Up, and a flock of herons took flight, cawing harshly, shedding white feathers as they went, and then skin, and then blood-red muscles, until only their skeletons remained, and darkness in the hollow of their eyes…
There was a sound on the edge of my hearing like the buzzing of flies on a corpse, the grating of bones. After a while, I realised it was my name, coming from infinitely far away, but it didn't matter, not anymore…
That sound again, and everything scattering, fading into darkness.
'Acatl!'
I lay on something hard, and my cheek hurt. I moved, my hand coming to rest against my skin, it felt like stretched paper, nothing living anymore. 'Quenami?'
He still had his hand up, braced for a further strike against me, and Acamapichtli was lying prone at his feet. His eyes were open, his mouth working around words I couldn't recognise. Raising my gaze, I saw that we were on a stone platform with a simple altar, encrusted with so much blood the stone seemed to have turned red. 'How–'
'I dragged you here.' He sounded exasperated. 'That's not the point.'
'Then what is?'
And then I saw Her. Itzpapalotl stood waiting for us at the entrance of the shrine – casual, relaxed, Her claws flexed, Her obsidian wings in repose. And behind Her…
He was tall, impossibly so, with the body of a youth, tanned skin and raised muscles, and a face streaked with deep cobalt blue, coming up so high it seemed to merge with the sun in the sky. In His left hand was a huge snake, and, every time it writhed, flames flared up, licking its scales; in His right hand was a
I flattened myself against the ground in the lowest form of obeisance, ignoring the dizziness that flared up again in me. The floor was blessedly cool, a steadying influence. I didn't have to move after all, just to focus on speaking out. Beside me, Quenami abased himself as well. Acamapichtli attempted to move, but fell back with a groan.
'Priests,' Itzpapalotl's hollow voice said. 'You have come in the presence of the Lord of Men, the Southern Hummingbird, the Slayer of the Four Hundred, He who makes the sun rise, He who follows the path of war. What do you have to say for yourselves?'
There was silence, for a while. We slowly raised ourselves up, remaining on our knees, our gazes turned away from Huitzilpochtli. One did not meet the eye of a Revered Speaker, much less that of the god who had invested him in the first place.
'My lord,' Quenami's voice quivered at first, but then he appeared to gain confidence, stretching himself up as if he still had all his finery. 'We have come for the body of our Revered Speaker, that we might not find ourselves cast in darkness with the stardemons.'
I recognised the tone and cadence of a ritual, and fell in step with him. 'We have come for the body of our Revered Speaker, that it might be restored to its rightful place on the sacred mat.'
Acamapichtli coughed. When he spoke, his voice was so low I had to strain to hear it. 'We have come… for the body of our Revered Speaker… that it might…' He stumbled there, closed his eyes and went on, a grimace of pain stretched across his features. '… that it might wear the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown… and lead us all to glory…'
He fell silent. I heard nothing but our own breaths, smelled our fear. By coming into a god's land, we had placed ourselves at His whim. Nothing prevented Him from killing us with a thought.
The air grew warmer, and tighter. Already in a weakened state, it was all I could do to breathe. 'I took your Revered Speaker's life,' Huitzilpochtli said, 'and I had ample justification for it. Why should I restore him to you?'
'My lord,' Quenami said, 'are we not your people? Long, long ago, you made us emerge from the caves in this hill, you led us to Tenochtitlan, to await with our bellies, with our heads, with our arrows, with our shields. You led us to found a city of battle, where the eagle flies and the serpent is torn apart.'
'I did.' The god's voice was pensive, but I could still feel His anger. 'And look what you became. Look at you, priest, and all your frivolous finery. Look at the luxuries you take for yourself, and look at what you'd do to keep them.'
Quenami fell back as if he'd been slapped in the face. He might have been, too. The anger of a god in His own territory would be strong. 'Will you judge us on my character alone, then?'
Huitzilpochtli made a sound like drums beating a charge. It was only after a while that I realised it was laughter with nothing of joy, but merely cruel amusement. 'Of course not. It's the Revered Speaker we are judging here, are we not? That poor, pathetic wreck of a man with no taste for war, who dares to imagine himself wearing the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown? Who thinks he can buy My favour to get it?'
The air was that before a storm, quiet and breathless, as if the whole Fifth World hung suspended. Quenami swallowed audibly. 'My lord, Tizoc-tzin seeks only Your blessing, as is proper. He would not have dared to ascend to the Revered Speaker's mat without Your approval.'
'Of course he wouldn't.' Huitzilpochtli's voice was dark, thoughtful. 'I made the Empire, from its earliest days to the bloated monstrosity you have become. You would do well to remember that. And your master, too, that pathetic, gutless man unproved on the battlefield.'
'Tizoc-tzin knows the value of war–'
'Your master sees war as a tool,' Huitzilpochtli snapped. 'As something that he can use to rise in power and to increase his prestige. He understands nothing. War is the gift I gave you, priest. War is the struggle of life and death, and the shedding of blood to keep the Fifth Sun in the sky, and Grandmother Earth satiated. War is everything.'
Of course He would say that. Of course He would think that. It was His nature, nothing more, nothing less. That was what Quenami couldn't understand.
'I assure you,' Quenami said, in a calm and measured tone. How could he speak thus, in the face of this? 'Tizoc-tzin knows the value of war, and the debt and service we owe You. We all do.'
'Do you? Will you show me, then?' Huitzilpochtli's voice was cruel. 'You who pretend yourself my High Priest, you who speak for all men, will you show me that you are a warrior?'
From the corner of my eye, I saw Itzpapalotl's wings open, with a snick-snick sound like dozens of obsidian knives unsheathed at the same time.
