failure. This has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with Mazahuatl. He has enemies– “
“You told me that already,” I said. She had sounded sincere when swearing to me it had nothing to do with Tlalli's death, but I could be mistaken. “Why did you come to me, Huchimitl?”
Her voice was low, angry. “I thought you could do something. I thought you could help. A curse, after all, is easily lifted. But it seems you cannot manage even that.”
“I– “ I said, but words had deserted me. I remembered a time when I could read every one of her expressions, could guess her thoughts before she uttered them. I knew I no longer could do any of that. I suspected I could not help her, and it made me angry at myself for being so incompetent – for failing her.
“I am no worker of miracles,” I said.
“Clearly not,” Huchimitl snapped. “I thought you would – “ And then she stopped, as if she had uttered too much.
“Do what? You tell me nothing. You hide yourself from me, under that mask. You lie to me.”
“No.” The mask turned towards me, expressionless.
“Then tell me what is under that mask. Please.” Talk to me, I thought, silently, desperately. Don't hide your secrets from me, Huchimitl. Please.
“Nothing,” Huchimitl said. Her voice was quiet. “Nothing that concerns you, nothing you can repair, Acatl. I am beyond help. My son is all that matters.”
“Then tell me more about your son.”
“Mazahuatl talks little of his life among warriors.” There was longing in Huchimitl's voice, clear, unmistakable. “But I'm no fool. I can guess that things go ill. That he is not liked. That some would like to see him fall. But I have no names.”
“I see,” I said, and rose to leave. “I'll ask Mazahuatl, then. Where can I find him?”
The mask moved towards me with the speed of a pouncing snake. “It's not the solution.”
“Then tell me what would be.”
“No.” Her voice was fearful. I could not help remembering the girl I'd played with, the girl who had once climbed the festival pole and stood at the top, laughing, daring me to come up and catch her. Not once had she shown fear.
“Huchimitl – “ I said, but she shook her head.
“You'll find Mazahuatl on the training grounds,” she said. Her voice was emotionless again – an unnerving change of tone.
Mazahuatl was on manoeuvres with his regiment. I walked to the training grounds, my mind filled with memories of Huchimitl and of my days as a boy – of all the races we'd run through the fields of maize around Coyoacan, of all the quiet moments when we'd dream of our futures.
Had I loved her?
For years I'd told myself that I had not. But I knew now that I had always cared for her. I knew that even though I had felt no regrets on entering the priesthood, still I had left something behind, something infinitely precious that I could no longer recover.
On the training grounds, the warriors were fighting each other wielding maquahuitls, wooden swords with shards of obsidian embedded in the blades.
Several warriors had finished, and stood to the side, their bare arms gleaming with sweat. I walked up to them and said, “I'm looking for Mazahuatl.”
One of them gave a short bark, and the others snickered. “Are you now?” he said.
The warrior's face was heavily scarred, and he wore the quetzal-feather tunic and braided leather bracelets characteristic of tequiuas, those warriors who had taken more than four prisoners and been ennobled. He had their arrogance, too. I said, “Yes, I am looking for Mazahuatl. In what way would it concern you…”
“Yohuacalli,” he said, curtly. “I'm in the same regiment as Mazahuatl. Tell me, priest, why would you be looking for him?”
Yohuacalli had a faint aura about him: a talent for magic, though whether sorcerous or not I could not tell. Still, he looked dangerous enough – as dangerous as a coiled snake.
“Tell me why it should matter to you,” I said.
He turned to me at last, transfixing me with a gaze the colour of the sky at noon – an uncanny shade for a Mexica. “Mazahuatl is not a true warrior.” I heard depths of hatred within his words. “His father was tequiua, and Mazahuatl never lets us forget it. But his prowess in battle is non-existent. He has no right to such arrogance.”
“He took a prisoner.”
Yohuacalli shrugged. “A sick, infirm man? Such a feat of arms.”
“The man has been cursed,” I said, waiting for his reaction. “After he was taken prisoner.”
“So they would have you believe. I know the truth.”
“So do I.” I looked him in the eye. “Surely it would be no great matter for a determined warrior to take a dead man's hand, and bury it into the earth before your enemy's house, and speak the spell to make him fall from grace.”
Yohuacalli flinched, but soon rallied. “I have no talent for sorcery.” His eyes would not meet mine, and I knew he was lying. “There is Mazahuatl,” he said, pointing to a warrior who was leaving the field.
Yohuacalli was obviously in a hurry to change the subject, but I let it go. I looked at the warrior designated as Mazahuatl: he was no longer a boy, yet he still wore the braid of the untried warrior – the sacrifice of Citli would
