“We have to get out of here.” Balam grabbed for her shoulder, but she shook her head, and pointed to the sky.
“Watch.”
Mal struck Four with diamond-tipped fingers, but the Warden squeezed harder. Her silver mask pressed smooth and slick against Mal’s ear. “Can’t stab you,” Four said through her teeth. “Can’t cut you. But you can still die.”
She twisted Mal’s neck, which did not break. The Serpents’ power coursed through her. She was their vessel, or they were hers; her bones were metal and her nerves flame. But Mal had not yet lost the habit of breathing. When Four squeezed her windpipe, she gasped for air, and found none.
Spots and sparks swam across her vision.
She could burn Four to ash, but doing so she might burn herself. A foolish way to die.
As foolish as being strangled by a person you can’t even see?
Oh.
Yes.
The world contracted to a long thin tunnel. She placed her hand on Four’s arm, and pulled.
The sky bore Caleb’s weight. Scars on his ankles and the soles of his feet woke to grip the air.
He advanced.
Mal pulled, not at Four, but at the Craft that bent light through the air around her. Invisibility required power, and that power came from somewhere. The most likely source was Four herself.
Mal drank deep.
Her vision dwindled to a single gray spot. Too late.
No.
Four’s grip slackened. Her legs loosed. Mal heard her adversary groan.
Air sweet as wine filled her lungs.
She caught the Warden by the arm before she fell.
Four’s jacket smoked in Mal’s grip. Effortlessly, she pulled the Warden up, took her throat in one hand, and bared her teeth. Four struggled, weak. Her flesh burned, seared, smoked. The face beneath her mask was round, with broad eyes—a Quechal face.
Shame.
“Let her go, Mal.”
She looked up, and blinked away a wash of light.
Mal had changed.
Her dusky skin was molten stone, her hair a field of ebon flame. Her eyes were radiant jet. Beside her hovered the leather bag containing Qet Sea-Lord’s heart.
“Let her go.”
She shrugged, and dropped Four.
The Warden tumbled through empty air. Caleb did not move to help her; after a few flailing seconds, her Couatl arrived, grabbed her in its talons, and flew to safety.
He met Mal’s gaze.
“You caught me,” she said at last.
“You look surprised.”
“Surprised, and glad.” The Serpents’ mouths moved in time with hers. He saw faces in the diamonds that lined their throats: Quechal faces, painted, pierced, tattooed, plain, agonized or rapturous or simply watching. “I thought you might be dead.”
“I’m not.”
“I hoped that was true,” she said, and tilted her head to one side. The Serpents echoed her movement. “There’s something different about you. You’ve picked up a halo, and your scars are live.”
“There’s something different about you, too.”
“Yes.” She laughed. “I suppose there is.”
“You don’t have to go through with this.”
“I’m an arrow in flight.”
“Arrows don’t have a choice. People do.”
“What choice?” She smiled, sad, distant. “My choices were made twenty years ago, when my parents died. Or sixty years ago, at Liberation. Or earlier than that. The world’s tossed in bad dreams. Someone has to wake it up.”
“There are other ways.”
“Not for me.” She approached. The Serpents shifted to flank him. Three mouths moved in tandem. Who was the speaker, and who the puppet? “You don’t have to fight me.”
“I do.”
“I’m sorry.” She reached for his face. The heat of her touch seared his cheek, boiled his skin. He should have recoiled, but did not.
He wanted to take her in his arms, to shrivel to ash, to kiss her with melting lips.
“You don’t have a chance. Temoc stopped his sacrifice.”
“I know. I kept him from killing my friend.”
“You’re too sentimental for your own good.” Her eyes were an ocean, luminous. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, either,” he said, and gave her his soul.
The heart is the spirit’s anchor, Temoc had said. Aquel and Achal hungered not for flesh, but for Quechal souls.
When Caleb bet in a poker game, a piece of him flowed into the game, into the goddess. Each player gave her a part of himself, and at game’s end she divided her favor among them according to their victories and defeats.
What if the goddess outlasted the game? What if she stretched through centuries, beyond any purpose she might once have served?
Living, she would grow hungry.
Perhaps the myth was true. Perhaps the Serpents existed before the Hero Twins found them, great beasts that broke the world with their madness. Perhaps not. Perhaps the Quechal threw two sacrifices into the heart of a volcano, and the sacrifices endured, and received sacrifices in turn. They clutched one another in the heat of their dying, and survived.
Caleb gave his soul to Mal, and through her, to the Serpents—his soul, and the souls he bore, so many that they carried him on a flood. There was no bargain, no quid pro quo. He streamed into Aquel and Achal, and became more.
In their diamond mouths, in their gleaming teeth, in their molten hearts, they received him. All were received. All lived. No, not lived—all
He felt the stone knife plunge into his chest ten thousand times, and ten thousand times his death cry rose over the chants of the priests, in High and Low Quechal and languages older still. The dying souls rose with their hearts, dreaming last dreams of a mother’s smile, of a coyote’s laugh at nighttime, a mug of chocolate, a victory dance, a lover’s embrace. Dreams fell into the Serpents’ mouths, and the Serpents ate them, and became them. Soul, accreted onto soul, accreted onto soul, down millennia.
When the sun died, the Hero Twins gave their hearts to the Serpents, became one with them, to save the world.
The Quechal were the Serpents.
The Serpents were Quechal.
