Serpent and Storm (30 page)

Lily-on-the-Water swept out of the tent and her acolytes followed her, leaving Sky Knife alone and shivering in the brightly lit tent.

30

Sky Knife woke to Talking Storm's face. The other priest's face was framed by a tasseled headdress. The tassles hung from an elaborate wooden frame and dangled down, barely brushing against Sky Knife's chest.

“Come on, Sky Knife,” said Talking Storm. He patted Sky Knife on the shoulder. “Dawn will be in about an hour. Grasping Fire has had the troops made ready. Everyone else has been up for hours.”

Sky Knife sat up slowly. He ached all over and a headache pounded in his head just behind his eyes.

“We let you sleep because you've been through so much the past two days,” said Talking Storm. “But we need you up now. So come on.”

Sky Knife clambered to his feet and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Here,” said Talking Storm. He handed Sky Knife a tortoise-shell comb. The comb was coated with grease. Sky Knife ran the comb through his hair. The grease kept it back out of his eyes and helped it lie down flat against his skull.

Talking Storm nodded. “It'll do for now.” He turned and left the tent.

Sky Knife stood a moment wondering what to do with the comb. He dropped it onto the blanket he had slept under and followed Talking Storm.

Sky Knife was glad of the thick cotton tunic he wore. The bite of the cold air would have been quite uncomfortable if he were wearing just a skirt as he usually did at home. Even with the tunic, the cold pressed against him, invading his nose and making his teeth ache.

A strange white mist lay on the ground. Sky Knife stopped, startled. The mist didn't move. It was as if the sky had shed a white cloud onto the ground as a dying tree might shed its leaves.

Sky Knife glanced into the sky, suddenly worried. But the stars shone down as brilliantly as ever. No clouds obscured the heavens.

“Sky Knife?” Talking Storm walked back to him. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” said Sky Knife. “I just noticed the ground.” He knelt and touched the white stuff.

“It's just
frost,
” said Talking Storm. “You haven't seen it before?”

“No,” said Sky Knife. “It's normal here?”

“Of course,” said Talking Storm.

The frost was even colder than the air. When Sky Knife drew his fingers back, they came away wet.

“It's very cold water, like snow,” said Talking Storm. He hesitated. “Do you understand
snow?
”

“Amaranth explained it to me once,” said Sky Knife. He stood. “I'm sorry to delay. I was worried that it might be a spell or back luck sent to us by our enemies.”

“No fear of that,” said Talking Storm. “Come along.”

Sky Knife followed Talking Storm back to the tent where he had attended Grasping Fire's meeting the night before. The warriors outside bowed to both him and Talking Storm as they entered the tent.

Grasping Fire and the Corn Priest were inside. Grasping Fire smiled when he saw Sky Knife.

“I'm glad to see you, Sky Knife,” he said. “I hope the Water Ceremony went well and the Masked One's blessing is ours.”

Sky Knife stopped, confused. Surely Lily-on-the-Water had told Grasping Fire what happened. “I can't speak for the Masked One,” he said. “But I don't think the ceremony went the way Lily-on-the-Water intended.”

Grasping Fire's smile faltered. “Well,” he said. “Well. I wonder why Lily-on-the-Water didn't say any of that earlier.”

“What did she say?” asked Sky Knife.

Grasping Fire shrugged. “Only that the Masked One was our Mother and our Mother would never desert us in our hour of need. I assumed that meant the ceremony was a success.”

“Sounds more like she has no idea what's on the Masked One's mind,” said Talking Storm.

“No less, I hope, than Dark Lightning knows,” said Grasping Fire. “We begin the battle in an hour.”

Grasping Fire gestured toward a makeshift wooden table laden with trays of fruit, meat, and tamales. “Eat something, Sky Knife,” he said. “You might not have another chance until everything's over.”

Sky Knife nodded and went to the table. Talking Storm and Grasping Fire retreated to the opposite side of the tent to communicate in hushed whispers. The Corn Priest stood awkward and alone in the center of the tent.

Sky Knife filled a tamale with meat and rolled it up. He went to the Corn Priest. “Can I talk to you?” he asked.

The Corn Priest narrowed his eyes and stared down at Sky Knife for several seconds. “I suppose,” he said at last. “What is it?”

“Last night at the Water Ceremony, Lily-on-the-Water made mention of creating a new Corn Priest. Are all Corn Priests conceived in the Water Ceremony?”

The Corn Priest sighed. “Yes,” he said. “We are all sons of the Water Ceremony. But there are other reasons to have a Water Ceremony, other ways for it to go. A child is conceived at each ceremony, but for different reasons.”

“You are all sons of the Water Ceremony?” repeated Sky Knife. “Are there other Corn Priests here I haven't met yet?”

The other man shook his head. “No. At present, I am the only one. There were two others, but they died of a sickness several years ago, the same sickness that took my own wife and children. Lily-on-the-Water has not made any more Corn Priests since—until last night.”

“Last night … was not a success,” said Sky Knife. “There will be no Corn Priest from that ceremony.”

The Corn Priest's eyes flew open. “What?” he asked. “Then we have earned the Masked One's ire.” The Corn Priest frowned at Sky Knife. “You were the one chosen?”

“Yes,” said Sky Knife.

“And you were not able to complete the ceremony?” asked the Corn Priest. “I had assumed the goddess would assure a man would be able to spread his seed at the Water Ceremony. No man chosen has ever been impotent with the goddess.”

Sky Knife squirmed, still unused to the Teotihuacano habit of discussing intimate matters at any occasion. “No, no, that wasn't it,” he said. “I couldn't. Itzamna will not allow me to commit such dishonor.”

The Corn Priest's frown deepened. “There is no dishonor,” he said. “I was once chosen myself, when I was much younger. The honor was incredible and the experience—I have never had another like it.”

“And the priestess you lay with had a child?” asked Sky Knife.

“Of course. I said there was always a child from the Water Ceremony,” said the Corn Priest. “There
always
is.”

“What happened to him?”

“Her,” said the Corn Priest. “The child was a girl. But for this particular Water Ceremony, the goddess chose to give birth to an orphan.”

“A what?”

“The priestess died giving birth. It happens sometimes. When it does, it's seen as a sign that the Masked One wants this baby to grow up unknown—not dedicated to her service, unaware of his or her origins. The child was given to a family somewhere in the city. No one knows where or to whom.”

“No one?”

“A specially chosen servant of the High Priestess would have taken the baby out of the temple. Upon his return, he was sacrificed by the High Priestess herself so that the whereabouts of the orphan would remain unknown forever.”

A chill that had nothing to do with the predawn air crept up Sky Knife's spine. A child who killed its mother in birth was bad luck. Many of Sky Knife's people would have killed the child so that its bad luck could not spread. Even if it was allowed to live, such a child carried evil wherever it went. “So you never saw your daughter?”

“She was never mine,” said the Corn Priest, but his voice was bitter.

Sky Knife ate his tamale in silence. The Corn Priest shifted his weight on his feet several times as if deciding what to say next. Sky Knife didn't rush him.

“I've spent every day since wondering about her,” said the Corn Priest. He wrung his hands together and his slender fingers trembled. “Every day. What's she like? Does she have children? Who was the man she called father? Especially since my own family died, I think of her. She's my last child and I don't even know if she lives.”

Streak-of-Mist entered the tent. “The warriors are prepared, Lord.”

Grasping Fire nodded. “Good. Come, Sky Knife, Talking Storm. The battle is upon us.”

Sky Knife glanced to the Corn Priest, but the old man did not seem surprised to be left out. He nodded to Sky Knife. “Go with my blessing, iguana boy,” he said, but his voice was kind this time. “Save my city and my king.”

Sky Knife touched the other man on the shoulder briefly. “With Itzamna's help, we will prevail.”

Sky Knife turned and followed Grasping Fire and Talking Storm out of the tent. The first gray streaks of dawn tinged the east as the sun escaped from the thirteenth underworld for the first heaven.

Grasping Fire led them to a small hill overlooking a wide plain south of the city. Arranged in ordered rows in front of them, their beaded collars and obsidian spearpoints glistening in the weak predawn light, stood several thousand warriors.

Sky Knife gasped in surprise. He should have known there would be so many, but in front of him stood as many people as lived in all of Tikal and the surrounding areas, too.

A servant came up behind Grasping Fire carrying a pole on which the feathered banner of the king flew.

The assembled warriors raised their spears and shouted loudly. Sky Knife's heart raced. It was thrilling to stand in front of the assembled thousands and be the focus of their pride and loyalty. Sky Knife felt invigorated. He felt like shouting himself.

Grasping Fire raised a hand and the warriors fell silent.

“Warriors of Teotihuacan!” Grasping Fire shouted. “Our city has been invaded by evil. Today, you will be the force of purity and good that will drive the evil back to the underworlds. For Teotihuacan!”

“Teotihuacan!” the warriors shouted. “Teotihuacan!”

The volume from their shouts hit Sky Knife like a physical blow and he reeled backward. Talking Storm glanced his way and Sky Knife hastily regained his place.

Grasping Fire raised his hand again and the multitude fell silent. Grasping Fire started toward the warriors. Talking Storm gestured for Sky Knife to follow.

At the bottom of the hill, they were greeted by Streak-of-Mist and Grass.

“We are ready,” said Grass. “We await your command.”

“Will you take this moment to review our warriors?” asked Streak-of-Mist. “Lend them whatever divine favor sits upon you.” Streak-of-Mist glanced toward Sky Knife as he spoke.

Grasping Fire nodded. “Of course.” He strode in between two rows of tall warriors. Sky Knife waited for Talking Storm to precede him, but the other man waved him forward.

The warriors noticed Sky Knife's black uniform. He felt their eyes upon him, though they did not bow to him today. Yet as he passed them, they seemed to stand straighter, their stance became prouder. They were
impressed
by him. Sky Knife shook his head. It was the warriors who were impressive.

Each one of them topped him by at least a foot. A padded cotton helmet with strange cheek pieces sat on each head. Every left hand held a spear, over every right arm was draped an unrolled leather shield. Among such uniformity, only the patterns painted on the shields showed the marks of individuality. One was painted with a sunburst, another with a mountain, another with a spotted dog.

The second phalanx of soldiers did not have spears. Instead, they held the dart throwers Teotihuacan warriors were famous for. In their other hand, each one held two short spears. A flint blade was stuck through the belt of each of the dartmen.

Grasping Fire stopped, moved over a couple of rows, and then walked back to the hill. He walked straight to the top and stood under the feathered banner. Talking Storm and Sky Knife waited at the bottom, leaving Grasping Fire alone.

At last, he turned around and raised a clenched fist to the assemble company.

“For Teotihuacan!” he shouted.

The warriors echoed the cry over and over. Their shouts rolled over Sky Knife and he threw back his head and joined them. His screams were lost in the joyous roar that blotted out everything else, even thought.

31

Half an hour later, Sky Knife stood at the crest of the hill under the king's banner. Beside him, Grasping Fire and Talking Storm stood patiently. On the field below them, covered with the first golden rays of dawn, the massed warriors of Grasping Fire's forces waited. It was 8 Cimi 18 Cumku. Two days to Uayeb. The king had to win the battle and ascend to the mat today or tomorrow, or it might be too late.

Out of the city came Dark Lightning, leading his own warriors. His forces filed out into the bare fields.

“Good thing it's not planting season yet,” said Talking Storm. “Remember that battle we had in the Year of Flowers?”

Grasping Fire nodded.

Talking Storm looked over to Sky Knife. “We had to go almost fifteen miles away to find a suitable spot. Once we got there, it was so late, we had to have the battle the next day. It was a mess. At least this way, we don't have to worry about damaging our crops.”

“That's why you went fifteen miles?” asked Sky Knife.

“We can't make war on the fields with crops in them,” said Grasping Fire. “We've a city of a hundred thousand to feed—what would happen if we trampled the fields?”

Sky Knife nodded his understanding. It was a good idea. At home, the fields were scattered in the jungle. It was rare for a battle to encounter a farmer's
milpa,
but Sky Knife was sure the warriors would not care if they did. But then, there were only a few thousand to feed in Tikal, and even fewer in the neighboring cities.

Dark Lightning's forces arranged themselves on the far side of the plain. Dark Lightning had only a fourth the warriors Grasping Fire did.