Obsidian & Blood (45 page)

  The Duality curse him. 

  Open your hands…
 

  All I had to do…

  
Save yourself…
 

  He's deserved it…

  The weight of the water was on my shoulders; and my hands burnt with the strain of Neutemoc's semi-conscious burden. He was dragging me back into the depths, he and his accursed lust and inability to see that you couldn't call back the past. 

  Sometimes, you had to make a choice. My fingers opened, almost of their own volition, and Neutemoc started slipping downwards, even as I rose.

  For a moment – a split, endless moment as we hung suspended by the pulsing roots – our eyes met. In his was lust and hunger and an impossible desire for what he couldn't have, a desire that could only be ended by death…
  And in my gaze, reflected in his…
  The same.

  The same hunger for the past, the same wish to turn back the flow of time, to have my parents' admiration; to be a warrior and the pride of my family.

  
A true man stands by the consequences of his acts
, I had told Teomitl, and he had laughed at me, seeing what I had not been able to admit: that deep, deep down, I and Neutemoc were the same. 

  I hated him so much; but it wasn't him. It had never been him. 

  In less than a heartbeat, I dived, and our hands met, and clasped. 

  He was too heavy; he was still dragging me down. "You have to swim," I said.

  His gaze was a mixture of hunger and confusion. "Eleuia?" he whispered, like a bewildered child.
  "Swim!" I screamed.
  He still wouldn't move.

  So I did the only thing that would save us both: arching my body, I pushed him straight into the tree. He gasped as his body wedged itself in the hollow between two roots: nestling comfortably in the tangle of pulsing bark, sinking until his feet finally came to rest on a thicker root.

  As best I could – not an easy thing given his unresponsiveness – I wrapped his hands around another buttress.

  "Stay here," I whispered. 

  "Acatl?"

  "Stay here." And, kicking upwards, I went back to Father and Eleuia – and Popoxatl. They would, I knew, be waiting for me. 

  As I rose, I drew the second-to-last of my obsidian knives, and the pulsing emptiness of Mictlan filled me; and the amused echo of the Jade Skirt's voice, booming like underwater drums. 

  Father was still crucified among the roots, still watching me with that sad, disappointed gaze. But it wasn't real. Everything was Tlaloc's little game, as was Eleuia's slow dancing. Popoxatl was waiting for me, a smile stretched across his face. The Storm Lord, too, whispering words of poison in his puppet's ears. 

  "I see you've shed your burden," he said.

  "What harm has he done you?" I asked, though I knew. Before Popoxatl had come into his power, Neutemoc's knowledge had been as dangerous as Commander Quiyahuayo's: what he knew about Eleuia might have stopped Tlaloc from achieving His aims. Now it was just endless malice.

  "Don't you see, Acatl?" Popoxatl whispered, and his voice was that of a child. "He has no place in the new order. Warriors shouldn't rule the world. It's peasants who keep us going – and priests, shedding their blood to feed the sun."

  I swam closer, knife at the ready, and Popoxatl watched me, dryly amused.

  "Aren't you tired of the thoughtless arrogance of warriors? Of their endless staggering across our streets, conquering lands we have no use for?"

  I thought of Mahuizoh's cavalier treatment of Ceyaxochitl and me – and of my parents' endless worship of war, slighting their own work to sing the praise of the battlefields. But it was not the way to change. It would never be the right way.

  I was close now, almost close enough to strike, and still neither Tlaloc nor Popoxatl did anything. They just watched me. "What do you want?" I asked. "My collaboration? You don't need that." 

  Unhealthy hunger dilated Popoxatl's pupils, making me sick to the core. "Belief," he whispered. "I am the supreme god of the Mexica Empire. Everyone will abase themselves, and make their offerings of blood to keep me strong." 

  Belief. Commander Quiyahuayo had been right.

  I swam closer; and when nothing happened, I sank my knife to the hilt into Popoxatl's chest.

  Or tried to. The blade shattered, breaking on an invisible obstacle. And Popoxatl laughed, echoing the Storm Lord's amusement. "Did you think it would be so easy?"

  It should have been. For all his powers, Popoxatl was only a god's agent, only a mortal. Surely a knife blessed by Mictlantecuhtli and Chalchiutlicue would kill a mere child?
  Unless…

  I pulled away, avoiding the child's outstretched arms. To my left, Eleuia had stopped dancing, and was coming for me with a sickening smile on her face. 

  I closed my eyes and extended my priest-senses. 

  And saw what I had missed.

  Light streamed around Eleuia, limning the alluring curves of her body; but all of that wasn't just beauty, or charms – but the Quetzal Flower's grace, wrapped around her like a mantle. No wonder every man had been drawn to Eleuia: the Goddess of Lust had rewarded her well for her services. 

  But that wasn't the worst.

  Ichtaca's spell, which had dispelled the creatures, had done so by setting Huitzilpochtli's wards on everyone. Everyone human: the priests, Ichtaca himself, Neutemoc, me.
  And Popoxatl.

  The wards, anathema to Mictlan's magic – to Tlalocan's magic – spread around Popoxatl's body in a shimmering cover, leaving me no place to strike at.

  I suppressed a curse; but it was hard, seeing Popoxatl's gloating face. Had I come this far for nothing?
  Think.

  The creatures had been able to whittle Mihmatini's wards away to nothing, and their magic had been of Tlalocan. And when Teomitl had rescued me in the Jaguar House, the rush of the Southern Hummingbird's magic had turned Mictlan's knives into obsidian dust. It worked both ways. Huitzilpochtli's magic would destroy Mictlan's; and Mictlan's magic would destroy those wards. I just had to summon it in the proper way.

  Eleuia's outstretched arms closed around my chest. Without thinking, I slashed, and she fell back, screaming in agony. At least she didn't count as human, but she would be back. I couldn't kill her: she didn't belong to my dominion. 

  There was no time.

  I thought of killing the beast of shadows, of the feeling of emptiness that had seized me as I lay on my back, that sense of
being
at work everywhere, in every living thing, coursing through my arm to strike – and drew another knife, my last.

  But I couldn't summon that feeling again. Just the emptiness of Mictlan, waiting to blossom into something more, but not doing so.
Huitzilpochtli blind me!

  Popoxatl was drifting towards me, smiling in a decidedly unpleasant way. Beside him, Tlaloc was whispering something, dripping darkness into his ears.
  There was no time.
  I couldn't…

  My hand tightened around the hilt of the knife. I was a priest of Mictlantecuhtli. Death was my lot, Mictlan the dominion of my god. I would never be a warrior, never bring glory to my calpulli – but I could make sure, now and tomorrow, that there would be other warriors to carry on, to fight the battles of the Fifth World and bring the sacrifices that would keep the sun in the sky.

  I was a priest. And this, here, was where I stood. This was what I had chosen, what I had become.

  Within me, Mictlan was rising: the keening lament of the dead, the grave voice of the Wind of Knives, the smell of rotting bodies and the dry touch of bones on my skin – my consciousness expanding, wrapping itself to encompass every living soul, the children huddled in the courtyards, playing games as the rain fell – their mothers, clutching their bellies and wishing for a quick birth – their fathers, resting with their macuahitl swords and their hoes by their side – the old men and women, chatting about the awful weather – the dead in Mictlan, making their slow journey towards Lord Death's throne and oblivion.

  I was… everything I needed to be.

  My arm descended; and the knife, scything through Huitzilpochtli's wards as if they were nothing, buried itself up to the hilt into Popoxatl's chest. He shrieked: a thin, pained sound like a dying dog, twisting at my heart. Tlaloc screamed, too, but He was already dissolving into nothingness, His voice receding further and further away as he was thrown away from the Fifth World.

  The green light slowly faded, and a huge tremor shook the roots of the ghost tree, like a storm unleashing itself at last. The roots shook and shook, dislodging Father's body, which fell into the depths, still watching me with that unceasing disappointment. 

  But it didn't matter. Father was dead, and this mockery that the Storm Lord had called back into life didn't have any power to hurt. Not any more.

  Around me, the Blessed Drowned were disappearing, one by one: turning into algae, into fish, into foam on the water. Popoxatl's body was sinking down as well, but not very far: ahuizotls were already gathering, tearing at it with their clawed tails.

  My lungs were starting to burn. I welcomed the feeling, for it meant that the rules of the Fifth World applied once more. Now all I needed to do was rise back to the surface, and…

  Neutemoc. He'd been in the tree's roots. But the tree had almost faded to nothing now, with only a few light reflections remaining. Where was he?

  My lungs burnt too much. I kicked upwards, rose to the surface for a moment, under a rainy sky that had nothing of magic any more. Then I took a deep breath, and dived down again. 

  Far, far below, a dark shape lay horizontally in the water. I made my way straight for him, just a few handspans ahead of an ahuizotl; put both hands under his armpits, and pulled upwards. He was heavy, but not as heavy as he had once been in Tlalocan, and rising with him to the surface wasn't as hard as I had feared.

  When I pulled him onto the shores of the small island and laid him down in the mud, though, he wasn't breathing any more.

 

 

I knelt in the mud, and pushed on Neutemoc's chest, struggling to get the water out of his lungs. Around me, the rain fell in a steady patter. But it was just rain, water falling from the darkened sky without Tlaloc's magic at the core of every drop.

  The light was getting dimmer: the sun would soon set. It felt like too much had happened today. But then most of that day had been spent in Tlalocan, where the time was that of the gods. 

  The Fifth World would go on. But Neutemoc…

  Surely… surely I hadn't gone all that way, done all I had, just to lose him.

  Deep, deep down, I knew that the gods had their own rules, and the Duality even more so. I had made my own bargains; had saved Neutemoc from sinking into Tlalocan. But perhaps, in the end, it didn't matter. Perhaps, in the end, he would still be walking with Father in Tlalocan, basking in Father's admiration. 

  No. I couldn't accept that.

  Neutemoc didn't move. My hands snagged on his ribs, and with every push I feared I was going to break bones. But still he didn't move. The tips of his fingers were wrinkled; and blood was starting to settle in the white oval of his face. 

  No.

  "There's water in his lungs," Teomitl said, kneeling by my side. 

  He looked as if he had been through all the levels of Mictlan: his face as pale as the waning moon, his nobleman's clothes stained with mud and blood – and his eyes as deep as abysses, shimmering with the golden colour of the ahuizotls' irises.

  I raised my gaze. Ichtaca leant against the stone altar, his eyes closed. Six or seven of the priests, mostly novice priests, were still unconscious. The others – Ezamahual and the two surviving warriors of the Duality among them – were tending to the wounded. 

  Ixtli's body lay on the stone altar, the priest's noose still tight around his neck. I closed my eyes, briefly. Had I not gone to him, he and his men would still be alive. Had I not asked a favour from him. He had been his own man. He had made his own choices; and they had taken him away from me. There was nothing I could do. Nothing but grieve. 

  "Ichtaca? Palli?" I asked.

  Teomitl laid his hands on Neutemoc's chest, frowning. "Your Fire Priest is made of stone. He's full of scrapes and wounds, but I have no doubt he'll survive. The others–" he shrugged. "They're in the hands of the Duality." 

  Like Neutemoc.

  Teomitl was probing at Neutemoc's bones, carefully. Magic oozed out of the pores of his skin, mingled with my brother's skin. "And your brother?" I asked.

  He shrugged again. "Axayacatl? He probably survived. I don't think things would have held together otherwise."

  I wondered how Ceyaxochitl was faring. Quite the gossip I was turning into. But I needed something, anything, to prevent me from thinking about Neutemoc.

  Teomitl sat back on his heels, his face grave. "He's in bad shape, Acatl-tzin."

  I knew. "Can you…" I'd done enough damage to my family: to Huei, to Neutemoc. Or, more accurately, we'd done enough damage to each other, but I'd still dealt Huitzilpochtli's share of it. "Can you do anything?"

  Teomitl frowned. "I? No. The Jade Skirt, perhaps. But you know there will be a price."
  "I'll pay it," I said.

  Teomitl smiled, without joy. He seemed to have grown up immeasurably since taking on Chalchiutlicue's blessing, turning from a boy into a bitter adult in a matter of hours. "Always ask what the price is before accepting a bargain, Acatl-tzin. Have you learnt nothing?" 

  No, not much. Things about myself; about Father and Neutemoc; that was all. Teomitl was right. An adult, in all the ways that mattered. I didn't think he'd be needing any advice any more.