The throbbing in my head that I had first experienced in the courtyard resumed, growing stronger and stronger until my world seemed to have shrunk to that beat. The smoke grew thicker and thicker, billowing around me like the aura of Mazahuatl's curse. Now was the time I could seize control of the spell, and turn the years back until my visions showed me the day of Tlalli's death.
But the spell would not yield to me. Years of visions passed by, showing me tantalising glimpses of the past.
…a man's angry voice, and a man's shadow, raising a hand to strike at something I could not see…
…a warrior stumbling in combat…
…a girl with the wooden collar of slaves, her cheeks flushed with pleasure…
…a mask of ceramic inlaid with turquoise – Huchimitl's mask, gradually materialising to cover the girl's face…
And then nothing.
I came to myself, crouching on the blood-stained jaguar's skin, the smoke from the herbs since long gone. Outside, it was night, and the Evening Star shone in a sky devoid of clouds. Citli was sleeping, racked from time to time by a coughing fit. I lifted the curtain, wincing at the small tinkle of bells, and went out.
One thing would not leave my thoughts: the slave girl's face, a face that seemed oddly familiar.
I walked up to the slave by the gates, and asked, “There is a girl slave, in this house?” I described, as best as I could, the face I had seen in my vision.
The slave shrugged. “There are many girls in this house. Maybe the others will know – “
“Yes,” I said. “Please.”
He led me into the slaves' quarters. I found myself in a series of smaller rooms, adorned with faded frescoes. Within, several men were playing patolli, watching the game's board intently as the dice were cast – no doubt they had bet heavily on the outcome.
One of the players looked up, quivering to go back to his game. I described, once again, the face of the slave I had seen in my visions, and he shrugged. “Ask Menetl. She's in charge of the female slaves.”
I found Menetl in the girls' quarters, watching a handful of giggling girls as they painted their faces with yellow makeup. She was a tall, forbidding woman who clearly looked upon me as an invader in her little world. I was about to repeat my question to her, when I saw Xoco, crouching at the back of the room.
Now I knew where I had seen the girl's face. It was there, in the old woman's features, tempered by age, by the glare of the sun, but still close enough to be recognised.
“So?” Menetl asked.
“I want to talk to her,” I said, pointing to Xoco – who rose, fear slowly washing over her face.
“My Lord?” she asked.
I motioned for her to follow me out of earshot of the others. We walked out of the slaves' quarters and back into the courtyard, which now was deserted.
“I have something more I want to ask you.” I watched the way she shrank back into herself, and remembered how angry Huchimitl had been when she had guessed one of the servants had been talking to me. No doubt she would have reprimanded the slaves for that offence. “It's not about what you told me earlier.”
Xoco looked at me, her hands falling to her side. Waiting.
I said, “There was a girl slave, in this house. Four, five years ago?”
“We see so many girls.” Her voice shook.
“Don't lie to me. You know who I am talking about. Who was she?”
The old woman stared at the ground for a while. “She was my daughter.” Her voice was low, dull. “Yoltzin. She used to run in the courtyard, daring me to catch her – it was when the master was still alive – he was always generous with his girl slaves – “ She looked up at me, her eyes wide. Even in the dim light I could see the tears in them. “Such a pretty child,” she whispered.
“Yoltzin. What happened to her?”
“She's in the heavens now,” the old woman said.
“In the heavens?” Only warriors dead in battle, women dead in childbirth, or sacrifice victims ascended into the heavens. The rest of us fell into Mictlan, the underworld, to make our slow way to the God of the Dead, and to oblivion.
“They chose her,” the old woman said. “Five years ago. The priests of Xilonen came here and took her, to be the incarnation of the Goddess of Young Corn on earth and bless the fields. The High Priest wore her flayed skin for twenty days afterwards, and the rains came sure and strong that year,” she said, and there was a note of pride in her voice.
The priests of Xilonen – looking for a maiden sacrifice, as innocent as the Young Corn. And the girl. Yoltzin. Little Heart.
Her image would not leave my mind – her face with such bliss on it, but it had not been the bliss of sacrifice. “You said the master had always been generous with his girl slaves,” I said, slowly. “How generous?”
Xoco would not look at me.
“Xoco,” I said. “What happened four years ago has tainted everything in this house. You can't pretend it hasn't.”
