Mihmatini. My sister's chanting reached a harsh, sibilant climax; her blood hissed as it filled the circle.
Light blazed, across the street, strong enough to dispel even my true sight. It spread in radiant wave after radiant wave, covering us, bathing us in warmth, growing in intensity with every passing moment. It was as if some covering of ice had slowly started to melt: as feeling returned to my injured hand, the creatures slowly melted away, with a disappointed hiss.
The light settled around Neutemoc and Quechomitl, seeping through every pore of their skin until they seemed to be made of it. It sank into me, too, hissing as it did so, leaving an itch against my hips when it encountered the knives in my belt, the magic of Huitzilpochtli conflicting with that of Mictlan.
I knelt, awkwardly, by Quechomitl's side. No more blood flowed from his wounds. When I groped, with a shaking hand, for the voice of his heart, nothing would beat under my fingers.
No. My fingers tightened on Quechomitl's skin, but there was no heartbeat. There would never be any heartbeat: never again, in the Fifth World or in the Heavens.
Mihmatini was helping a stunned Neutemoc rise. My brother was shaking, though I couldn't tell if it was from the wounds or from the sheer shock of the attack. I remained kneeling by Quechomitl's body, trying to understand how we had come here – how, on what should have been a simple journey back to Neutemoc's house, a man lay dead under my fingers, and for no reason at all.
I reached out, to close his eyes, but my hands shook so badly I couldn't. It took me three tries before the glazed gaze was hidden beneath his swollen eyelids.
Words came to me: the ones I said, over and over, for strangers. The only words I had:
I thought of his soul, climbing towards the Heavens to meet the Sun-God – for he had died in battle like a true warrior, and the oblivion of Mictlan wouldn't be his lot. I thought of his soul, shedding the body like a worn-out shell, and I wondered what he had died for.
THIRTEEN
Between Mihmatini and me, we carried Quechomitl's body back to Neutemoc's house. Neutemoc himself trailed after us, still stunned and shaking. He hadn't spoken a word since thanking Mihmatini for saving his life.
In the courtyard, an old woman slave and Oyohuaca, the girl who had rowed me through the canals, were seated on the ground, waiting for us. When they saw Quechomitl's body, they gave a mournful howl.
'Master,' they said, looking back and forth at Quechomitl's bloody husk, and at Neutemoc, whose Jaguar regalia were also covered in blood.
'Later,' Neutemoc said. 'Take him to the temple for the Dead. Give him a proper vigil and make the proper offerings.' His voice shook at first, but gained in strength with every word.
Still oozing Huitzilpochtli's light, he walked, not into the reception room, but towards his living quarters.
I glanced at Mihmatini. 'How long is your spell going to last?'
She shrugged. 'Two, maybe three days? It's not going to be enough. Whoever got those to attack him will try again. And if they can't kill him, they'll try to harm those around him.'
Like Quechomitl. 'I know. Can you do something?' I asked.
Mihmatini puffed her cheeks. 'I know a spell for warding a house against evil influences. It takes time to cast, but it's meant to last for a month.'
'If you could…' I asked.
She nodded. 'I'll go and get my materials. You talk to Neutemoc.'
'I…' I didn't think I wanted to do that. When the shock wore off, Neutemoc was going to remember why his house was deserted, and who was to blame.
'Acatl.' Her voice was stern. 'You two have run away from each other for long enough. Go.'
'When did you turn into Mother?'
She snorted. 'All women turn into their mothers, Acatl.'
And all men into their fathers. But I couldn't imagine myself as Father. I couldn't be that old, embittered man who'd never forgiven me for not supporting him in his dotage – and whom I'd repaid by refusing to undertake his vigil; a petty, useless gesture that would not change the grievance between us.
I found Neutemoc, not in his room, but in Huei's. He'd spread her jewellery on the reed mat, and was staring at it listlessly. The bloodstained jaguar head of his regalia rested against the wall frescoes, by a warrior twisting a noose around the neck of a fallen enemy.
When I entered, Neutemoc raised his gaze, but didn't speak.
I crouched on the other side of the reed mat, looking at Huei's jewels. Beautiful pieces, all: exquisitely sculpted jade in the shape of flowers and birds; polished necklaces with gold pendants; and a small obsidian mirror, reflecting my brother's wan face. I reached out to pick up one of the necklaces. Neutemoc hissed.
'Don't,' he said.
I withdrew my hand, slowly. I said nothing; just waited for him to speak.
