Harbinger of the Storm
ALIETTE DE BODARD
Harbinger of the Storm
OBSIDIAN AND BLOOD VOL. II
ONE
A Hole in the Fifth World
I felt it when it happened, even from where I was: sitting atop the platform of my pyramid temple, so high that the city below seemed a mere child’s toy.
It was as if the entire world were exhaling: a slow, ponderous shift that coursed through the streets and the canals of Tenochtitlan, through the closed marketplace and the houses of joy – extinguishing the glow of the torches in the water, muffling the voices of the singers and the poets in the banqueting halls, and darkening the moon in the sky.
The Revered Speaker Axayacatl-tzin – the protector of the Mexica Empire, the link between us and our patron god Huitzilpochtli, the Southern Hummingbird – was dead.
I looked up at the Heavens. The sky was clouded, but a faint scattering of stars shone through, already smeared against the dark background, their light growing stronger and stronger with every passing moment.
They were coming down; the star-demons, eager to walk the streets and marketplaces of the city, to rend our flesh into bloody ribbons, to open up our chests with a flick of their claws and pluck out our beating hearts. Huitzilpochtli’s divine power, channelled through the Revered Speaker, had kept them away from the Fifth World, the world of mortals.
But not anymore.
I took a deep breath to steady myself. It was not unexpected, by any means; but still… The boundaries between the worlds had become weak, effortlessly breached, and the work of summoners would be easy. Creatures would soon prowl the streets, hungering for human blood. Not a propitious time. We needed to brace for it; to be ready for the worst.
Footsteps echoed beside me: my Fire Priest, Ichtaca, second in command of my order. In one hand he carried a wooden cage with two white owls, their yellow eyes wide in the dim light. The other hand was tightly wrapped around the hilt of a sacrificial obsidian knife.
”Acatl-tzin,” Ichtaca said, curtly bowing his head. The “tzin” honorific was muted, added to my name almost as an afterthought. In that moment, that I was High Priest for the Dead and he my subordinate didn’t matter. We were both kindred spirits, both aware of the magnitude of the threat. Until a new Revered Speaker was invested, the whole of the Fifth World lay defenceless, as tantalising as feathers or jade to an indebted man.
I nodded. “I have to go to the palace.” I had a place in the funeral preparations, small and insignificant. My patron Mictlantecuhtli, Lord Death, was not the god most honoured in the Empire. But, nevertheless, I couldn’t afford to stay away at a time like this. “But let’s see about the wards first.”
Ichtaca didn’t move for a while. On his round face was something very close to fear; unnerving, for Ichtaca had faced down gods, goddesses and underworld creatures without ever losing his composure.
”Ichtaca?”
He shook himself like an otter just out of a stream. “Yes. Let’s do that.”
We descended the steps of the pyramid temple side by side. The temple complex lay below us, low, one-storey buildings fanning out around the central courtyard, shimmering with the remnants of magic. It was not an hour of devotion, and most of my priests were sleeping in their dormitories. Everything was eerily silent, the examination rooms deserted, the bells sewn into the embroidered entrance-curtains gently tinkling in the breeze.
The pyramid temple was in the centre of the courtyard. At the foot of the stairs leading down from it was a large stone circle, engraved with the insignia of Lord Death: a skull, a spider and an owl. Dried blood stained the grooves, remnants of the previous times the wards had been renewed.
Ichtaca and I each took an owl from the cage before moving to opposite ends of the circle, I at the foot of the stairs, Ichtaca facing the temple entrance.
At my belt hung my own obsidian knife, blessed with the magic of Lord Death. I slit the owl’s throat open, feeling its warm blood stain my hands. Then, with the ease of practise, I opened up the chest, and sought out the heart between the ribs, balancing it on the tip of the blade. The obsidian quivered, beating on the rhythm of coiled power. I laid the heart carefully on the boundary of the circle, and, with the blade dipped in blood, traced the contours of the circle with the knife. Blood pooled in the recesses of the carvings, shimmering like dust in sunlight.
Ichtaca started chanting.
“Above us, below us
The beautiful place, the home of our mother, our father the Sun
Above us, below us
The region of mystery, the place of the fleshless…”
It was nothing so spectacular as the aftermath of Axayacatltzin’s death. Rather, green light slowly suffused the circle, a faint, ethereal radiance that carried with it the dry smell of dead leaves, the crackling noise of funeral pyres, the rank taste of carrion… the breath of Mictlan, the underworld.
I slashed both my hands, let them hang over the skull, as if in blessing.
“Above us, below us
An order as solid as a rock
The mountain upheld, the valley held in Your hand
We, Your servants, Your humble slaves,
We give our blood, our precious water
For that which maintains life
For that which maintains the Fifth World…”
The light slowly spread, sinking into the earth and the frescoes of the buildings until nothing but wisps remained hovering above the circle. Overhead, the stars were fainter, an illusion afforded by the protection, for nothing but Huitzilpochtli’s power would banish the star-demons.
Ichtaca rose carefully, his silver lip-plug glistening in the moonlight. “It’s done. Hopefully they’ll last long enough.”
I tore my gaze from the sky, unable to dismiss the heaviness in my stomach. If experience had taught me anything, it was that whatever could go wrong usually did so. “Let’s hope they do. I’ll leave you to wake up the priests while I go to the palace. Can you spare me Palli? I’ll need an escort, if only to keep up appearances.”
Ichtaca grimaced. He was much fonder of forms than I was. “It goes without question. You will–”
”Change into full regalia. Yes.” I sighed. “Of course.”
”And the rest of the priests?” Ichtaca asked.
”You know it as well as I do,” I said, a recognition of competence, with no animosity. “Prepare the mourning garb and the chants.”
”I’ll see to it.” Ichtaca’s gaze was sharp again, his mind set on the tasks ahead.
Mine too, however, there was one significant difference. Ichtaca was looking forward to his work. I, on the other hand, had absolutely no wish to go into the palace – not late at night, not right after the emperor’s death, when the infighting would have started in earnest. A Revered Speaker’s successor was not determined by blood ties, but appointed by the council; and the council could be bribed, coerced or otherwise convinced to vote against the best interests of the Mexica Empire.
Not to mention, of course, the fact that more than half the people awaiting me at the palace despised or hated me, with the whole of their faces and of their hearts.
The Storm Lord strike me, it was going to be an exhausting night.
As I’d promised Ichtaca, I changed into full regalia before leaving. The owl-embroidered cloak and the skull-mask were definitely magnificent, calculated to impress even the most arrogant of noblemen, but it was a warm and sweltering night. I felt trapped in a portable steam bath, and it did not promise to get better any time soon.
Palli was already waiting for me in the courtyard, and he followed me in silence. It was scarcely a time for meaningless gossip. There was a hole in the universe around us, one that jarred with every heartbeat, every movement we made. Anyone with magical abilities could feel it.
Our temple, like all the major ones in Tenochtitlan, lay in the Sacred Precinct, a walled city within the city that made up the religious heart of the Mexica Empire. In spite of the late hour, most temples were lit. Most priests were awake making their usual devotions, though their blood penances and prayers had grown more urgent and desperate.
May the sun remain in the sky, may the stars not fall down into the
Fifth World…
The palace lay east of the Sacred Precinct; we went through the Serpent Wall to find ourselves dwarfed by its sandstone mass. Torches lit up the guards who let us pass with a deep bow.
Like our temple, the palace was a mass of buildings, except on quite a different scale. A maze of huge structures opening onto courtyards and gardens, including everything from tribunals to audience chambers, warrior councils and workshops for feather-workers and goldsmiths.
I made straight for the Imperial Chambers, which overlooked a wide courtyard paved with limestone. Normally, it would have been empty of all but the highest dignitaries; now noblemen and warriors crowded on the plaza, a sea of goldembroidered cotton, feather headdresses, jaguar pelts sewn into tunics, and the shimmering lattices of personal protective spells. But I barely had to push in order to make myself a passage. I might have been the least important of the High Priests, but I was still the representative of Lord Death in the Fifth World, wielder of magic beyond most people’s reach.
Steps rose from the courtyard towards a wide terrace with three doors closed with entrance-curtains. The middle one was the Revered Speaker’s reception room, the other two were rooms for the other rulers of the Triple Alliance when they visited the city. If they weren’t there already, they soon would be. They had a place in the funeral rites, but more importantly, they would vote along with the council to designate a new Revered Speaker.
Indistinct speech floated through the entrance-curtain of Axayacatl-tzin’s rooms. Two pairs of sandals confirmed I hadn’t been the first one to arrive. Who would be inside? In all likelihood, my adversaries, here to remind me of my small place in the scheme of things…
No point in worrying before the sword strike. I added my own sandals next to those already there.
”Wait here,” I told Palli.
I pulled aside the entrance-curtain in a tinkle of bells, and entered the inner chambers of the emperor.
I had never been there before. My work as High Priest had taken me as high as the audience chambers, but one had to be consort or wife to behold the Revered Speaker in his intimacy. But death took us all and made us all equal, our destinies determined only by the manner of its coming and, in its embrace, no privacy would remain.
It was a large, airy room, with a window at the back opening onto the gardens. There was little furniture, a handful of braziers, a few low chests, and a reed mat upon which lay the body. Frescoes wrapped around the columns of the room, representing animals from jaguars to the
ahuizotl
waterbeasts, all tearing apart small figures of men in a welter of blood.
