by Unknown
“I see,” I said, finally, embarrassed by such grief. “Thank you.” I watched her retreat inside the slaves’ quarters, leaving me alone in the courtyard.
The priests had checked Yoltzin’s innocence, but there were ways, if one were prepared, to make it seem as though the maidenhood was intact. They were more commonly used before a wedding, to fool the go-betweens, because cheating the gods was a grave offence.
The sacrifice had been a sham. Rain had come, because the gods can be merciful, and because Yoltzin had not been the only maiden in the Empire to be sacrificed to Xilonen on that day. Rain had come, but the sin had not been forgiven.
With a growing hollow in my stomach, I thought of Huchimitl, alone in that house, with only the memories of her husband to sustain her—memories that were not happy or comforting. It did not look as though Tlalli had had much regard for her at all. It did not look as though she had ever been happy.
I had been such a fool to let her go without a word. I had been such a fool to abandon her.
I rose, came to stand at the heart of the courtyard. The buildings of the house shone under the light of the stars, white walls shimmering as if with heat, and once more I felt myself on the verge of vertigo. Once more the throbbing rose within me, the slow, secret rhythm linking the earth to the buildings, but this time I knew it to be the song of the corn as it slept in the earth. Pain sang in my bones and in my skin, and I knew it was the pain of a flayed woman, waiting for her skin of green maize-shoots to grow thick and strong.
I whispered Her name. “Xilonen.” And Her other name, the one we seldom spoke: “Chicomecoatl.” Seven Serpents, the earth that had to be watered with sweat and blood before it would put forth vegetation.
In my mind’s eye I saw Her, coiled within the house, feeding the buildings with Her light. Gradually, She coalesced at the heart of the courtyard: a monstrous human shape with translucent skin the colour of ripe corn, with hollow eyes that swallowed the light and gave nothing back.
“Priest,” She said, and Her voice, echoing around the walls, was amused. “You are clever.”
“Not clever enough. I should have guessed that a curse that did not come from the underworld had to come from the heavens.”
“Humans could have done this,” Xilonen said, still amused. “But they did not.”
“Why do you punish them? They did not cheat you of your sacrifice.”
Xilonen smiled, an utterly inhuman expression. “Let the sins of the beloved father fall on the beloved son, and onto his beloved war-son, and the sins of the husband be taken up by the wife. I was cheated of My revenge.”
So Tlalli had died a natural death after all. “And is there nothing they could offer, that would make you forget?”
Xilonen shook Her head. “They are Mine. They amuse me: Mazahuatl, that pathetic excuse for a warrior, refusing to acknowledge his bad luck on the battlefield. That arrogant, misguided mother who thinks they can fall no lower. Who thinks I have punished them enough, that I would not dare touch her son’s prisoner. My son has enemies,” She said, mimicking Huchimitl’s voice with a chilling, contemptuous precision. “They have no enemies but Me. And you think to bargain for either of them, priest? You serve no one.”
“I serve Mictlantecuhtli, God of the Dead,” I said, drawing myself to my full height.
The goddess recoiled at the mention of Mictlantecuhtli, He in Whose country nothing grows. I pressed my slim advantage.
“There are rules, and rituals.”
“They offered Me a tainted sacrifice.” Xilonen was growling like a jaguar about to pounce. “They cheated Me of my proper offerings. And you dare bargain for them?”
“There is such a thing as forgiveness. Such a thing as ignorance.”
“Ignorance is not innocence. I will not be cheated, priest, whether knowingly or unknowingly.” Her head, arched back, touched the sky; Her feet were rooted in the earth of the courtyard. She was utterly beyond me: wild, savage, cruel. She could have crushed me with a thought, had I not belonged to a god She had no mastery over.
It had been a long time since my days in calmecac, a long time since I had learnt the hymns for every one of our gods and goddesses. I searched through my faltering memories, and finally said,
“I will offer You sheathes of corn taken from the Divine Fields
Lady of the Emerald
Ears of maize, freshly cut, green and tender
I will anoint You with new plumes, new chalks
The hearts of two deer
The blood of eagles—”
Xilonen was crouching at the heart of the courtyard, watching me, but Her face had taken on an almost dreamy expression.
I went on,
“Let me fill Your hands with snake fangs
With white flowers still in the bud
Turquoise mined from the depths
Goddess of the Barrel Cactus
Our Mother
Our Protector.”
She was smiling at me now, the contented smile of a child. I was not fooled. There is a reason for all those rituals, for all those hymns. They know what things are pleasing to the gods, what things will appease Them. But it had been a great wrong Tlalli and Yoltzin had dealt Xilonen; and still She had quickened the seeds; still She had made the corn grow. She felt entitled to some compensation.
“Will You bargain with me, Lady?” I asked, kneeling before her in the dirt.
Her smile widened—though I could barely see Her, I could feel Her amusement quivering in the air. “You are tenacious, priest—and not unattractive.”
To Chicomecoatl, who was also Xilonen, we gave the hearts of beautiful girls and boys, that they might forever serve Her in heaven. “Is that the price?” I asked.
She smiled. “It is tempting, priest. But not enough.”
“What else would you want?” I asked. “I have nothing else to give but myself.”
“I know that,” She said, reaching out with Her gigantic hand. It shrank as it came near me, until it was only twice the size of mine. She cupped my chin in Her palm, and raised my face to look into Hers. Her touch was warm, slightly moist, like the earth after the rains. Her eyes held the depths of the night.
I held on to my memories of Huchimitl, to what she had meant, and still meant, to me. For too long, I had preserved myself; for too long, I had denied my feelings for her. Now was the time for a true sacrifice. “Is that the price?” I asked again, through lips that seemed to have turned to stone.
Xilonen’s smile was that of a jaguar given human flesh. “Such a beauty,” She whispered. I saw myself in Her eyes, as I had been in my youth, tall and beautiful and arrogant, and then as I was now, older and greyer, kneeling before Her in abject obedience. “Yes,” She said. “It is most satisfactory.”
My skin started itching, as if sloughing away, and then the tingling sensation became stronger and stronger, and I realised what I felt were hands, stroking my back, my chest, the nape of my neck; lips, slowly caressing my fingertips and earlobes until my whole body ached with a desperate need. It was not an unpleasant feeling; although some part of me, clamouring at the back of my mind, knew that it was not natural, that I had just sold myself away.
“Acatl? No!”
The sound pierced my torpor, and I realised it was a voice I knew, calling my name. Xilonen released me; I became aware of the dampness of the ground, crawling up my legs; of the light of the stars above.
Of Huchimitl, who stood before the main doors, her mask glimmering in the cold light. It was an effort to raise my head and look at her.
“He is not Yours,” she said, anger in her voice.
Xilonen laughed. “He offered himself. Freely, to undo the great wrong your husband did to me.”
“He is not Yours,” Huchimitl repeated.
“Whose would he be?” Xilonen asked, mocking. “Yours? You could not hold him.”
“No.” Huchimitl’s voice was toneless. Calmly, she walked forward, until she stood before Xilonen. “If a life
has to be sacrificed, let it be mine.”
“Yours?” Xilonen laughed. “You denied yourself to Me all those years. You hid yourself from My face, cowering in your house, for fear that others would catch a glimpse of you and be forever marked. And you think you are a worthy sacrifice?”
I could not speak. I could not drag myself upwards, to shut Huchimitl’s mouth before she said the irreparable. I could just remain where I was. Watching. Listening. Unable to affect anything.
Huchimitl’s voice, when she spoke next, was very quiet. “You made me a worthy sacrifice,” she said. “You removed me from the human world.” And slowly, deliberately, reached upwards with both hands, and took away her mask.
I heard it clatter to the ground. But it mattered little. I had thought it hid the ruins of the curse, that it would be the face of some monster, painful to look at.
In a way, it was worse.
There was a face, under the mask. It was no longer human. Every feature, transfigured, gleamed with a merciless light. The skin was the colour of burnished copper; the eyes shone like emeralds. The cheekbones were high, ruddy in the starlight, the lips parted to reveal blinding-white teeth, each like a small sun, perfect, searing. If it was beauty, it was the kind that would burn away your eyes: nothing ever meant for human minds to hold or comprehend. My eyes had started to water with that mere sight, and I knew I would be blinded if I had to endure it for much longer. No wonder Huchimitl had not been able to bear that face.
Xilonen turned to stare at Huchimitl, Her head cocked as if admiring Her creation.
“Am I not beautiful?” Huchimitl asked, throwing her head back. Even that mere gesture was alluring. I could not look away, even though my eyes kept burning, burning as if someone had thrown raw chilli powder into my face. “Am I not desirable?”
Xilonen did not answer. Huchimitl came closer, hands outstretched, and laid her fingers on the goddess’ arm. Even I felt the thrill that raced through Xilonen, making the whole world shudder.
“My life for my son’s, and his beloved war-son’s,” Huchimitl said. “Is that not a worthy bargain?”
Xilonen stared at her. She said, at last, “You are not amusing any more. You have accepted My gift.”
Huchimitl cocked her head, in a gesture reminiscent of her creator. “Perhaps,” she said. “Do we have a bargain?” She gestured towards me, contemptuous. “He is nothing.” And this time I knew she was lying.
Xilonen smiled at last, and the feeling of that smile filled the courtyard like a ray of sunlight. “Yes, he is nothing. But do not think you have fooled me into thinking you do not care either.” She laughed. “Nevertheless...we have a bargain.”
The light around Huchimitl grew stronger and stronger, sharpening her features. I kept on looking, even though I knew that my eyesight would be forever dimmed. I kept on looking as she and the goddess vanished from the courtyard, taking away the unearthly light. I thought that, at the last, Huchimitl looked towards me, and that her lips mouthed some words. Perhaps, “I am sorry.” Perhaps, “I love you.” Something, anything to help me bear the grief that now burnt through me.
The buildings were adobe, no longer stark white or wavering; the feeling of oppression had disappeared. I pushed myself to my feet, and met Mazahuatl’s gaze. The young warrior was standing in the doorway, staring at the place where his mother had disappeared. Even with the memory of Xilonen’s light clouding my sight, I could tell his dark aura had vanished. I could guess that Citli would walk to his sacrifice and join the Sun God in the heavens, and that Mazahuatl would receive his promotion.
I did not care.
“Mother?” Mazahuatl asked.
“Remember her,” I said.
I made my unsteady way through the courtyard, passed the gates, and found myself in a deserted street. It was not seemly that a priest for the Dead should grieve, or have regrets. It was not seemly to cry, either.
I stood alone in the street, staring at the stars, and saw them slowly blur as tears ran down my cheeks.
Copyright © 2009 by Aliette de Bodard
Winterblood
Megan Arkenberg
“Don’t lie to me, Leonide.”
Celeste’s heart-shaped face appeared at the edge of my mirror, plum-colored lips pursed deliciously in a scowl. I lowered the kohl pencil I had been using to line my eyes and frowned at my reflection.
“I haven’t said a word to you, darling.”
“But you’re going to.” She took what passed for a deep breath through the tight lacings of her corset. “I’m going to ask you a question, and you must promise not to lie to me.”
“Must I? You’re being delightfully mysterious.” I set my maquillage aside and turned around in my chair. We were in the tiny dressing room of my suite at Chateau Décembre, putting the final touches on our guises for the Midwinter Masque. Celeste had robed herself as the Medusa, in a gown of pale green velvet that left her white arms bare from the shoulder, her soft black hair held in a mass of ringlets by a combination of emerald ribbons and sugar water. I myself dressed as a femme mousquetaire, in a loose gentleman’s coat over a gown of checkered black and gold that displayed my waist and the curve of my breasts to full advantage. A pasteboard saber and feathered mask, both gifts from Celeste, completed the look.
“Leonide!”
“Very well.” I took her tiny hands in mine and drew her down until she was kneeling on the floor in front of me. “I promise to answer any question you put to me with complete and honest candor, complete and candid honesty, and honestly candid completeness.”
She glanced up at me, and I was startled to see tears shining on her cheeks. “You’re a Sang d’Hiver, aren’t you?”
My blood ran cold down to the base of my spine. I hadn’t heard my family’s name said aloud in nearly fifteen years. “Yes,” I whispered, looking at the delicate golden lacings of her sandals so that I wouldn’t need to see her eyes.
“Oh!” I could hear her bracelets jangling as the wrung her hands. “Darling...are the stories true?”
“Which ones?” I asked, though I knew full well. “That the Lord of Winter himself comes on Midwinter of the eldest daughter’s twentieth year, to drink her blood and turn her soul into a buttercup?”
“I heard....” Her voice caught in her throat; it was an annoyingly sentimental trait. “I heard it was a white rose.”
“No, love,” I said, brushing my lips across her knuckles. “It isn’t true—at least, it isn’t anymore. Oh, I suppose some great-great-grandmother of mine may have sold her soul to the devil for a cup of hot soup in midwinter, and I suppose he may have developed a taste for my family’s blood....” A shiver rippled through her arms, and I laughed softly. “Besides, I don’t turn twenty until midnight.”
Celeste wasn’t going to let me off that easily; I could feel it in her grip tightening around my fingers. “Pascal said your mother was taken. He said when you were three—”
“When I was three,” I said sharply, “my mother died of influenza. Now please, darling, don’t talk like that. You know how I hate it when you talk nonsense.”
She nodded, dabbed at her nose with a silk handkerchief, and flashed a quick smile. I placed a hand under her chin and raised her head until our eyes met. With enough gentleness to mask my agitation, I covered her tiny lips with mine and began to kiss her.
She responded with the combination of eagerness and trepidation that made her such a wonderful lover, her hands clutching at mine as I twined my fingers into her curls, her lips parting wetly beneath my tongue. She moaned, a low, animal sound in the back of her throat.
I lifted my mouth from hers, just long enough to whisper, “I won’t leave you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” I kissed her again, a light touch at the corner of her lips. Then I turned back to the mirror to finish my preparations for the Midwinter Bal Masqué.
♦ ♦ ♦
It was the fifth masquerade I had attended at Chateau Décembre, and I swear
Pascal fought to outdo himself each year. The ballroom was decorated as a winter wonderland, with strings of crystal wrapped around the columns and dangling from the chandeliers. Thick folds of white diamond-studded linen hung over the balcony railing, dripping all the way to the floor like a frozen waterfall. In place of the customary ice-sculptures and wax fruits, thousands of beadwork roses served as centerpieces on the massive banquet table.
Like his sister, Pascal had chosen his costume from the Metamorphoses: Orpheus, in a loose cobalt robe that brought out the blue in his eyes just as Celeste’s gown deepened the green. Instead of ribbons, he wore a crown of silk leaves in his black hair.
He greeted us at the foot of the balcony staircase, kissing his sister on the cheek and me on the wrist. “Leonide, love, I’m so pleased to see you’ve brought your own weapons to the ball this time.” He nodded towards the sword at my waist.
“Your grandfather’s suit of armor wasn’t using it, darling, and we all know Yvon was asking for it.” I smiled at the memory. “What about you, Orpheus? Do you plan on playing us a song?”
“Do you see a lyre anywhere?” Pascal gestured broadly, making his golden armlets ring together like bells. “If you’re looking for music, I’m sure Celeste will be happy to sing for you.”
I laughed and turned to ask Celeste’s opinion on the matter, but she was gone.
“Now where in the world....”
A silvery laugh sounded across the room, and I looked over to find Celeste standing at the far end of the banquet hall, deep in conversation with the Lord of Winter himself.
I’m not one for omens, but the young man’s costume sent a shiver down my spine. In addition to the black coat, white half-mask, and silver riding quirt that were the distinguishing features of my family’s legendary nemesis, he also carried a white rose in his pocket; a detail that, so far as I knew, was only included in the Sang d’Hivers’ tale. It didn’t help that the young man in question was extraordinarily beautiful, and Celeste clung onto every word he said.