traces that might have been bloody handprints, weathered away by the rain. A wet, pungent odour like that of a wild animal rose as I ducked under the stone ceiling.
Inside was only darkness, the sound of our own breathing – and, in the distance, the steady sound of dripping water. 'Is anybody here?' I called.
No answer.
'Some place,' Palli said behind me.
I paused for a moment to light a torch with some flint and dry kindling from Palli's ever-useful bag. The flame shone over moist rock walls, reflected in a thousand shards of light.
'It must have been abandoned some time ago,' Neutemoc said, defiantly.
'If it ever drew large crowds,' Ezamahual said. He sounded sceptical. 'Everything looks faded here.'
'I know,' I said. I shone the torch towards the back: the cave narrowed into a rock corridor. Having no choice, I headed straight ahead.
My footsteps echoed under the stone ceiling: a deep, faraway sound, as if the place had been twice as deep. And as I made my way deeper into the cave, a sense of wrongness slowly crept up my spine. It was the same thing I'd felt when holding the baby's bones, but much, much stronger: a growing disquiet, an impression that the world around me wasn't as it seemed – a sense of a cold power coiling around me like the rings of a snake.
'Neutemoc,' I whispered, but there was only silence, and the feeling of something immense, barely contained within the walls. Something that hadn't yet seen any of us; but that might, at any moment, turn its eyes our way.
'Acatl-tzin,' Palli whispered, and I heard the same fear in his voice.
I reached towards the knife at my belt, with agonising slowness – and closed my hand on the hilt. The dreary, familiar emptiness of Mictlan rose: a welcome shield against whatever lay in the cave. It wasn't strong, and it waned with every passing moment. But it would have to do.
'Use your knives,' I whispered to the two priests behind me. 'Mictlan's magic will ward us.'
Neither of the priests answered. I pushed ahead, stubbornly, and heard their footsteps behind me, more hesitant. They were falling behind.
The corridor ended in a circular place, filled with the sound of water dripping onto the rock. There was a pool at the centre, with barely enough water to reflect the light of my torch; and small tokens, scattered around the rim: dolls of brightly-coloured rags, fragments of chipped stones and seashells.
Offerings. This was – had been – a shrine, till not so long ago.
I shone my torch around the room: the paint had run, but frescoes still adorned the walls. The sense of disquiet, of wrongness, was rising, slowly drowning out Mictlan's rudimentary protection. I had no intention of remaining in that cave any longer than I had to. Close by, the frescoes were hard to identify. Characters in tones of ochre moved across a narration in smudged glyphs: fighting each other, or perhaps handing something to each other?
'What is this place?'
I started. I hadn't heard Neutemoc for so long that I'd almost forgotten that he was there. He stood by the pool, looking ill at ease. Neither his slave, Tepalotl, nor my two priests were anywhere to be seen.
'You should know,' I said, more angrily than I'd intended to. 'You took Eleuia here.'
'No,' Neutemoc said. He sounded angry as well. 'I waited outside. I've never set foot in here.'
'Well,' I said sombrely, 'the one thing we can be sure is that this isn't a shrine to the Duality.' I held my torch up to the frescoes again, hoping for a clue, for anything that would allow us to get out of here and leave behind that great, sickening presence. But the glyphs were too smudged by the incessant fall of water, and the details of the frescoes similarly erased.
I walked away from the pool, fighting an urge to scratch myself to the blood.
The frescoes on the furthest wall were also badly damaged, but some details had survived better. One character appeared constantly in the vignettes: a being with dark skin, brandishing various objects: a fisherman's net, a rattle, and several bowls holding offerings.
I knelt by the oldest of the frescoes, peered at the details. The eyes were dark, accentuated by black marks, and a plume of heron feathers protruded from His head.
We met Palli, Ezamahual and Tepalotl halfway out: they had been unable to push past the sense of uneasiness. Tepalotl, being a slave, didn't look as though he cared much one way or the other; but my two priests were sheepish.
'We could have followed you, Acatl-tzin,' Palli pointed out, once we were safely outside.
Ezamahual said nothing. He was clenching and unclenching his hand around his obsidian knife, frowning. 'I scarcely feel anything,' he said.
'The magic is here,' I said, finally, not knowing what else I could tell him. 'It takes some practise to open to it, that's all.'
Ezamahual looked doubtful. 'I suppose,' he said.
'Acatl-tzin would know,' Palli said, looking at his companion severely.
Ezamahual said nothing. I could tell he wasn't completely convinced. He should have had confidence in me, but I hadn't been capable of proving my abilities to him.
Huitzilpochtli curse me.
'It doesn't matter,' I said. 'We have what we need.'
