Obsidian & Blood

TWELVE

The Imperial Audience

I returned to my house, lay down on my reed-mat, and fell asleep almost immediately.

My sleep was short, and disturbed: in my dreams, I stood in the boat of reeds with deep cuts in my arms and chest. Behind me was the dark shape of the ahuizotl – and I rowed and rowed, despite the pain that every gesture aroused in me. I had only to reach the end of the canal; to reach the temple of Chalchiutlicue, where Huei was waiting for me, and everything would be made right.

But, no matter how hard I rowed, the boat never moved; and the yellow eyes of the ahuizotl broke the surface of the water; and it spoke, and its voice was that of the Wind of Knives.

There are higher powers, Acatl. Fool.

I woke up with a start. Outside, the sun had just reached its zenith. It hung, swollen, just over my courtyard. I felt as if I hadn't slept at all. Not the best state of mind to enter an Imperial Audience.

I covered myself in a clean cloak, trying to ignore the insistent pain from my wounds, and went into my courtyard. It was a modest affair, a patch of marigolds, a pine tree and a small, covered well: nothing like Xochiquetzal's house, or even Neutemoc's. I sat cross-legged in the dirt before the well, thinking of what Yaotl had told me.

No Imperial Audience. That must mean that the Revered Speaker must be hovering at Mictlan's gates. The political infighting would now start in earnest. That was my only chance: that the High Priest of Tlaloc would be too busy plotting against his peers to worry over much about Neutemoc's fate.

I doubted it would be that easy.

I went back to my temple. In the courtyard, two priests were busy sweeping the ground, preparing for the afternoon's offerings; a further group were in one of the worship-rooms, in vigil for a dead woman.

I went into the shrine, where I dressed in my full regalia: the ivory skull-mask askew on my forehead, and the cloak of rich cotton, embroidered with owls, carefully tied around my shoulders.

Then I went down again, and settled into one of the furthest rooms: the same one where I'd given life to the jade heart, an eternity ago. I sat on the ground with maguey paper spread across my knees, dangling Eleuia's blackened jade pendant in front of my face.

What did I have?

Evidence that underworld magic had been behind all of this, and that someone as yet unidentified had summoned the nahual magic to cover Huei's tracks.

Mihmatini's testimony, as well as those of the slaves, would establish that the Wind of Knives had come for Huei, marking her as the summoner of the beast. If I was lucky, Mihmatini would also have a description of the two men who had come to see Huei in the afternoon.

Best not to rely on luck. Seven Serpent hadn't seemed to be on my side lately.

"Acatl-tzin?" Ichtaca's voice asked.

Startled, I raised my eyes. Ichtaca was standing in the doorway, lit by the midday sun. "Yes?" I asked. "I'm busy."

His gaze held mine, inscrutable. "So I see."

As usual, he made me feel like a child caught sneaking out of the house. "Yes," I said, testily. "Now if you don't mind, I have an audience to prepare for."

I'd expected him to go away; but he didn't move. "The Imperial Audience?"

"How did you know?"

He shrugged. "Rumours. Your brother was under question yesterday and the day before."

"Yes," I said, irritated. "And I intend to make sure he doesn't endure another day of this." Although the High Priest would want to do the exact opposite.

Ichtaca shrugged again, but said nothing.

"Acatl-tzin?" the offering priest, Palli, asked from behind Ichtaca. "Your sister is here."

I got up, wrapping the string of Eleuia's jade pendant around my wrist, and went out, bypassing Ichtaca without a word.

In the courtyard, Mihmatini was waiting for me, along with the burly slave who had stood guard at the gate when I'd arrived last night.

"This is Quechomitl," Mihmatini said.

He and I looked at each other, warily. This time, I was welldressed. But from his stiff stance, Quechomitl hadn't forgotten the drunkard he'd almost thrown out on the previous evening.

"He saw the men you wanted," Mihmatini said. "But they covered their heads with the hood of their cloaks."

"Hooded cloaks?" I asked. Those were rare; but, as Mihmatini had said, it made sense that the men would cover their tracks. I asked Quechomitl, "What did they look like?"

Ichtaca was still in the courtyard, his rotund face thoughtful – battling with some decision, I could tell, but I didn't know which one.

The slave, Quechomitl, shrugged. "Men in their prime," he said. "Strong ones."

"You're sure they were men?" That eliminated Priestess Zollin, but not the Jaguar Knight, Mahuizoh.

Quechomitl nodded, obviously annoyed at my lack of trust. Well, it was mutual.

"There are complications," I said to Mihmatini, as we walked towards the temple exit, Ichtaca still trailing behind us. "The Emperor won't attend the audience."

"Then who will?"

"The High Priests," I said, grimly. "One of whom will be busy trying to condemn Neutemoc."

"Great," Mihmatini said. "Neutemoc always did have a talent for making enemies. So what do you plan on doing?"

"I think you're mistaken," a voice said, behind me. Ichtaca.

Surprised, I turned to face him. "What are you talking about?"

"The Imperial Audience," Ichtaca said, shaking his head. He was angry, I realised, though I didn't know why. "If the Emperor is unable to take his responsibilities, it's not the High Priests who will replace him."

"I was told–"

"Whoever told you was either lying or misinformed," Ichtaca said.

I didn't judge it pertinent to mention Yaotl's name. The two of them had long been locked in a battle of wills – possibly because Yaotl was a foreigner, and because Ichtaca was unwilling to admit that anything good could come from outside the Mexica Empire.

"Someone has to take charge of the hearings," I said.

Ichtaca nodded. "Someone will. The Master of the House of Darts, Tizoc-tzin."

The Revered Speaker's brother, and also the heir-apparent: the one who had the strongest chance of being elected to head the Mexica Empire, if the Revered Speaker died.

"Tizoc-tzin has his moods," Ichtaca went on. "But he doesn't like the clergy, and I don't think he'll want to favour any of the High Priests."

"How do you know?" I asked. I didn't want to point out the corollary to his portrayal of Tizoc-tzin: a man who didn't like the clergy would have no reason to favour any High Priest over any other – not even the High Priest for the Dead over the High Priest of Tlaloc. Our arguments would have to be very compelling.

Ichtaca smiled, grimly amused. "I attend court, most days."

"Why?"

"Because this temple couldn't survive without Imperial patronage."

The reproach in his tone was audible. "Because I don't attend, you mean?"

He shrugged. "Someone has to," he said. "If you won't, then I will."

But he was still reproaching me. "You're a better politician than me," I said, finally, knowing it was true. I couldn't manoeuvre through the maze of the Imperial Court. I neither had the capacities nor the heart to do so. If I did go to court, the Imperial patronage for our temple would soon wither. Ichtaca said nothing.

"We'll discuss this later," I said.

"As you wish." He bowed, though his anger was still palpable. "But I thought you might want the warning."

It was a welcome one, and I couldn't resent him for it, though I had the feeling some old grievance had just been laid out in the open. I would have to deal with Ichtaca at some point. "Yes," I said. "Thank you."

He bowed, low. "Pleased to have been of service."

"What was that all about?" Mihmatini asked, as we exited the temple.

"I don't know," I said, truthfully. "Come on. Let's go."

The crowd in the Sacred Precinct was dense: we had to fight our way past pilgrims and priests. The slave Quechomitl opened a path through the crowd for my sister with his arms, but let it close before I could follow. Clearly, he did not like me.

In the Imperial Palace, I headed straight for the military court, and asked for Magistrate Pinahui-tzin.

The clerk snorted in amusement. "He's taking a pause in the garden."

Pinahui-tzin was sitting in the garden of the military court, watching the water rise and fall out of a conch-shaped fountain. At the back of the garden was an aviary: huge wicker cages held parrots, eagles, and quetzal birds, their emerald feathers shimmering in the sunlight.

"Ah. The young priest," Pinahui-tzin said, when we arrived. "I was waiting for you." He rose, leaning on his cane, and turned to greet us.

"Those would be your witnesses?" he asked, looking at Mihmatini and Quechomitl.

I nodded. "I have evidence of someone else's guilt."

"Someone you should have arrested," Pinahui-tzin said.

Why was everybody reproaching me for the same reason? "I can't. She's given her life to the gods."

Pinahui-tzin made no commentary. "Let me hear the evidence," he said. "As quickly as you can. Your brother is already inside the Courts."

I had thought it might be the case: that High Priest Acamapichtli wouldn't want to wait to convict Neutemoc.

When I was finished, Pinahui-tzin pursed his lips. "Scant," he said. "Scant. But it will have to do, young man." He scrutinised me in silence. His eyebrows went up, in what I hoped was a show of appreciation. "Come."

The last time I'd tried to find the Imperial Audience, I had roamed the palace, asking the people I met the way. Pinahui-tzin, on the other hand, knew where he was going. His cane tapped regularly against the stone floor, as we walked through corridors filled with officials in feather regalia, towards the inside of the palace. Every courtyard we crossed was a marvel: ornate fountains, fabulous plants from cacao trees to vanilla orchids, and animals ranging from caged jaguars to the web-footed capybaras. All the wonders of the steamy south, enclosed in the sandstone mass of the palace like a stone set within an exquisite piece of jewellery.

Finally, we reached the gates of the Imperial Courts. No guards waited on either side of the entrance-curtain. But this was only the antechamber: the closed audiences would be taking place deeper within the Courts.

Inside was a wide, airy room, where clerks hurried from dais to dais, carrying piles of codices from magistrate to magistrate. One of the courts was hearing two prisoners, but the rest were still reviewing evidence: the magistrates on the dais thoughtfully tapping their writing-reeds against the papers they were holding, or making annotations in the margins.

Pinahui-tzin walked straight to the end of the room, where a curtain of turquoise cotton marked the start of the area reserved to the Emperor's close staff. The curtain was closed, and two guards stood on either side. But they let us through when Pinahui-tzin marched on them with his cane pointed like a sword at the level of the lead guard's chest. There was, nonetheless, a moment of hesitation on their part – and that was how I knew that Pinahui-tzin's influence stopped at getting us into the Imperial Audience.

Behind the curtain was a small antechamber where we divested ourselves of our sandals, for one went barefoot in the presence of the Revered Speaker, or of his substitute. A sizeable pile of sandals – mostly gilded, luxurious affairs – indicated we weren't the only ones to attend.

Then I pulled open the next turquoise curtain in a crystalline tinkle of bells, and we entered the heart of the Imperial Courts.

The room was much smaller than the first one, but it was crammed full of people. Underlying the hubbub were sounds from the Imperial Gardens, which lay on the far side: quetzal birds calling to each other, the grunt of capybaras digging into the earth. The air smelled of copal incense and honey.

In the centre of the room stood Neutemoc, his shoulders sagging, deep circles under his eyes. Two Imperial guards flanked him, though there was no need: he would never seek to escape.

On the dais facing him were three people, easily recognisable. On the left was the old High Priest of Huitzilpochtli, Ocelocueitl, wearing a luxurious feathered headdress, and with huge plumes hanging from his belt, spreading like the wings of a hummingbird. On the right, Acamapichtli, High Priest of Tlaloc, with a crown of heron feathers, the area around his eyes blackened to give an unsettling impression. And, in the centre, sat Tizoc-tzin, Master of the House of Darts, brother of Revered Speaker Axayacatl-tzin: a man in his mid-twenties, dressed soberly in a tunic of deep blue, and with a look of utter boredom on his sallow face.

The rest of the crowd, standing on the edges of the room, was mostly noblemen, no doubt of the Revered Speaker's close family: a dazzling array of vibrantly-coloured cloaks, and of painted faces under feather-headdresses, saturated with the magic of protective spells.

Tizoc-tzin's gaze turned to me as I entered, his face lighting up at the prospect of a distraction, in a way that was hauntingly familiar. His gaze moved from Pinahui-tzin to me. "Well, well," he said, in the sudden silence. "You bring exalted company, Pinahui. Our High Priest for the Dead, no less."

I walked to the centre of the room, close enough that I could have touched the first of Neutemoc's guards. Ignoring the shocked look that spread on my brother's face, I bowed low. "Your Excellency."

Tizoc-tzin made a dismissive gesture. "Let's not stand on ceremony. I have not yet had the pleasure of your presence at court."

I said, carefully. "My Fire Priest represents me at the Imperial Court. I am confident that he can speak in my name and in the best interest of my order."

I felt, suddenly, as if I stood on the edge of a chasm – a coldness creeping into my back worse than what I felt when summoning the Wind of Knives. With a word, Tizoc-tzin could send me to the farthest edges of the Mexica Empire, or elevate me to the highest echelons. He could topple our temple, or make it immensely rich.

"What an event, then, to see you here." Tizoc-tzin's voice was still bored, but I wasn't fooled: he was toying with me, relieving his annoyance at being stuck between the two High Priests. "To what do we owe this visit?"

Acamapichtli was the one who spoke, in a low, angry voice. "My Lord, he's come to defend his brother the traitor."

Neutemoc shook his head, but didn't audibly protest. He looked barely able to stand, let alone mount a coherent defence.

Anger flared within me, a sharp feeling that cut off my breath for a moment. Neutemoc and I might not be speaking to each other, but The Duality curse me if I let a worthless priest condemn him on false grounds. "Your Excellency," I said. "I was in charge of the investigation."

Acamapichtli shifted on his dais. "No longer." His voice was malicious.

I snapped, "No one relieved me of my functions. And a good thing, too. Otherwise we'd still have a beast of shadows loose in Tenochtitlan."

That got Tizoc-tzin's attention. "A beast of Mictlan?"

"Yes."

"I was given to understand this man's nahual had abducted Priestess Eleuia."

I shook my head, and gestured at Mihmatini. "It was a beast of shadows. And I can prove that Neutemoc did not summon it."

"Lies," Acamapichtli hissed.

Tizoc-tzin's gaze moved from him to me, and then to the old priest of Huitzilpochtli, who was blinking, still trying to understand what was going on. "We'll listen, priest," he said, and the hostile accent on the word "priest" was unmistakable. Why did Tizoc-tzin hate the clergy so much?

I held out the jade pendant. "This belonged to Priestess Eleuia."

Tizoc-tzin reached out, cradled it in the palm of his hand. "Jade," he said. "Blackened by Mictlan's touch."

He surprised me. With his apparent hatred of priests, I had assumed he'd know little about magic. Clearly, he'd taken care to inform himself on his enemies.

"Yes," I said. "By a beast of shadows. I tracked it to one of Moyotlan's Floating Gardens, and killed it."

Ocelocueitl spoke up. "A good thing. Mictlan's intrusions are always dangerous."

"Yes," Tizoc-tzin said, a tad impatiently. "I assume your wounds date from this point."

"Not entirely," I confessed. I feared Neutemoc's reaction, but it was necessary if I wanted to set him free. "I accessed the beast's memories, and found out the identity of its summoner."

For the first time, High Priest Acamapichtli looked uncertain. His gaze searched Neutemoc's face, trying to see a sorcerer in my brother's wan features. "Well?" Acamapichtli barked. "Out with it! Who harmed Priestess Eleuia?"

They all spoke of her, I noticed, as if she were already dead.

"Neutemoc had nothing to do with this," I said, carefully. "The culprit…" I closed my eyes. Neutemoc was going to kill me. "The culprit was his wife, Huei."

In the shocked silence that filled the room, Mihmatini's voice resonated like a trumpet calling the warriors to battle. "I will bear witness to that. The slaves and I saw the Wind of Knives come to kill Huei for her transgression."

Neutemoc's face had turned the colour of muddy milk. A hiss came from his mouth: my name, repeated over and over. "Acatl… Acatl…" His hands clenched and unclenched, as if to squeeze my heart into nothingness. "Acatl…"

"I see," Tizoc-tzin said. His gaze was on Neutemoc, lightly interested, like a man watching dissected insects writhe. "I see."

"He lies," Acamapichtli whispered. "He wants to save his brother, whatever the cost."

Tizoc-tzin's lips compressed into a thin line. "Be silent," he said to Acamapichtli, who immediately stopped speaking. "You lied to me. You spoke of nahual magic. You said this man's culpability was beyond doubt."

"There was nahual magic," Acamapichtli said, softly. His eyes shone with hatred, most of it directed at me. "He brings no solid evidence, my Lord. The testimony of his own sister and of her slaves. A jade pendant that might not even be Eleuia's – some leftover from his temple, maybe."

Mihmatini's face had whitened. I could tell she ached to fling an accusation into Acamapichtli's face. I laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezed hard. "Don't," I whispered. Acamapichtli would destroy her, as casually as he was destroying Neutemoc.

Acamapichtli was still going on. "He spins a fanciful tale of Mictlan's beasts, but he's a skilful man. As for his wounds… there are many ways to wound oneself."

Watching him, I remembered why I hated high-ranking priests: the perfidious insinuations, the sly smile on their faces as they attempted to lead you astray. Acamapichtli would do anything to enforce his power, even flout justice.

I laid a hand on one of my obsidian knives, felt the power of Mictlan pulse deep within the blade. The emptiness that filled me took away my fear; took away everything but my anger. "Go to Moyotlan, to the Floating Gardens," I said, softly, "and see the three peasants with their hearts missing. Ask them if the beast was real."

Acamapichtli wasn't about to give up so easily. "Words," he said. "Easy, cheap things, Acatl."

"No more than those you used to convict my brother," I snapped. "Do you want evidence? I can summon the Wind of Knives here, in this chamber, to give it to you. Will you accuse Him of being my accomplice?"

"You won't frighten me," Acamapichtli said, his face white with anger.

"Enough," Tizoc-tzin said. He was lounging on the dais, rubbing his fingers on Eleuia's jade pendant, an amused smile on his face. "It's unseemly for priests to argue."

An easy accusation: priests were supposed to be dignified at all times – a feat neither of us had mastered.

"You will go to be examined by a priest of Patecatl," Tizoc-tzin said. "He will ascertain the nature of your wounds. And we'll arrest the real summoner."

"Huei wasn't the only one involved," I said. "She only executed orders. Someone else gave her the knowledge, and that someone else is now holding Priestess Eleuia."

Tizoc-tzin did not move. "Who?"

"I do not know," I said, cautiously. Neutemoc's face had turned whiter.

"We'll interrogate the woman, Huei, and find out."

"I'm afraid," I said, carefully stepping away from Neutemoc, "that this isn't going to be possible."

Tizoc-tzin's face darkened. "You're telling me what I can or cannot do?"

I mentally reviewed several ways of speaking the next sentence. But I could find none that would spare me Neutemoc's anger. "She gave herself up as a sacrifice to Chalchiutlicue."

Tizoc-tzin said nothing. His anger at being thwarted by the gods was palpable. But not so palpable as Neutemoc's towards me.

"You let her?" Neutemoc growled. "Acatl? You let her do – this folly?"

Although it cost me much, I refrained from pointing out that Huei's little games had almost ended his life.

Tizoc-tzin watched us, again with that lightly interested expression, as if we were a spectacle to be enjoyed. "I see," he said, finally. "How convenient for her. Acamapichtli!"

"Yes, my lord?" the High Priest of Tlaloc asked with false meekness.

"Chalchiutlicue is your god's wife, isn't She? I'm sure you can arrange matters."

Acamapichtli shook his head with malicious glee. "Alas," he said, "the Storm Lord and His wife are separate. I have no influence over Her."

Tizoc-tzin snorted, sceptically. "Attempt something, will you?" He turned to me. "I will await the results of your examination before I rule on this case."

I bowed, inwardly relieved that Neutemoc would have some time to calm down before we met again.

• • • •

It took time, more time than I had thought. After the priest of Patecatl was done with me, we had to wait until Tizoc-tzin's men came back with the bodies of the three dead peasants. Then the priest had to make a long, convoluted report to Tizoc-tzin.

Finally, after the priest was done, Tizoc-tzin pronounced himself satisfied. "Your story is consistent," he admitted. "But still no trace of the priestess."

Acamapichtli threw me a murderous glance from the dais. "No, my lord," he said.

Tizoc-tzin waved a jewelled hand. "Free the Jaguar Knight. The charges against him are obviously unsubstantiated."

If looks could kill, Acamapichtli's gaze would have already sent me into Mictlan. But it didn't matter. Neutemoc was free; his life was no longer in danger.

Unaware of this – or perhaps very much aware, and deriving secret amusement from it – Tizoc-tzin said to me, "The investigation will continue. Make sure you find her." It was half an order, half a threat. All I could do was bow down before him.

"Yes, my lord," I said. I took my leave, pausing on my way out of the palace to thank Pinahui-tzin for his help.

The old magistrate smiled, a wholly unexpected expression that seemed to light up his face. "Never could stand that arrogant priest," he said. "Good for you, knocking him down a peg, young man."

Neutemoc didn't say a word as we exited the Imperial Palace. He kept Mihmatini between himself and me – whether consciously or not, I couldn't say. I didn't complain in any case. His clenched hands and white face were ample testimony to how much restraint he was currently exercising.

We walked back towards the Atempan calpulli and Neutemoc's house in silence. It was late afternoon, but the air was still stiflingly hot: most people were inside, sheltering from the heat. The streets were deserted, and only a few boats bypassed us on the canals.

Neutemoc walked bent, with slow steps, like an old man – so unlike the Jaguar Knight who had been my parents' pride that something fluttered in my chest.

When we were within two or three streets of Neutemoc's house, I felt the air turn to tar.

What? I span, my good hand on my obsidian knife. Neutemoc had felt it, too. His head snapped up and his muscles tightened. So it wasn't an illusion, or something I'd imagined.

The street was utterly empty, or had become so in the past few minutes. So were the canals. But the air pulsed with magic: a rhythm that was the rush of blood in my heart, the air exhaled from my lungs.

Something moved, at the corner of my eye, shimmering over the water of the canal. I couldn't get a hold of it no matter how I cocked my head.

But Neutemoc grunted and fell, a fresh wound blossoming on his thigh.

The slave Quechomitl rushed to guard his master, and whatever had felled Neutemoc also wounded him: marks appeared on Quechomitl's chest out of thin air, as if claws were being drawn across his skin.

Mihmatini screamed for help, but soon fell silent. It was quite obvious that no help would be coming. But what in the Fifth World was attacking us?

I closed my eyes, extending my priest-senses, and saw them, quivering at the edge of my vision: three shapeless beings with clawed hands, cackling as they crowded around Neutemoc. Their bodies were completely transparent, and only the glint of sunlight as they moved had betrayed them.

Keeping my eyes closed, I unsheathed one of my obsidian knives and, still one-handed, threw it. A good thing that my right hand wasn't the one in the sling.

The blade flew towards the nearest assailant but, somehow, the thing wasn't there when the knife struck. It cackled contemptuously, a sound like hundreds of insects skittering on a stone floor, and went again towards Neutemoc.

The Duality curse them and all their kind!

Mihmatini was kneeling on the ground, drawing a circle in the dirt with the knife in her belt. She was chanting as she did so. I couldn't make out all the words, but it sounded like a hymn to Huitzilpochtli, the Southern Hummingbird, in His incarnation as the Sun – a request for divine protection.

So far, Quechomitl was acting as a shield for Neutemoc. But Quechomitl was bleeding from a dozen wounds, and I didn't know how long he could hold on.

I withheld a curse and, drawing a new knife from my belt, slashed at what I could see of the creatures.

It was utterly ineffective. I could make them out, but not always. In the intervals when I couldn't see them, they would just shift out of the path of my blade, and I sliced only through air. It did not deter the creatures, which continued to converge on Quechomitl.

Quechomitl's face was growing paler and paler, and his grip on Neutemoc was slackening as his blood dripped onto the ground. His blood. Living blood: a powerful source of magic. Fool that I was!

I ran towards Neutemoc, snatching up my fallen obsidian knife as I did. Then I knelt by Quechomitl, closing my eyes again. The creatures were still crowding around him, trying to get past him – mindless, obsessed only by the idea of reaching Neutemoc. They paid little heed to me.

What in the Fifth World had my brother got himself into?

Mihmatini was opening her veins now, and pouring her blood on the ground. I dipped my hands in Quechomitl's blood and drew a sign on my forehead, calling on Quetzalcoatl, God of Creation and Knowledge, to grant me true sight.

"Yours is the knowledge of the priests,

Yours is the knowledge of the stars wheeling in the sky

You find the precious jade, the precious feathers…"

Fresh wounds opened on Quechomitl's arm, leaking blood in inexorable rivulets. The slave's face was pale, contorted in pain. I hurriedly finished my hymn.

"You find the hidden things, the secret treasures

Grant us Your sight, the sight of the gods."

The blood on my forehead went blazing hot, searing a mark into my skin.

A veil descended before my eyes, until the whole street went dark, the houses and the canals receding into faint shadows. Only the pulsing shape of Mihmatini's pattern retained some substance – that and the three creatures, hissing angrily at me.

With my eyes open, I reached towards the nearest one, letting the emptiness of Mictlan fill me, and sank the obsidian knife into it, where the heart would have been. This time, the blade went all the way in.

The creature hissed like a scalded jaguar and withdrew, but only a few hand spans. Numbness spread from the point of contact, up the hilt and through the obsidian blade – and into my hand, freezing my fingers into insensitivity.

Quechomitl grunted as three fresh wounds opened on his chest. His hand went slack and he started slowly, inexorably, to slide towards the ground.

The two others were already gathering around Neutemoc, in a frenzy to feed upon him. At Neutemoc's feet, his slave lay quietly emptily himself of the blood in his veins, his eyes already glazed, staring at nothing in the Fifth World.

With my awkward, frozen hand, I hefted my knife, trying to see where the creatures were coming from: if there was some thread of power I could follow to a summoner.

There was nothing.

Just a dying slave, and three creatures, gathering to feed on my brother.

Mihmatini. My sister's chanting reached a harsh, sibilant climax; her blood hissed as it filled the circle.

Light blazed, across the street, strong enough to dispel even my true sight. It spread in radiant wave after radiant wave, covering us, bathing us in warmth, growing in intensity with every passing moment. It was as if some covering of ice had slowly started to melt: as feeling returned to my injured hand, the creatures slowly melted away, with a disappointed hiss.

The light settled around Neutemoc and Quechomitl, seeping through every pore of their skin until they seemed to be made of it. It sank into me, too, hissing as it did so, leaving an itch against my hips when it encountered the knives in my belt, the magic of Huitzilpochtli conflicting with that of Mictlan.

I knelt, awkwardly, by Quechomitl's side. No more blood flowed from his wounds. When I groped, with a shaking hand, for the voice of his heart, nothing would beat under my fingers.

No. My fingers tightened on Quechomitl's skin, but there was no heartbeat. There would never be any heartbeat: never again, in the Fifth World or in the Heavens.

Mihmatini was helping a stunned Neutemoc rise. My brother was shaking, though I couldn't tell if it was from the wounds or from the sheer shock of the attack. I remained kneeling by Quechomitl's body, trying to understand how we had come here – how, on what should have been a simple journey back to Neutemoc's house, a man lay dead under my fingers, and for no reason at all.

I reached out, to close his eyes, but my hands shook so badly I couldn't. It took me three tries before the glazed gaze was hidden beneath his swollen eyelids.

Words came to me: the ones I said, over and over, for strangers. The only words I had:

"You leave behind your fine poems

You leave behind your beautiful flowers

And the earth that was only lent to you

You ascend into the Light, O Quechomitl,

You leave behind the flowers and the singing and the earth

Safe journey, O friend."

I thought of his soul, climbing towards the Heavens to meet the Sun-God – for he had died in battle like a true warrior, and the oblivion of Mictlan wouldn't be his lot. I thought of his soul, shedding the body like a worn-out shell, and I wondered what he had died for.