure if there are any left inside. You can look, though."

My heart sank. "The Guardian?"

The warrior shook his head. "She hasn't come back from the palace."

The Southern Hummingbird blind me. I had counted on Ceyaxochitl not being there, but not on all the priests leaving.

I found two priests in one of the rooms at the back: an old man and an old woman, who sat with Mihmatini, sipping hot chocolate.

"Greetings," I said. "I was looking for help."

The priests acknowledged my presence with a nod of their head. "I'm not sure you're in the right place," the old priestess said. "We're somewhat depleted at the moment."

"Help? What kind of help?" Mihmatini asked.

"Against creatures of Tlaloc."

The old priest nodded, sagely. "There's been trouble all over Tenochtitlan. The waters rising, and people mauled by things they couldn't see."

The creatures. Neutemoc had been wrong: the child had come into his full powers, and he wasn't shy about using them either. This wasn't good. Not good at all. "That's where all the others are?"

The old priestess nodded. "Emergencies. We're – ah, staying here as a precaution. Keeping the wards up."

The priest took a sip of his cup. "But if it's urgent…"

It was urgent. But Mihmatini was in the Duality House, as well as Neutemoc's whole household. Two old priests wouldn't make that much of a difference against what was coming. "No," I said. "Given how badly things are turning out, it's more urgent to keep a safe place. I'll – find help somewhere else."

Mihmatini had been relatively silent until now. "I'll come with you," she said.

I shook my head. "Stay here."

"Because you think I'm too weak to fight?"

The Duality preserve me, why did everyone take what I said badly? "No," I said. "Because you're not putting yourself in danger."

Mihmatini set her cup aside, but didn't speak.

"Do you really want to fight those creatures again?"

"They frighten the soul out of me," Mihmatini said, finally. "But my wards–"

"Won't last in this rain," I said. "And it takes you too much time to draw them. Stay here. You'll be safe. No need to endanger your life."

Mihmatini puffed her cheeks, with a familiar thoughtful expression. "Is there need for you?" she asked.

I stared at her for a while; trying to imagine myself ensconced in the safety of the Duality House. But I couldn't. "It's my place," I said. "No matter how hopeless things are."

I couldn't read her expression. "Your place," she said. She shook her head, as if exasperated. "You're impossible, you know. You and Neutemoc, come to think of it."

I felt embarrassed; though I didn't know why.

Mihmatini shook her head. "I'll stay here," she said. "The children are frightened, in any case. And you – you're not leaving until I set new wards on you."

I made a mock-frightened face. "As you wish."

Mihmatini snorted. "What did I say? Impossible, both of you."

On my way out of the Duality House, I stopped in the barracks, looking for Ixtli. I found him supervising a mock-battle in one of the larger rooms. Three of his Duality warriors were taking on another three, hacking at each other with their macuahitl swords, the harsh sound of wood striking stone echoing under the carved rafters of the ceiling.

"Acatl-tzin?" Ixtli asked, surprised, when I came in.

"I need help."

Ixtli glanced at his warriors. "What kind of help?"

"Fighting men. There's a god's agent loose in Tenochtitlan."

Ixtli raised his eyebrows. "The rain, eh?" he asked at last. "I thought something was wrong. But we're not priests, Acatl. We don't deal in magic."

I shook my head. "I know. But I still need swords, and men to wield them. Your armoury has magical obsidian." I'd borrowed some of Mictlan's knives from it.

Ixtli sighed. He looked at the warriors again: only two men were still fighting. "I can spare two dozen men," he said.

It wasn't much, but it would have to do. "Can you gather them in the barracks? I'm going to find some priests to put on our side."

Ixtli smiled. "That would be good. We'll gather our weapons and get ready."

I left the barracks and stood in the rain outside the Duality House. Each drop slid on my skin, trying to replace my protections with the Storm Lord's magic.

That wasn't the most attractive prospect: I only had to think of the old woman in Mazatl's house, and of the suffocating sensation of wrongness emanating from her, in order to know the consequences of such an event.

The Sacred Precinct was deserted: a deeper, subtler sense of wrongness. There should have been pilgrims. There should have been priests, and the dull thud of sacrifices' bodies, hitting the bottom of the pyramid's steps. Instead, there was only the soft pattern of rain, drop after drop falling like tears, sinking into the muddy earth.

Through the veil of rain shone the twin lights of the Great Temple: one for Huitzilpochtli, one for Tlaloc. There, I would find help. But the priests of Tlaloc weren't on my side, and the priests of the Southern Hummingbird would be at the palace, defending the Imperial Family.

My protection was dwindling with every moment I spent outside. Both Neutemoc and Teomitl would be waiting for my purported reinforcements. I had to make a decision, and soon.

The Duality House was empty; the Jaguar Knights were dead. I could go to the Eagle Knights, but even assuming they weren't at the palace, they had no magic to help. The temple of Tezcatlipoca shimmered in the moonlight – but His priests were closely associated with the Imperial Family, and they would also be at the palace.

That left…

I turned right, towards the weakest light: that of my own temple.

I wasn't looking forward to the next few moments. But there was no choice. The more time passed, the more Teomitl and Neutemoc would grow impatient. And, knowing them, they'd then rush in, without any regard for danger.

I walked through the gates of my temple – and, as Tezcatlipoca's Fate would have it, met Ichtaca under the arcades, rising from a kneeling position. At his feet were the remains of a quincunx, the magic already fading. He had no wards, and the rain had soaked into his bones, into his skin, seeking to twist his whole being out of shape. Teomitl had been right: the Storm Lord's rule wouldn't be gentle, but rather make us all into what we were not.

"Acatl-tzin." His voice was lightly ironic. "I had an idea you might come. Can I help you?"

I stared at him – at the drawn eyebrows; brows, ready for a further rebuke; at the faint smile on his lips. And he was right. I had stolen through the temple like a beast of shadows among men, taking what I needed and never giving anything back. I had no claim on Ichtaca, nor on anyone within the temple – and I would never have one, for I wasn't ready to be what he wanted.

I had been wrong. It wasn't in my temple that I was going to find help. "No," I said, finally, "I don't think you can help me. How do things go?"

His face didn't move. "As well as can be, considering." He raised his gaze to the grey skies. "The rain isn't natural, is it?"

Surprised that he'd turn to me for answers, I blurted out, "Why do you ask me?"

He smiled. "You look like you might know."

I sighed. "No, it's not natural. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

Ichtaca looked at me for a while; and at the remnants of his quincunx. Then he said softly, with the edge of a drawn knife, "Running away again, are we?"

How dare he? "I have no time," I said.

"Haven't you? You came for something, didn't you?"

"There's no need for it any more," I snapped. If I tarried too much, Teomitl and Neutemoc would lose their patience and rush in. I had no time to fence with Ichtaca. I needed to find some other place for reinforcements…

Ichtaca's face was a mask of weariness. "I think there is. Again – what did you want?"

Exasperated, I flung into his face, "I came to ask for help against creatures of Tlaloc. But you were right. I have no claim on this temple, or on anyone within."

Ichtaca was silent for a while, but some of the irony was gone from his features. "That's not what I told you," he said.

"No," I said. "But I can't do what you want. I'm no leader of men."

Ichtaca traced the outlines of his quincunx with the point of his sandal; staring at the ground. "No," he said. "But where will you find your help?"

"There are other places," I said, knowing that there weren't.

"I don't think you'd have come here if there had been." Ichtaca finished retracing his quincunx, and looked up. "I'm no fool, Acatltzin. Whatever the rain is, it's not on our side. And a spell of this magnitude can only mean one thing: that the Fifth World is in danger." His lips had tightened to threads of pale pink. "I'm no fool," he repeated. "Whatever I think of you can have no bearing on our duty. If you need help, I won't deny you."

"You don't understand," I said, still trying to take in what he was saying. "I have no guarantee–"

"That we'll survive." Ichtaca's face was grim. "Do we ever have one? Lord Death takes whom He pleases, when He pleases."

"Then–" I could hardly believe what I was hearing.

Ichtaca smiled. "But there is a price to pay. There is always one."

"More involvement in the temple's affairs?" I had no taste for it. But with Neutemoc and Teomitl's life at stake, not to mention the fate of the Fifth World, it didn't matter.

Ichtaca's face was a carefully composed mask. "No," he said.

"You'll be the one who explains to them why they have to follow you."

"I can't–"

"You forget." His voice was soft, but it cut through the patter of the rain. "You are High Priest of this order. They'll listen to you. They'll obey." He smiled again, mirthlessly. "And, perhaps, if you speak well enough, they'll do so with their hearts instead of with their fears."

Ichtaca was efficient: within less than half an hour, he had most of my twenty priests gathered in the greatest room of the shrine. He wasn't a fool, either, to cause anyone to stay under that rain any longer than they had to.

I stood by the altar, under the lifeless gaze of Mictlantecuhtli, Lord Death. The gaunt cheeks and the yellow skin all contributed to lend Him an amused expression. The priests, though, weren't looking at the frescoes or at the dried blood in the grooves of the stones, but at me, whispering among themselves. I couldn't tell whether their expressions were hostile. They had settled in an order that seemed immovable: the senior offering priests in front, the younger novice priests in the middle; and at the back, closest to the entrance curtain, two calmecac students, thirteen years old at the most, looking far too young to be involved in this at all.

I knew some of those priests, such as Palli and Ezamahual, by name; some by sight; and some I had never seen. Perhaps, after this was over, I'd have time…

It wasn't the time to think of it, or to make endless plans for the future. Some of those priests wouldn't survive the night. All of them might not, if we failed and Tlaloc took His revenge on our clergy. I bore more responsibilities than just my own life.

Ichtaca clapped his hands together, and, in eerie simultaneity, every priest fell silent. "The High Priest has an announcement to make," he said.

If I'd felt ill at ease before, now I wanted to hide. I'd never been a speech-maker like Neutemoc or even Ceyaxochitl. Others navigated the world of politics through their silver tongues. I couldn't. But there were Neutemoc and Teomitl; and Huei, caught by mistake in an ageless struggle and literally sacrificed upon its altar.

Even small priests have to grow up, Acatl.

I took a deep breath, and said, slowly, "I need your help. All of you. I…"

They watched me, silent – not yet disapproving, but surely it would come. I caught Ichtaca's grimly amused gaze, and wondered why I'd been fool enough to think this easy. Surely all I had to do was give them an order?

I…

If I did this, I admitted, once and for all, that I was what Ceyaxochitl and the Emperor had made of me: a High Priest, head of my clergy, and responsible for its well-being. I admitted that the days of my youth and solitude were past. And I…

Above my head, the rain fell in a steady patter, like hundreds of footsteps on a causeway.

This wasn't, had never been about me. This was about the dead Jaguar warriors and the dying Emperor; about the peasants in their flooded fields; about the myriad small priests who didn't engage in politics, but sought the well-being of their flock.

"You have seen the rain," I said softly. "There is a child in Tenochtitlan: a child who is no more a child, but the living embodiment of Tlaloc's will. He seeks to remake the Fifth World in His image."

Once I had started, the words came easily, jostling each other for release – and if I saw the faces of the priests, I wasn't focusing on their expressions any more.

"He has creatures with him. You cannot see them without Quetzalcoatl's True Sight. The knives of Mictlan will slow them down but not kill them. They feed on magic, and whittle down wards to nothing. But somehow, we have to get past them. We have to kill the child and put an end to this madness.

"I tell you all this because… because I need your help."

When I finished, there was silence again. Then a growing whisper, as some of the priests turned to discuss with their neighbours. I couldn't read their faces; I couldn't hear what they were saying.

Someone – Palli, I realised – detached himself from the crowd. "Are you ordering us?"

I shook my head. "I can't take up a command I haven't earned. I'm asking you. I'm asking you to go into danger."

"For the sake of the Fifth World." That was Ezamahual.

"Yes," Ichtaca said, to my left. "Doing what we have always done."

"We didn't pledge ourselves to suicide," one of the offering priests said: a thin, coyote-like face I vaguely remembered from vigils. "We say the funeral rites. We call up the Dead to comfort the living. Even if the world were in danger, that wouldn't be our responsibility."

"Is that what you think?" Ichtaca asked, softly. "That this is a sinecure, an easy path to the circles of power? Then you can leave right now, Chimalli. Being a priest is laying your life in the hands of our god, even more so than the ordinary people."

Chimalli fell silent. But I could see that he had his following: a group of three young novice priests with embroidered cotton cloaks, probably sons of nobles – enjoying the riches of their fathers, without feats of arms to their names. Teomitl would have had no end of harsh words for them.

In the silence, someone spoke again. Palli. "I've seen you work, Acatl-tzin. Where you go, I'll follow." He stepped further away from the crowd, almost close enough to touch Ichtaca. Chimalli's friends sneered.

I said, my eyes on Chimalli, "If you don't want to come, you can stay where it's dry. You can stay safe. No man can fight if they don't believe in what they're doing."

There was silence. Then Ezamahual spoke. "We're not cowards," he said, with a pointed look at Chimalli. "We may not be warriors, but we won't stay safe while the world breaks apart."

Chimalli snorted. But when he didn't move, the other priests did. One at first, slowly; and then they came by groups of twos and threes, gathering around Palli and Ezamahual.

On the other side of that invisible line were Chimalli, his clique – and the two calmecac students, looking frightened out of their wits.

"We're not cowards," Ezamahual repeated. "Tell us what we have to do."

Beside me, Ichtaca's face was grim, but I could guess that he hadn't expected me to have this much success.

But then, neither had I.

"We haven't much time left," I started.

Because the true sight hampered one's ability to see the Fifth World, I decided to lay it only on half of the priests, trusting that they would see enough to warn the others. I included myself in this half. I also sent word for Ixtli and his men to join us at the temple docks.

I had just finished laying on the true sight on myself when Palli came back.

"We have rabbits, and owls, and a handful of hummingbirds," he said. In the gloom of the Feathered Serpent's sight, Palli shone like the moon: cold, harsh, the veins of his arms and legs contracting and expanding to the rhythm of his heart. He carried two magical knives in his leather belt, one for each hand.

I finished my spell, and carefully brushed my hands clean, praying that Neutemoc and Teomitl would have had the good sense to wait before launching an attack.

I said to Palli, "Whatever you've found will have to do. I'm not sure we'll have time for real blood-magic." Sacrificing an animal and doing a full ritual required preparation. In the midst of a battle, I didn't think we'd have time for this.

Palli said, "Ichtaca is sending messengers to the palace, to request the Guardian's help at the Heart of the Lake."

"He sent Chimalli?"

Palli shook his head. "No," he said, grimly amused. "The two calmecac students, the ones that were frightened by the whole prospect."

"You're not frightened?" I asked, remembering how he'd preferred storehouse duty because of how quiet it was.

"When I stop to think about it. But then, it doesn't change anything, does it?"

He looked and sounded disturbingly like Teomitl: like a warrior, uncaring of his own life. I finished erasing my quincunx, and rose in turn. "No," I said. "It doesn't change anything. Come on. Let's get to the boats."

The boats were the flotilla of the temple, moored on the boundary between the southwest district of Moyotlan and the northwest one of Cuepopan, beyond the Serpent Walls. We had a dozen sturdy reed boats, which the priests took on their errands throughout Tenochtitlan.

Ichtaca was already in the second largest of those, with a novice priest holding the oars, and two clustering at the back. He pointed, wordlessly, to the largest craft, the one reserved for the High Priest. It bore the spider-and-owl design of Mictlantecuhtli, and shone with the wards accumulated on it.

Ixtli and his Duality warriors had their own boats: long, thin vessels holding nine warriors in a single line, with two rowers, one at the back and one at the prow. Ixtli raised his hand to me in a salute; I nodded to him, and climbed aboard my own boat. Palli took the oars; and Ezamahual positioned himself at the prow.

Every temple boat, including ours, was full of covered cages. It wasn't so much the cages I saw with the true sight though, but the light cast by the animals they contained: the rabbits huddled against each other, and the hummingbirds flitting against the covers in a whirr of wings.

Palli pushed the boat away from the shore in a splash of oars, and gently directed us south.

The docks were on the western edge of Tenochtitlan; the tree of the Great Vigil on the eastern side of the city. Even though the town was crisscrossed by canals, the fastest way to go east wasn't through Tenochtitlan, but around it, passing south under the Itzapalapan causeway and swinging back in a north-easterly direction.

The rain fell steadily around us, but there was something different about it. Something distinctly hostile. In the semi-darkness of the true sight, I could see nothing, but the sense of disquiet increased. The oars splashed in the water, on the left side, then on the right – and back on the left, like a slower heartbeat.

I turned around, briefly, and saw the city, a mass of huddled houses enclosed by the rain. Light spilled from the Sacred Precinct, beacons in the growing darkness: the temples of Mictlantecuhtli; of Mixcoatl, God of the Hunt; of Tezcatlipoca, God of War and Fate. And towering over it all, the blazing radiance of the Great Temple.

Something about the last light was wrong. I watched it for a while, as Palli's rowing got us clear of the causeway. Something about the light, which kept flickering.

The light wasn't strong any more, but tinged with the green of algae. With every passing moment, the green grew stronger. And, crowding around the twin shrines atop the pyramid, were the halfdistinct shapes of Tlaloc's creatures, swimming through the air like some sick imitation of fishes, sinking into the stone of the stairs like transparent blood.

"It's fallen," I said, aloud.

"What's fallen?" Palli asked.

Ichtaca, whose forehead also bore the mark of the true sight, was watching the same direction. "Not yet," he said. "Huitzilpochtli is stronger than you give Him credit for."

"He's weak," I said, watching as the light flickered.

"So is Tlaloc's child, for now," Ichtaca replied. And, to his oarsman: "Faster."

Palli's gestures quickened, as if he'd been the one given the order.

Faster, faster, I thought, listening to the splashes of water on either side of me. In the darkness, all I could see were the beacons of the temples – and the creatures, slithering in and out of the Great Temple. Faster…

The Itzapalapan causeway faded behind the veil of rain; the creatures, too, until the whole world seemed to have turned to water. Around us was the vast expanse of Lake Texcoco, the shores so far we couldn't make them out in this stormy weather; above us, the rain-clouds unleashing their fury on us. Thunder rolled overhead, and lightning flashes tore the heavens: the Storm Lord's full anger, finally unleashed.

And ahead…

It should have been an artificial island isolated in the middle of the lake, with an altar where the Revered Speaker would sacrifice to Tlaloc.

But it wasn't, not any more. Or rather: the island was still there, surrounded by a group of boats I couldn't identify from this distance. But at its side was something that drew one's gaze.

The tree offered at the Great Vigil, sixteen months ago, had indeed rotted to nothing. But something had taken its place: an aftershadow of a trunk, a silhouette outlined by the lightning flashes, with half-transparent branches reaching up to join the black rainclouds with the surface of the lake. Magic pulsed from the roots and the branches, joining in the middle to form a tight knot of light.

Around the tree were more of the creatures, attached to the trunk like leeches, gorging on Tlaloc's bounty, growing fat with every passing moment.

I couldn't repress the shudder that ran through me, or the rising nausea that always came when I saw so many of those creatures.

Behind me, someone – Ichtaca? – let out a string of curses. A more sensible answer than mine, I guessed.

As we got closer, the situation became clearer: in the group of boats were two dozen priests dressed in the blue-and-black garb of the Storm Lord, their blackened faces filled with the light of magic. They watched us come without a word.

At the centre of the island, the altar to Tlaloc was overwhelmed with creatures. They passed through the stone as though through water, their clawed hands moving to and fro. They looked like brothers to the ahuizotls, with the malevolence but not the intelligence of Chalchiutlicue's beasts. They seemed to be guarding something. A young child, I suddenly realised. I caught a glimpse of a childhood lock, sweeping over a face the colour of cacao beans, and of wide eyes, as green as algae.

Mazatl. The god-child. And, by his side, lying in the mud, were two adult bodies. My heart sank. They had to be Mazatl's foster parents.

Below the altar were more of the creatures, gathering around two silhouettes, one of which stood knee-deep in the water, magic streaming out of him. Teomitl – and the ahuizotls, gathering around him, snapping at the creatures with their jaws, reaching out with their claws. And beside Teomitl…

Neutemoc, the wards of Huitzilpochtli shining weakly in the dim light of the true sight, hacking and slashing at the creatures, even though it seemed to make no difference.

Trust my brother to get into the heart of trouble. Although I couldn't see what else he could have done. I'd misjudged. Given the configuration of the place, there was no way to approach discreetly. I glanced again at the priests of Tlaloc. They had made no move, trusting the creatures to dispatch both Neutemoc and Teomitl. But now that we were approaching, they detached themselves from the island, aiming towards us with the sureness of cast spears.

"Faster," I whispered to Palli – and, to the boats behind me: "Prepare yourselves!"

Ixtli's boats swung around us, blocking the path between us and the priests of Tlaloc: an unequal fight, on an element belonging to the god Himself. Teomitl had His wife's protection, but no one else did.

There was no choice.

I laid my hand on the smallest of my obsidian knives, and felt the emptiness of Mictlan fill me, so strong I could have gagged. Chalchiutlicue's touch had definitely changed those knives, although I wasn't sure it was for the better.

Teomitl went down on one knee; and two more of the creatures leapt past him, towards Neutemoc.

Faster…