He did not move as I came in, save that his eyes opened and stared straight at me. It was the gaze of a strong, shrewd man.
Citli, Huchimitl had called him. A warrior captured by her son on the battlefield: a strong, healthy sacrifice who would be offered on the altar, for the glory of the gods – and for that of his captor.
That was the way it should have worked. Someone, obviously, had had a different idea.
“A priest. So she's brought you into this, too?” Citli's voice was reedy and thin, on the verge of breaking with every word. But still, the humour came through, a sign that whatever had affected his body had not yet reached his mind.
“I am Acatl, priest for the Dead,” I told him.
Citli made a thin, rasping sound, which I realised was laughter. “I'm not yet dead, priest. Save your rituals for those who need them.” He fell silent for a while, and then said, “I am Citli, warrior of Mixteca.”
I nodded, acknowledging the introduction. I had already gotten a good look at him, and what I had been half-expecting – the green aura that was the mark of the underworld – was not there. But there was something – a shimmering in the air, a hint of a coiled, alien power around him – something that did not belong. Huchimitl had been correct: he was cursed.
Citli was staring at me. “You're not like the other priests.”
“You've seen many priests in Coyoacan?” I asked, moving away from the reed mat and searching the room, overturning wicker chests and ceramic pots.
He laughed again. “Priests are the same everywhere. But you – you don't have dried blood in your hair, or thorns in your earlobes.”
I shrugged. “I had them, once. But now I only perform sacrifices for the Dead.” My search of the small room had revealed nothing useful. My only recourse lay in speaking to Citli, and hoping he would know something of importance. “How long have you been sick?”
The humour left his eyes. “Thirteen days. A full week. Why does a priest that sacrifices to the Dead worry about that? They told me I would be healed in time for the ceremony.” There was fear in his voice, now. I knew why: if he did not die a warrior's death on the altar, he would not go to the Sun God's Heaven with his peers, but be condemned to the ignominious underworld.
“I'm not here for the last rites,” I said. “Huchimitl thought perhaps I could determine was wrong with you. Do you have any idea of what's ailing you?”
His voice was sullen. “No. All I know is that I want to be healthy for the ceremony. I won't be cheated of my glory.”
“You don't know why? Huchimitl says her son is not popular among the warriors – “ She hadn't said much in truth, just hinted that Mazahuatl might have made some powerful enemies. And I'd been too busy worrying about the mask to ask the proper questions.
A mistake. How could I help her, if I couldn't control my own feelings?
Citli's upper body moved slightly, in what appeared to be an attempt to shrug. “Her son Mazahuatl is young and arrogant, and an upstart. But he is my beloved war-father, the one who captured me on the battlefield, and he will make me ascend to the Sun's Heaven. The rest shouldn't concern me.”
“Shouldn't it? If Mazahuatl has enemies, they'll want to strike at you as well,” I said. “They might have cursed you, just to make him look like a fool.”
“Making his beloved war-son unable to walk to his sacrifice?” Citli's voice was bitter. “They're cowards, all of them.”
“I know. But until we know who they are, they can't be punished.” I paused, then asked, “When did you first notice something was wrong?”
“It started with my legs. Now I have no feeling anywhere in my body, only above my neck.”
I was no healer; his affliction, if it had no magical cause, would truly be beyond me.
“And you have no idea why?” I asked.
He shook his head, forcefully. “No. Look. I wasn't here a month ago. Whatever is going on, I have no part in it.”
I could see that; clearly he was not lying, and equally clearly he didn't know anything.
Which wouldn't get me, or Huchimitl, anywhere.
Curses.
“Do you have people who take care of you?” I asked.
Citli looked at me, almost offended. “Of course,” he said. “Mazahuatl knows the proper care for a prisoner.”
Warriors. Always quick to take offence. It would have been amusing, had the situation not been so serious. “And they noticed nothing?”
Citli shook his head. “You might ask them,” he said. “There's an old woman named Xoco. She brings food, and gossip, and whatever I cannot get, lying here.” He was angry again – for a young, energetic man, falling ill and being confined to a bed must have been the worst of fates.
I finished my examination of him, which didn't yield anything more. He was indeed paralysed; and the curse seemed to spread as time passed. But I couldn't determine its cause – nor reassure myself that whatever had struck Citli down wouldn't strike again within the house.
I took my leave of him, with no answers, just a growing feeling of unease in my belly.
What was going on? What was Huchimitl embroiled in?
