Obsidian & Blood

  Grant us leave to call them back.'

  Mist poured from the jaguar's spine, as if the thorns had opened up some vast reservoir. It pooled around the corpse, a swirling mass of white – and then it stretched, still remaining as thick, until I could barely make out the contours of the buildings around us, and it went upwards, driving even the darkness from the sky. Everything seemed to turn white and clammy, with the particular, watery smell of marshes.

  And then, gradually – as a shiver started low in my back and climbed upwards – I became aware we weren't alone anymore.

SEVEN

The Summoning of Spirits

I'd summoned ghosts from Mictlan many times and they always appeared the same: faint silhouettes, with shadows playing over their features until they hardly seemed human anymore. But the ghost that Acamapichtli had called up wasn't like that: I could see the light of its teyolia soul, a scorching radiance in his chest that I could almost feel. Like Acamapichtli himself, his skin was mottled, halfway between a jaguar's pelt and human skin.

  Other than that, he looked much as he had alive. He no longer wore any finery, but the face bore familiar features – save that his lips were congealed purple, and deep pouches lay under his eyes. When he raised a hand to touch his chin, I saw that the base of his nails too were purple, and the tips of his fingers wrinkled, as if he had remained too long in warm water.

  'I–' he whispered. 'Where–'

  Acamapichtli's smile was the jaguar's, before it found its prey. 'I summoned you, Eptli of the Pochtlan clan, warrior of the Mexica.'

  Eptli's gaze swung between Acamapichtli and I. I had no idea what he saw; I very much doubted that I still looked the same. 'I don't understand.' He hugged himself, as if he were cold. His eyes were two pits of darkness. 'I was–'

  'Dead,' Acamapichtli said, curtly. 'My – colleague here is convinced you know something about that.'

  'I remember–' Eptli shivered. 'So cold. I was so cold when we

  entered the Anahuac valley. I barely even saw Tlacopan. But I was strong. I hid it, and no one guessed. No one guessed.' He laughed – it started low, and climbed to a high-pitched, insane trill.

  'For how long were you cold?' Acamapichtli asked.

  Eptli shuddered, and the mist seemed to quiver in turn. 'I don't know. Three, four days perhaps. I don't remember…'

  Great. Much as it pained me to admit it, Eptli was going to be useless. Some people kept their coherence after death, but he clearly wasn't one of them.

  'Three, four days.' Acamapichtli nodded. 'Then we have a little more time. What happened before? How did you catch this?'

  'I don't know.'

  'The disease would take time to become visible,' I said.

  Acamapichtli made a stabbing gesture with his hands. 'No. Remember, Coatl and the physician took barely a few hours to show symptoms. Did anyone die at the camp, Eptli?'

  'Die?' He shivered again. The purple was spreading from his lips to his cheeks, marbling them like the skin of a corpse. 'So many people died – the wounded and the weak, they all died for the glory of the Empire. It is right, it is proper.' He turned the emptiness of his eyes towards me, almost pleading. 'It is right…'

  Acamapichtli snorted. 'See, Acatl? Useless.'

  I wasn't prepared to admit defeat so soon. 'Let's see.' I came closer to the man – his face was turning darker and darker, and his eyes were drawing inwards, sinking towards the back of his skull. I focused on what mattered – there was nothing I could do for him. 'What do you remember about your prisoner?'

  Something lit up in his eyes. 'Prisoner? My fourth. I earned him, earned him…'

  I resisted the urge to strike him; he was a ghost, and it wouldn't help. 'Eptli,' I said, gently but firmly. 'Your prisoner, Zoquitl. He was ill, too, wasn't he?'

  'I don't remember.' He shook his head. 'I–' His face twisted, and he fell to the ground, with a cry of pain. The warmth in his chest blazed.

  This wasn't normal. 'Acamapichtli,' I said. I could have cast a spell of true sight, but I had no idea what would happen if I did so inside another's ritual.

  Acamapichtli was watching Eptli, his fangs closed over his lower lips, his eyes dilated in the mist. 'A spell of forgetfulness,' he said.

  'Something strong enough to endure after death?'

  A drop of blood rolled off one of Acamapichtli's canines. 'Evidently.' He knelt, and took Eptli's face between his hands. 'Very strong,' he said, with a hint of admiration. 'I'm not sure it can be removed, not without dispelling him.'

  'Then you're useless,' I said, not without malice.

  'Tsk tsk,' Acamapichtli said. 'So little faith. I notice you're not leaping to my rescue either.'

  'You seem to be doing just fine.'

  He made a sucking noise between his fangs – and, lightning fast, brought his hands together, as if to crush Eptli's head. The radiance at Eptli's heart wavered, and then began to dim; the warrior began writhing as if in the throes of some great pain. Acamapichtli took a step backward, his face dispassionate. I realised with a shock that I'd taken a step forward – as if anything could help the man, when he was dead and gone already.

  'Hurts,' Eptli hissed. 'How dare you–' His voice was low; I could barely make out the words. When he raised his head, I saw that his skin had gone completely purple, and that his hair had taken on greenish reflections, like algae.