Young Jaguar, The (21 page)

He could see Amatl talking through the slightly
opened screens. It took them some time. What were they arguing about?

When the tall veteran turned around and descended
the wide stairs, he seemed unusually upset.

“Honorable Warlord, I’m sorry, but they insist on
talking to you and you alone. I think we should storm this place.”

Tecpatl frowned. Should he honor them with a private
talk? Whatever they wanted, it would be something pushy and insolent. Didn’t they
realize they were defeated and in no position to bargain?

“Nice of them not to demand of us to bring here the
Emperor himself,” he muttered. “Go back, and tell them I don’t want to see
them.”

“I told them as much. I told them you will not agree
to see them. They said you had better come.” The man hesitated. “They said you
would regret missing this chance. They hinted at having something of value to
you.”

He bit his lower lip. “That is odd.” His glance
encircled the archers and slingers, spreading around the two-level building,
the wide path packed with his blue-cloaked warriors. “All right, I’ll go and
talk to them.”

“I don’t like it, Honorable Warlord.” The broad face
of his loyal second-in-command creased. “They behave as if they have something
to negotiate with. But there is no possibility of that. Maybe they’re planning
something treacherous.”

“Well, I had better find out what it is. It’s the
Emperor’s brother, the First Son of our deceased Revered Ruler. I can’t treat
him like a dirty traitor. Not yet. Not before he is declared as such.” He eased
his shoulders. “Make sure our people are ready to storm this temple. Do it if
you hear something suspicious, or if I’m not coming out in about…” He measured
the sun. “When it has moved about half a finger. Even less than that.”

He turned and went away briskly, before Amatl would
have a chance to comment. He knew his second-in-command was right. They had
absolutely nothing to talk about. It might be a trap.

The heavy, polished partition moved slightly. A face
peered, moved aside, admitting him in. His hand on his sword, instincts honed,
ears tuned to any suspicious sound, he entered, his eyes having difficulty
adjusting to the semidarkness after the brilliance of the daylight outside. He
could see silhouettes of the statues, the niches, the round shape of the stone
altar, the dark figures of squatting people.

“Come closer, Honorable Warlord.” It came from the
man standing beside the altar. He recognized the low, husky, somewhat derisive
voice of the old Emperor’s First Son.

He neared slowly, paces excessively measured, still
expecting to be attacked, ready to duck, leap aside, evade a blow or a shot
that might pounce on him from those various dark niches and corners.

His eyes focused on the standing man. Someone was
kneeling before him, a figure that looked like a woman. Her bright cotton skirt
was spread around in a perfect half circle, and she leaned forward, supported
by her arms, head thrust downwards, facing the floor, the beautiful silky hair
cascading as an additional means to conceal. His heart leaped, gripped with
some primitive, unrecognizable fear.

“That is close enough.” The husky voice took his
attention from the woman, and he straightened his gaze, now able to see more
clearly the broad face with its high cheekbones and the widely spaced eyes.

“What can I do for you?” he asked coldly,
remembering that until declared otherwise this man was still a Revered First
Son of the deceased Emperor.

“Oh, quite a lot, Chief Warlord. Quite a lot.”

He waited, looking at the man sternly.

“How about picking up your warriors and going back
to the Palace to storm it, for me this time.”

He was taken aback by the cheek of the man. He
hadn’t expected anything like that.

“I can’t do that,” he said, regretting that he had
agreed to come. Amatl was right, it was dangerous and a complete waste of time.

“Oh, but you can, you know? You just don’t want to.
You feel you have won and you don’t want to let your victory go.” The man shook
his head, almost mocking in his sincerity. “I have to give you that. You did
take my victory away. You did, and no one else. So all I can do now is convince
you to help me, to see my side of the story.” His attention was taken by the
woman on the floor, whose shoulders began to shake. Xicohtli leaned forward and
grabbed her by the hair. “And what is the better way to convince someone than
by offering him something he cherishes instead.”

The last words seemed to hang in the air. They rang
in Tecpatl’s ears, resonating, growing louder and louder, filling his mind with
so much dread his heart seemed to stop beating. He knew who the woman was even
before the powerful pull revealed her face. He must have known it all along.
How could he not recognize the natural grace of the familiar figure, the gentle
outline of the arms, the wonderful waterfall of her silky hair. He should have
guessed. It was just that he had been distracted by the calm audaciousness of
the devious man. Or was it too inconceivable to grasp?

He stared at the bottomless depth of the huge eyes,
so wide open they seemed to fill the pale gaunt face, plunging the rest of the
gentle features into complete insignificance. The altar, the room, the
crouching people had faded too. Only those eyes were left, enormous and
glittering with unshed tears, reflecting no fear, only a bottomless sadness,
and love. This unwavering love. Just like last night, when he was about to
strike her.

He could hear a strange sound coming out of his
throat and he strangled it back with an effort. He leaped forward, but his body
could not complete the movement. The obsidian dagger pressed against her throat
stopped it in midair. Her lips were moving, and he knew what she was saying,
her eyes had told him how sorry, so very sorry, she was.

He tore his eyes off her with such an effort, his
head span.

“Let her go,” he growled between his clenched teeth.

It was so quiet he could hear a fly buzzing beneath
the stone altar.

“Why would I?” asked the broad man softly.

“Because I’ll kill you the moment she dies. I’ll
chop you into twenty little pieces, but I’ll make sure your heart remains
whole, so I can take it out of your chest and dump it onto this altar. And
then, I will kill everyone present in this room, and I will not rest until
every member of your families dies, and I will take their hearts out too. While
the gods will refuse my offering of your filthy heart, they might consent to
have those of your wives and your children.”

He could hear them gasping behind his back.
Xicohtli’s face twisted and the arm pulling at her hair shook. The large eyes
blinked, but did not drop, holding Tecpatl’s glare. The full lips tightened
into a thin line.

“If I let her go, you will kill me anyway, but in
killing her I will, at least, have some sort of revenge.” The padded shoulders
shrugged. “And you can kill my wives. I’m not so foolish as to get attached to
them. Let alone to pin it all on one insignificant woman of common origins. You
could have made a great leader, oh Honorable Warlord, but for this soft spot of
yours. It makes you weak. This woman makes you weak. If I kill her, I’ll be
doing you a great service. I’ll be freeing you.” The lips quivered, stretched a
little. “But it is not my intention. I want to use this soft spot of yours. You
ruined my plans, but now you are about to make it right, to correct what you
did. Because of this woman you will betray your Emperor, something all the pressure
from your superiors did not manage to achieve. It’s too bad they underestimated
you. I wish I had known how strong and yet how weak you are. This woman would
have been in my hands before my father’s body was cool. She would not be
harmed, oh no! Such treasure should be cherished. She was the means to our
success. Too bad we didn’t know that.”

He knew Xicohtli was right. He’d known it all along.
She was everything to him, she was life itself, and he hadn’t seen it, taking
her presence for granted, unaware of how fragile it all was, how easily it
could be taken away.

And he also knew that Xicohtli was correct about
this other thing. His love for her, his need of her, were inappropriate,
uncivilized, unfitting for the Chief Warlord of the Great Capital. She was to
die now, and he should not feel as if the world were about to end, but he felt
it all the same. He
knew
it would end.

He stared at the sharp obsidian pressed against the
gentle curve of her throat. It had left a mark already. Even in the dimness of
the temple, he could see the gold of her skin taking a darker shade against the
polished blade. He wished he could lean on something, because his legs were
about to give way.

“Come on, Warlord. We don’t have the whole afternoon
to stare. I’m sure you left your warriors with the instructions to attack
should you not come out. So please, tell me. Will you help us? Because if you
won’t, let us get on with it.”

The blade pressed harder, nicking the skin. As she
winced, he could see drops of blood,
her blood
, glittering upon the
glassy surface. He could imagine how it would splatter, pouring like spilled
octli
,
thick and oily, but darkly red, while she would sag slowly, oh so slowly, and
her eyes would still be with him, still seeing, still reflecting her thoughts,
but blurring rapidly. He had seen many cut throats. He had cut many himself.

“No!” he cried, surprising himself. He saw his hand
shooting forward, half commanding, half pleading. Was he not in control of his
movements anymore?

“Good.” The pressure of the blade lessened. The
other hand tugged at her hair, when she sagged a little. “So, now let us
discuss our possibilities. What can you do for me?”

“What do you want?” He had to clear his throat but
still the question came out so gruff he wasn’t sure he was the one to say it.

“Well, as I said, I would love you to take your men
and go storm the Palace for me. Can you do that?”

“My warriors will not agree.”

“They seem to follow you quite blindly.”

“They are not following me blindly. They are grown
men, and they are the best of our people. They follow the leaders who make
sense to them, the men who can take care of them and make sure they are not
wasting their lives for nothing. If I ask them to turn around and fight for the
other side, because I decided so for my
personal
reasons, I will cease
to be a worthwhile leader for them.” He felt the calming effect of being able
to talk about something not related to her exposed throat.

“Well spoken. And yet I need you to do just that.
Make up your mind and do it fast.”

The dagger pressed again, drawing more blood. Her
shoulders convulsed. He could see her face twisting, lips pressing tight,
trying to suppress a cough. He could not feel his palms anymore, so tightly
were they clenched. She was going to die anyway, yet he could not watch her
going in front of his eyes, choking in her own blood.

“I’ll do it.”

***

She felt the hand clutching her hair letting go. It
caught her by surprise, taking away the much needed support. She reeled, but
before she could lose her balance, the arm grasped her shoulder, digging
painfully into her flesh.

“Come on, Chief Warlord’s little wife. Get up, get
up.” The blade, pressed into her throat, moved a little, sliding toward her
chin momentarily, pushing it upwards. “Get up, brave lady. Don’t lose your
presence of mind just yet. We were impressed with your wife,” their tormenter
added, addressing Tecpatl. “She is brave. No silly woman’s tricks, no begging.
Impressive, very impressive.”

She could see his eyes, enormous in the paleness of
his face. Their gaze was wild, not completely sane anymore. She’d never seen
him like that. Not even the night before, when he was drunk and desperate with
jealousy. Back then, he was angry and sad, but now? Now he was scared and
haunted and about to give up. Oh, she had never, never seen him afraid or
resigned. Not him. Never him.

The anger gave her the strength to get up. Heedless
of the blade pressed under her chin now, indifferent to the arm digging into
her shoulder, she stared at his trembling palms, the set jaw, the crust of the
fresh cut crossing his swollen cheek, another thinner red line sliding down his
neck. All the fresh bruises and scratches, and the way his skin hung vacantly
upon his thinned cheekbones.

Her anger kept welling, turning into an
uncontrollable rage. They hurt him, and they kept hurting him, now through her.

She clasped her fists tight and winced at the pain
as Eek’s dagger cut into her skin. It was small and sharp, good polished
obsidian, perfectly fit for a woman to carry.

She pushed it out, so her palm was now clutching the
small handle, the lethal glassy point peeking out of her fist, expectant,
urging her to proceed.

She didn’t think how to do it. Beside herself with
anger and frustration, heedless of the larger dagger pressed against her
throat, she whirled around, her arm raising high, moving in an arch,
accumulating more and more power with the drive of her body.

It was startling how it jerked to a stop, the small
blade buried deeply in the heavyset man’s neck. It went in with so little
resistance she thought it would never stop.

She saw the thick arms shooting up in surprise. The
dagger that was pressed against her throat dropped, clattering softly against
the floor tiles.

Fascinated, she stood there, watching the large
well-spaced eyes widening, gaping at her. The mouth opened and closed, but
which sounds came out she didn’t know. Her ears may have picked a tone, but her
mind was unable to comprehend it.

Then, the blood spurted, and the terrified eyes
slipped out of her sight, and she felt herself falling, but Tecpatl’s arms were
around her, pressing her tight against his chest, supporting her, and she knew
she was safe. And when the trembling began, she didn’t care because his arms
just pressed her closer, giving her strength, and the means to hide and wait
for the uncontrollable sobbing to pass. In his arms it was alright to be weak
for a moment, even for a whole day.