'No!' Mazatl screamed, in a voice that wasn't human any more. Magic poured out of him, going into the branches, sinking into the roots, and Huitzilpochtli's light finally faded into nothingness.
The ghost tree remained, but the creatures that had been clinging to its trunk were gone. And, on the island, not a single creature remained: just two stunned priests, taking care of the wounded, and Ichtaca, kneeling in his circle, breathing heavily.
'Do you think yourselves so clever?' Mazatl's voice was the hiss of a deadly snake.
From the tree's roots, a great cloud of magic spewed, roiling sickly as it merged with the water – higher and higher, until a huge wave travelled through the lake – aimed straight at us.
It reached Neutemoc's boat a fraction of a moment earlier than ours. I had time to see my brother pin Palli to the floor of the craft, and then the wave was upon us, an exhalation of water that sent us crashing into the warm lake.
TWENTY-THREE
I sank, my cloak filling with water, dragging me down like stone.
Under the water, everything was oddly quiet. Ahuizotls sang, far, far away, a gentle, soothing sound drawing me into Tlalocan. I hadn't had time to draw a good breath before sinking. My lungs burnt as I struggled to kick off my sandals, and undo the clasp of my cloak.
The fall into the lake had washed out the last remnants of the true sight: the water around me gradually became clearer – though I saw nothing but floating algae, and the light of the surface, far above me.
One of my sandals sank into the depths. A good start, but it wasn't enough.
For some incongruous reason, I thought of Huei, and of whether that was what she would feel when they drowned her. Would her gestures grow more and more sluggish as she sank to the bottom of the lake? Would she hear Chalchiutlicue's beasts summoning her to the bliss of the Land of the Drowned?
My hands slid over the clasp of my cloak, and finally prised it open. I kicked upwards, towards the light of the surface.
The rain was still falling when I emerged, gasping for breath. The lake was now scoured with angry waves. Nothing remained of the island save the stone altar, on which Ichtaca stood, directing the rescue of the priests who had fallen into the water. Teomitl was swimming on his back, surrounded by a ring of ahuizotls. He was holding onto Ixtli's still body, slowly, steadily pulling it towards the altar. Other ahuizotls dived into the depths, helping Ichtaca to get the priests out of the lake, though some of them were also feasting on the dead bodies.
An exhausted Ezamahual was clinging to the overturned boat; he blinked twice when he saw me, but didn't have the strength to do more.
And ahead…
Palli was still lying in the boat, unconscious. But there was no trace of Neutemoc.
Worry knifed my heart. I swam towards Palli's boat as fast as I could, took a deep breath – and dived into the depths of the lake.
The eerie underwater silence filled my ears once again. I swam downwards, with an ease akin to that of my childhood, keeping my eyes open in spite of the stinging touch of water.
Neutemoc…
Where in the Fifth World was he?
There should have been fish, or algae – even ahuizotls – but there was nothing. Just a spreading green light that gradually replaced the light of day – and, so close I could have touched them, the roots of the ghost tree, plunging towards the mud at the bottom: monstrous, shimmering things that seemed to beat with a life of their own. And, the deeper I swam, the larger they grew.
I had been swimming down for what seemed an eternity. Surely the lake was not that deep? It wasn't.
Surely, too – I should have run out of breath by now? I hadn't, either. But suddenly I knew why, and where the green light was coming from.
The time of the gods is not our own. And that was what I had strayed into by going so close to the ghost tree: to a different time, a distorted version of the Fifth World. The tree was a gate between Tlaloc's heartland and the Fifth World, pouring out the god's magic into the mortal world. Into the god-child Mazatl.
I tried not to worry about Mazatl. Neutemoc was the one I was worried about.
Neutemoc…
After what seemed an eternity, I saw a harsh glint, lost somewhere into the roots of the tree. It flashed on and off as I descended: the familiar, if toned-down, reflection of light on obsidian.
A macuahitl sword. It had to be a macuahitl sword. Please…
I found Neutemoc wedged into the ghost tree, one arm wrapped around a massive root, the other dangling, moved to and fro by the current. His face was pale, leached of all colour. His sword at his side was the only part of him that seemed to be alive: glinting coldly, malevolently in the green light.
With hands that seemed to have turned to tar, I disentangled him from the roots, pulling his body free from the tree with a wet, sucking sound, and passing his arm over my neck. Through all of it he didn't respond. Nor could I feel any heartbeat.
He wasn't dead. I hadn't died from falling in the water. He had to have survived. But he had fallen much closer to the ghost tree than I had, a treacherous thought whispered in my mind. I quelled it. I refused to listen to it, and focused on my leg-strokes – one, two, three – and on the light around me, pulsing as green as jade, as green as algae…
Neutemoc didn't stir, but grew heavier and heavier the higher I swam. Beside me, the ghost roots subtly changed, growing more and more solid, sending cold currents to wrap around my arms and legs.
Something tightened around us, sending chills through my bones. It wasn't anything material: more as if the water around me had suddenly contracted, growing colder and then warmer, like a heartbeat.
The light changed, became subtly dappled. Ahead of me, darker shapes broke the monotony of the water.
