Obsidian & Blood (46 page)

  Teomitl laid his hands on Neutemoc's chest again, pushed down, hard. Light blazed from his fingers, wrapped itself around my brother's body: a green luminescence much like the reflections of light on jade, which uneasily called to mind the depths of Tlalocan, and the memory of the pulsing roots, and of Father, laid out among them like a living offering.

  I heard Chalchiutlicue laugh, in my mind.
Priest
, She whispered, and suddenly She stood behind Teomitl, Her hands outstretched to cover his head, a mocking parody of the Storm Lord's position at Popoxatl's side.

  You used Teomitl. But then we'd all used each other.

  "He's in My land," the Jade Skirt whispered, and Her voice was the lament of the wind over the stormy lake. "But not so far gone. I can give him back to you."
  "I'll pay the price," I whispered, again.

  She laughed. "Such impatience. You owe Me a favour, priest. One day, I'll come and claim it from you."

  And then She was gone, and Teomitl's magic had sunk down to nothing again. And Neutemoc was coughing up stale water, struggling to rise. I'd never thought I'd be so happy to see him moving. 

  "Acatl?" Neutemoc asked, his voice rasping in his throat.

  I took his hand, pulled him to a sitting position. "Welcome back." 

  Neutemoc grimaced. "So is the Fifth World over?" He stared at the sky, and at the gathered priests. On the lake, a flotilla of boats was making its way towards us. In the prow of the first one was the familiar figure of Ceyaxochitl. "I guess not." 

  "No," I said.

  Neutemoc closed his eyes. "I remember Father…"

  I waited for him to remember the rest, how I'd almost let go of him in my selfish urge to judge him. But at length he said, "I guess I owe you."

  I shrugged. "Nothing much." Chalchiutlicue would claim Her debt, but there was nothing I could do about that.

  Neutemoc sat in the mud, watching the lake. I made my way towards the altar, and found Ezamahual tending to Palli. "How is he?" I asked.

  "Nothing serious," Ezamahual said. "He hit his head when the boat capsized. He'll survive."

  "And the others?" I asked, slowly, already knowing the answer.
  Ezamahual's gaze was distant. "Two novice priests are dead. And some of them won't live out the night."
  "I see."

  "They gave their lives for the Fifth World," Ezamahual said, his voice toneless, as if reciting something learnt by rote. "It's our only destiny."

  It was. But it didn't mean we wouldn't mourn them. Like Quechomitl, like Commander Quiya-huayo, they would ascend into the Heaven of the Sun, to find their afterlife far more pleasant than the toil of this world. But we would still miss them.

  I, more than anyone: for I had used them, barely knowing them. I knelt, slowly, by the altar and Ixtli's body, and whispered the first words of a prayer for the Dead:

 

 

  When the flotilla of boats reached the island, Ceyaxochitl was the first on the ground. Accompanied by Yaotl, she made her way towards me with her usual energy, and a frown on her face which told me I would have a number of explanations to give her.

  "I see you're alive," Ceyaxochitl said, with a snort. Her eyes took in my priests, slumped on the ground; Ichtaca, who still hadn't opened his eyes; Neutemoc, sitting cross-legged in the mud; and Teomitl, standing by my brother's side, oozing Chalchiutlicue's magic. "And I see you've had some interesting adventures." 

  "I'll–"

  She raised an unsteady hand. Suddenly, I saw how tired she looked; how pale was her face, and how she'd wrapped her left hand tightly around her cane's pommel, to prevent it from shaking. Tending to the Emperor had taken a heavy toll on her.

  "We'll get you back," Yaotl said. His face in the dim light was expressionless. "We can see about the rest later."

 

We had to leave most of the bodies in the water. The ahuizotls were feeding, and not even Teomitl's commands could make them abandon their grisly meals. Out of about thirty dead on our side, and the priests of Tlaloc on the other, we'd retrieved only four: two of my novice priests, one Duality warrior, and Ixtli.

  On the way back, I found myself riding in the same boat as Neutemoc, watching the water part around the prow.

  My brother was silent, as he had been on our journey to Amecameca. But this time the silence wasn't filled with pent-up aggressiveness, or things we'd failed to say to each other. 

  "You'll be fine?" I asked.

  He said nothing. He watched the water, moodily. "I don't know." 

  "You can't go back," I said, finally.

  "No," Neutemoc said. "You never can. But you can always dream of what could have been."

  "And destroy your life?" I asked, more vehemently than I'd meant to. "Sorry."

  Neutemoc shook his head. He dipped his hand in the water, watching the droplets part on his skin. "It doesn't matter," he said. He sighed. "Huei–"

  "There's no need to talk about her," I said, more embarrassed than I'd thought.

  Neutemoc didn't speak. "She told me to forget her," he said. "To find myself another wife, to raise the children."

  "She told you that?" There would be no divorce, but nothing prevented him from taking on a second wife. He'd be more than able to support her.

  "In the temple," Neutemoc said. "I don't know what I'll do."

  My chest contracted. "You don't have to decide right now."

  "No," Neutemoc said. "I guess not. What will you do?"

  "I don't know," I said, truthfully. There would be accounts to make to Ceyaxochitl – vigils for Ixtli and the dead priests – and life would, I guessed, go on much as it had always done.

  Neutemoc snorted. "A fine pair we make." His face closed again. "So you killed the child?"

  "Yes," I said, curtly. And Eleuia, too; and perhaps Father. I wasn't sure.

  "Going down alone into Tlalocan… You'd have made a good warrior, you know." 

  I shrugged. "Some things aren't made to be."

  "Perhaps not," Neutemoc said at last. "But you'd still have made it, if you'd wished to."

  "I didn't," I said, finally, and it was the truth, the only reason I'd chosen that path on exiting the calmecac.

 

We passed through the streets of the Moyotlan district, and saw everywhere the ravages of the flood: the canals which had overflowed, bringing water into the courtyards of the grand houses, knocking down the wattle-and-daub walls of the humbler ones. In the water were wicker chests, reed mats, codices – and the bodies of those caught by the flood, facedown in the canals, as unmoving and as unbreathing as Ixtli's warriors.

  People were out in the streets, salvaging what they could from the retreating water. I saw a woman carrying a very young child around her shoulders, trying to recover a rag doll, and my heart tightened.

  Ceyaxochitl's flotilla moored on the quays at the foot of the Sacred Precinct. Her warriors helped lift the dead and the wounded out of the boats.

  "I guess I'll be going back to my household," Neutemoc said. He grimaced. "Mihmatini is going to flay me alive."

  I could imagine what words Mihmatini would have for us. "Tell her you've almost died. That helps."

  "It never does," Neutemoc said, with a quick, amused smile. He walked a few steps away from me. "You're not coming?" 

  I blinked, genuinely surprised. "No," I said. "My place is in my temple."

  Neutemoc said nothing. His face had gone as brittle as clay.

  "Come to my house when you want, Acatl. I…" He struggled with the words. "It will be less lonely with you around."

  My heart contracted to an impossible knot of pain; and the only words I could find seemed to come from a distant place. "Yes," I said. "When my affairs are in order. Thank you."

  I watched Neutemoc walk away in silence. Next to the last of the boats, Teomitl was talking with Ceyaxochitl, punctuating his narrative with stabbing gestures. Giving a detailed account of what we'd done, I guessed.

  They were both walking towards the palace. The palace, where Tizoc-tzin and Axayacatl-tzin would be waiting for their wayward brother: a brother who would one day, the Duality be willing, take his place as Revered Speaker for the Mexica Empire. 

  My work was done.

  I turned away from them, leaving them to their conversation, and followed the warriors with the corpses, back into the safety of my temple.

 

As I'd foreseen, many things needed to be organised. Under my direction, the dead priests and Ixtli were laid in empty rooms, where the survivors could start the preparations for the vigils. The wounded were laid out in the infirmary, along with Ichtaca, though he seemed to suffer from nothing more than extreme exhaustion. 

  Once, I would have conducted the vigils. But instead, I made sure that everything was ready; then I retreated to the top of the pyramid shrine, where I browsed through the records of the temple, reading all I could about the dead novice priests.

  Cualli of the Atempan calpulli, son of Coyotl and Necahual, born on the day Three Eagle of the year Five Rabbit… Ihuicatl of the Coatlan calpulli, son of Tezcacoatl and Malinalxochitl, born on the day Thirteen Crocodile of the year Six Reed… They had died for the continuation of the Fifth World; for what they'd always been pledged to. They were with the Sun.

  But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. I bore the responsibility for their deaths, and I would make sure that they had not died in vain. I would make sure Ixtli had not died in vain. 

  "I thought I'd find you here," a voice said.

  Startled, I looked up, expecting Ichtaca. But it was Teomitl: still wearing his mud-stained clothes, still pale and exhausted. 

  "I thought you'd be at the palace," I said.

  Teomitl shrugged. "Perhaps later. They'll be busy, in any case."
  "They'll need you."
  His eyebrows rose. "How about you?"

  I made a short, stabbing gesture. "Me? I don't think so." 

  "You saved the Fifth World," Teomitl said.

  "And I should expect some recognition?" I asked, more scathingly than I'd intended. "I don't think I'd accept it." 

  Teomitl laughed. "You haven't changed so much, have you? Still loathing politics."

  I'd have to enter that arena, sooner or later. I'd have to second Ichtaca in the running of the temple, to take my true place as High Priest. But there were limits. "Why are you here?" I asked. 

  Teomitl said nothing. He walked towards the altar under the impassive gaze of Lord Death. "I have proved myself." 

  "You should be glad," I said.

  He spread his hands, an unreadable expression on his face. "Perhaps. But it shouldn't end here. If I want to take my place."
  His gestures were quiet, measured: the mark of an adult.
  "Go," I said, gently. "Claim your place."
  Teomitl shook his head. "Not without you."
  "My place is here."
  "I know," Teomitl snapped; and for a moment I saw again the impatient youth who had first come to me in my temple. "But I still need you."
  "What for?"

  He laughed, bitterly. "Do you think me wise, Acatl-tzin? Do you think me mature enough to handle the Jade Skirt's gift of Her magic?" 

  Startled, I said, "There will be plenty of priests willing to–"

  "Flatter me for their own gain!" Teomitl snapped. "I came for you."
  Unable to see where I stood, I flung his words back at him. "Do you think me wise? There's little I can teach you."
  "You know about magic."
  "A little," I admitted, cautiously.
  "Enough for me, then."

  I could probably teach him to control Chalchiutlicue's magic – and to have enough patience – but… "Is this what you want?" 

  "Don't be a fool," Teomitl said. "Do you think I came this way for nothing?"

  In many ways, I realised, he hadn't changed: still impatient, abrasive, arrogant. But still quick to lend his heart, and to expect trust in return.

  Since Payaxin, I had not taken on an apprentice, even less one of Imperial Blood. "I…" I started, and realised I had been running away from this possibility for so long I couldn't even envision it. "You'll have to show me some respect," I said, finally.

  Teomitl's smile was like a sun rising. "I'll work on it. Besides, I have to get your consent for courting your sister, haven't I?" 

  I made a mock-frown, hiding the mixture of unease and pleasure his request gave me. "We'll see about that, young man. When this night is over."

 

I stood on the platform of the shrine, and watched the light finally fade behind the rain-clouds.

  Below me, Teomitl was descending the stairs. "Come on, Acatltzin," he called. "The vigils have already started."

  From behind him came the mournful sounds of the deathhymns, and the reedy music of conch-shells, signalling the first Hour of the night: that of Xiuhtecuhtli, the Fire-God.

  I sighed and gathered my grey cloak around me, before following Teomitl down the stairs in the growing darkness.

  Above us, the clouds had broken a little, leaving just enough space for the light of one star to fall upon my temple. It was the most beautiful sight I had seen in a long time. 

  "Come on, Acatl-tzin!"

  I was a priest of Mictlantecuhtli. I would neither have children, nor know the glory of warriors.

  But this – the vigils and the conch-shells, and the setting sun that would rise again, and Teomitl, waiting for me on the steps with unbounded impatience–
  This was my place, and my legacy.