'It doesn't concern you,' I said.
Her eyebrows shot up. 'I live in the same house, don't I?'
'Look–' I started, but didn't go further. The Wind of Knives was in our district now, floating over the canals – reaching Neutemoc's house, passing under the gate, shadows trailing after Him.
I didn't stop to think. 'Get out!' I screamed at both Huei and Mihmatini, and I ran outside, to face the Wind of Knives.
In the courtyard, the torches' flames had died down, blown out by the Wind's presence. The slaves, too, had scattered, gone back into their quarters, no doubt. And I couldn't blame them. The Wind's approach would have been heralded by darkness and the growing cold; perhaps by a few ghosts, flitting around the courtyard. Enough to make any sane man run away.
I supposed that I didn't count as sane, in any sense of the word.
The Wind of Knives stood under the tallest pine tree of the garden: a tall, humanoid shape made of obsidian shards, glimmering in the moonlight. In my ears was the keening of the wind, bringing to me the lament of dead souls, and the sharp, sickening smell of decaying flesh. Wherever the Wind went, He brought Mictlan with Him.
I didn't go to Him; I stood before the entrance-curtain to the reception room, feeling the cold work its way into the marrow of my bones.
'Acatl,' He said. His presence in my mind was strong: it would have driven the uninitiated to insanity. But I was used to it – if one ever got used to the pressure in one's mind, the sense of standing on the brink of a vast chasm. 'I have come.'
'I know,' I said, bowing to Him.
He shifted. Obsidian shards glittered, sharp, cutting, hungering for human blood. 'Then let Me pass.'
'I cannot.'
He made a sound which might have been laughter, although I had never seen Him amused. 'You are High Priest for the Dead. You keep the balance.'
'I know,' I said, but still I didn't move from my place.
He asked, 'Would you break that compact? It is a dangerous game you play.'
'I'm not playing a game,' I said, thinking of Huei, thinking of my brother's radiant face when he'd announced his marriage. 'I'm not playing.'
'No,' the Wind of Knives said. He moved, to stand in front of me. His hand reached out, stopped inches from my chest. Every finger was made of slivers of obsidian, as pointed as the end of a knife. My chest ached at the mere thought of another wound. 'It's not a game, Acatl.'
'She is my brother's wife,' I said, slowly, not knowing what else I could offer Him.
'Should that make a difference?' the Wind of Knives asked.
'I don't know,' I said, and it was the truth. Ceyaxochitl had been wrong. I couldn't be in charge of this investigation. I couldn't watch as the underworld tore my brother's family apart; as it tore my own fragile illusions apart.
His hand rested on my chest, inches above the heart, just as the fingers of my good hand closed around the first of my obsidian knives. Power pulsed within me: the familiar emptiness of Mictlan, rising to fill my soul.
The Wind of Knives made that half-amused, half-angry sound again. 'You'd fight Me?'
'She had reasons–' I started, knowing how thin was the ground I stood on, knowing that He could not be swayed.
'There are no reasons,' the Wind of Knives said. His hand closed. I recoiled, but His fingers only touched my bandages, cutting them away with the precision of an army healer. The bandages fell in a swish of cloth. Cold air ran over the wounds on my chest: a sting that made me hiss.
'This is what comes of dealing with the beasts of Mictlan,' the Wind of Knives said. 'Think on it, Acatl.'
'Yes,' I said. 'But I still need to understand–' I needed to know who had given Huei the tools for her summoning; and if Priestess Eleuia was still alive.
'There is nothing to understand,' the Wind of Knives said. 'A transgression was made. Justice must be dealt.'
Though He had been human once – a long, long time ago, before He swore himself to Lord Death and became the Wind – He didn't think like us any more. An eternity of watching over the passage of souls and of dealing with transgressors had moulded His mind into something else. Pity, or even reason, was alien to Him.
'There are other lives at stake,' I said, raising my good hand in the air, as if to ward Him off. 'I need to know who she was working with.'
He watched me, unmoving. Moonlight outlined the shape of His head: huge and pointed, more akin to that of a beast of shadows than that of a human. 'I do not investigate,' He said.
'But I do,' I said, and groped for arguments that He could accept. 'She wasn't the only transgressor. There are others still at large.'
He was silent for a while. At last, He said, 'I end all transgressions. She was the only one to open the gate.'
'But what of those who gave her the magic?' I asked, sensing an opening I could wedge myself into. 'Aren't they as guilty as she?'
'Guilt is irrelevant,' the Wind of Knives said.
'So, if I gave people the means to summon a beast, you would never kill me? That doesn't seem just.'
He looked at me, lowering His head in a shimmer of blades. 'I am justice,' He said. 'But not, I think, your justice.'
'I can't accept–' I started.
'Acatl.' His voice stopped me. 'Do not lie to Me.'
