Obsidian & Blood

by Aliette De Boddard

  "I'm not a leader," I said.

  "Then be a figurehead," Ichtaca said. He sounded – not angry, but desperate. "Most priests in this temple haven't even seen your face. You keep to your house. You keep to yourself. It can't work. If all you wanted was this, you should have stayed in Coyoacan."

  "Understand this," I said, annoyed now. "I didn't ask to be posted here. I wanted to stay in Coyoacan." Doing what I had always done: caring for the small, the forgotten; those who could not attain the glorious ends of warriors, but who would still be mourned.

  Ichtaca made a grimace. Plainly, he didn't believe me. "It's a political appointment."

  "Yes," I snapped. "The Guardian campaigned for it."

  "You had to–"

  "Refuse? How do you refuse an Imperial Edict?"

  He knew, as I well did, that you couldn't.

  Ichtaca was silent for a while. "You may not have wanted it, but it doesn't change anything. Everyone needs someone to look up to, and you're not filling this space."

  "I can't," I said. "You know I can't."

  Ichtaca's face tightened. "Be there. In this temple. Know what goes on. Speak to everyone, offering priest or novice priest. I can do the rest."

  "And that's all you want?"

  "No," Ichtaca said. "I want you to lead us. But it will have to do, for the time being."

  "That's not…"

  "It is possible," Ichtaca said.

  "Not right now," I said, obscurely embarrassed. "I have to leave on a journey."

  Ichtaca's face didn't move, but I knew the expression. Disappointment. Anger. It was the one Father had borne all his life; and even in the blankness of death I'd still seen it engraved on his face.

  "When I come back…" I said.

  Ichtaca smiled, half-sadly, half-angrily. He didn't believe me. And I couldn't blame him. But I'd never been meant for this place, for this function. Everything in this temple confirmed that I was just a fraud.

  If only I could resign. But it wasn't a possibility.

  "I'll be gone for six days," I said.

  Ichtaca smiled, though there was no joy in it. "On an official journey?"

  "No, not quite," I said, embarrassed. "It has to do with Priestess Eleuia."

  Ichtaca pursed his lips. I didn't like the light that had come into his eyes. "It's an official journey, then. Take two of the priests with you."

  "But–"

  "I won't let it be said that our High Priest has no escort when he goes on temple business."

  He looked at me: like Teomitl, waiting for me to defy him, to contradict his authority. Knowing that I couldn't. "Very well," I said. "I'll take the priests. We'll talk about the rest when I come back."

  I was once more avoiding confrontation, but there was no other way. Huei had to be avenged; and I had to understand who was threatening Neutemoc, who was threatening Mihmatini and my nephews and nieces.

  Because they were the only priests I knew, I asked Ezamahual and Palli to come with us. Both of them looked surprised by the request. In fact, knowing their taste for staying inside the temple, I would have expected them to refuse. But of course, no one could refuse their High Priest.

  "Where are we going?" Ezamahual asked.

  "Chalca. And then to the foot of Popocatepetl's volcano."

  "I'll take some supplies," Palli said.

  He also took along Ezamahual, who as a novice priest was beneath him in the hierarchy of the temple. When they both came out of the storehouse, Ezamahual was burdened with equipment: he carried several cages containing macaws and owls, and a heavy bag that Palli would not let me open. "You never know what you might need, Acatl-tzin."

  We went back to Neutemoc's house. My brother was waiting for us in the courtyard, with one slave by his side: a tall, dour fellow by the name of Tepalotl, who carried my brother's bag.

  "Priests?" Neutemoc asked, looking sceptically at Ezamahual and Palli.

  Palli bristled. "The High Priest's escort," he said.

  "I see," was all Neutemoc would say. "Mihmatini said she had something to give us."

  My sister finally emerged from the house, with a bundle of maize flatbread. "You'll need that," she said, handing it to Palli. The smell of spices wafted from her callused hands – and for an eerie moment she was the image of Mother, standing in the courtyard, watching Father go out to the fields, in those bygone days when Neutemoc and I had still been children, daring each other to dive in the lake.

  I shook my head, still hearing Ceyaxochitl's voice. Everyone has to grow up, Acatl.

  "Anything wrong?" Mihmatini asked.

  She'd always been perceptive. Too much, perhaps. "No, nothing. Thank you," I said.

  "I'll put more wards up," Mihmatini said. "That might just fool them into thinking Neutemoc is still here."

  It might. It couldn't hurt, in any case. "Don't overexert yourself."

  She shrugged. "I can handle it."

  Neutemoc and Tepalotl were already outside, waiting for me, not speaking. With my spell of true sight still on Neutemoc, he'd had some misgivings about stepping so near the creatures. But Mihmatini's protection still held: the creatures approached, but could not see him, and soon lost interest.

  We walked the first section of the journey in silence, Palli, Ezamahual and Neutemoc's slave in tow. I kept looking back, to see the creatures still frantically attacking the walls of Neutemoc's house. I feared they'd follow us, that one of them would turn and see my brother. But they didn't. Our protection spell hung firm, and we were soon out of sight.

  We went south on the crowded Itzapalapan causeway, looking for the nearest boat to Chalco. Women from the southern suburbs passed us, going to the Tlatelolco marketplace to sell the wares on their backs: woven cloth of maguey fibres, ceramic bowls and tanned leather skins.

  The Itzapalapan Causeway was the largest of all three causeways linking the mainland to Tenochtitlan. It forked near the shore: depending on the path you chose, two or three hours' walk would lead to Culhuacan or Coyoacan. On the fork was a fort manned by warriors with the Imperial insignia and, a little further down, a harbour where Palli bargained with a fisherman for passage to Chalco.

  Ezamahual stood at my side, watching his fellow priest. "He's always been good at this," he said, with an encouraging smile at me. Trying to draw me out, I guessed – and was grateful to him for the attention.

  "So I see."

  "He's the one who trades at the marketplace for the storehouse." Palli finished his bargaining, and handed the fisherman a small purse. "There you go," he said. "A day's journey."

  The fisherman's reed boat was larger than the ones our temple owned, and the small one in which Oyohuaca and I had chased Huei through the canals. We fitted, quite comfortably, in the front, even with Ezamahual's load of equipment.

  As the fisherman pushed away from the shore, Neutemoc turned towards the city of Tenochtitlan, outlined in the morning sun: the gates leading to the southern districts of Moyotlan and Zoquipan; and the shadow of the Great Temple rising above all the pyramids of the Sacred Precinct. His face was a mask, and he did not speak a word.

  In silence, we went south, leaving Lake Texcoco for Lake Xochimilco and the maze of Floating Gardens that sustained Tenochtitlan's agriculture. Even though it was daytime, I kept my eyes out for ahuizotls; but there was nothing in the water but weeds and algae. The steady splash of the oars was the only noise punctuating the journey: the boat, navigating unerringly between the rows of artificial lands, passed from Lake Xochimilco into Lake Chalco – before leaving us, late in the evening, at the limestone gates of the city of Chalco.

  Before the gates, soldiers in feather regalia manned a fort much like the ones at the exit of Tenochtitlan. They had throwing spears and feather-covered shields, adorned with an upright coyote. They watched us with a bored air: we were only the last of a steady stream of travellers seeking passage through the city.

  There were inns for travelling merchants, but Neutemoc had no wish to mingle with those he saw as
his social inferiors. He was being ridiculous, and I argued with him about this, but he wouldn't budge. We ended up camping in a field, some hundred measures away from the city's first houses.

  The air was warm, saturated with the promise of rain. The dry season was still upon us: Lake Chalco had sunk to low levels, revealing the woven mat-and-branches structure of the numerous Floating Gardens in the vicinity.

  Neutemoc sat against a wizened tree, his whole body tense. He had spoken few words during the journey, sinking into a silence I wasn't sure I liked.

  "Acatl?" he asked.

  I raised my head. "Yes?"

  "Can you see whether those – things – are here?"

  "They haven't followed us," I said.

  "Is that a guess, or an observation?"

  I had been keeping a watch, but had relaxed it on the last leg of our journey. "How would they come here?" I asked.

  "So you're not sure."

  He had some nerve asking me this, after seemingly not caring about staying in his besieged house. "No," I snapped.

  "Can you see?" Neutemoc asked again.

  I was tired, and the last thing I wanted was to draw more of my blood to fuel a spell. But it was clear Neutemoc was going to work at me until I gave in.

  I turned to Ezamahual, Palli, and Neutemoc's slave Tepalotl, who had been watching this in silence. "Can you do a spell of true sight?"

  Palli shrugged. "Not a problem. What are we looking for?"

  "Anything suspicious," I said. I described the creatures as best as I could.

  In the waning light, Ezamahual's face became pale, leached of colours. "They don't sound very friendly," he said.

  Palli was already rummaging in Ezamahual's pack, withdrawing a caged owl and a purse of what looked like dayflower. "Come on," he said. "Let's go."

  Neutemoc said, "Take Tepalotl if you're going far away from the camp. You'll need some kind of protection while you cast those spells." His lips were pursed: clearly he didn't believe in their fighting abilities.

  Neutemoc's slave Tepalotl followed my two priests in silence, leaving both of us at our improvised campsite. Neutemoc and I unpacked the maize flatbreads and the flasks of water, preparing the small meal we would eat. Kneeling in the mud, we looked at each other for a while, the same thought on our minds: could we start a fire here?

  Neutemoc was the first to shake his head. "Too damp," he said. "Unless you have a spell."

  "You don't summon gods for trifles," I said.

  Neutemoc smiled, briefly. "Then we'll just be damp, won't we?"

  Palli, Ezamahual and the slave Tepalotl were walking back towards us. Ezamahual was carrying the limp body of the owl in his hands, and looking puzzled.

  "Nothing," Palli said, curtly, when they reached the camp. "Not a trace of anything magical."

  "Good," Neutemoc said. He inclined his head a fraction. "Thank you."

  I couldn't help feeling relieved. It was one thing to have Ceyaxochitl's assurances that all would be well once we left Tenochtitlan, and another to actually see it happen.

  Palli, Ezamahual and Tepalotl took their share of food, and drew back from us: my two priests at the edge of the camp, talking quietly among themselves, and Neutemoc's slave a bit further, standing guard in the darkness.

  Neutemoc didn't speak for a while. He reached for one of the maize flatbreads, and cradled it in the palm of his hands, staring at the darkening skies.

  "It brings one back," he said at last. "All of this."

  I swallowed a bite of my flatbread. If he was in a talkative mood, I'd be a fool not to draw him out, to understand why someone was threatening him. Although I feared it was going to cost me. So far, I hadn't seen much to explain why he'd behaved in such a spectacularly foolish fashion. "It must have changed in sixteen years."

  "Not that much," Neutemoc said. "Places don't change. People – that's another story." His voice was bitter.

  "Eleuia?" I asked.

  Neutemoc didn't answer for a while. "Let's not bring her up, shall we? We'll disagree. And I wasn't thinking about her."

  He was in a melancholy mood tonight. "About whom, then?" I asked.

  He smiled, a flash of white teeth in the growing darkness. "There was a time when all I wanted was the certainty that I would live until the morrow."

  "War is that way." I felt like an impostor. I'd never been to war, after all.

  Two days ago, Neutemoc would have risen to the bait, taunting me with what I'd failed to accomplish with my life. "Life was simpler, back then," he said.

  "Yes." I thought of my small temple in Coyoacan, of comforting the bereaved, tracking down underworld monsters. Simple things. But life, it seemed, was no longer that simple, either for Neutemoc or for me.

  Neutemoc finished the last of his flatbread, and wiped his hands clean. "Things change. You grow stale, complacent. Sometimes, you deserve your own fall."

  Stale? Yes, stale. His growing indifference to Huei had certainly done little to close the growing breach between them. As for his attempted adultery with Eleuia…

  He went on, "When I first came here with the army, I used to go for walks at night, to think on the following day's battle. One night, I met an old peasant carrying a basket of maize kernels. He asked what I wanted to do with my life. I told him of my dreams – to earn fame and fortune on the battlefield; to have a grand house, and a loving wife, and to move through the Imperial circles."

  The story's familiarity pulled me from my angry thoughts. "And?" I asked, though I suspected where the story was going.

  "He just smiled. 'You will have all of this and more, young warrior. But remember: I always hold the dice.' And he was gone as though he'd never been."

  I nodded. "Tezcatlipoca." The Smoking Mirror, God of War and Fate: He who controlled the destinies of men.

  "Whoever he was, he was right." Neutemoc sighed. "Life is just another, vaster patolli board on which the gods move us at Their whim. The things you have, you can lose so easily. They're just not worth holding."

  "You're a warrior," I said, finally. "You're not supposed to wallow in your own misery."

  Neutemoc's eyes flashed in anger, but he didn't answer. "We need someone to stand guard," he said, rising. He walked to where Palli and Ezamahual sat, and said something to them in a low voice. They nodded.

  Neutemoc came back, and lay down on the ground, ready to sleep. "They'll take turns," he said.

  I nodded, not feeling inclined to talk further with him.

  "We'll reach Amecameca tomorrow at noon," Neutemoc said. "There's a hill where Eleuia buried the body of her child. You'll see for yourself that he's dead."

  I shrugged. "Maybe." Even if my instincts were wrong, and the child had nothing to do with this, something had happened in the Chalca Wars: something that Eleuia had wanted to hide so badly she'd been ready to kill for it.

  I woke up at dawn, my clothes soaked by the mud and the morning dew. Neutemoc was already up. He was going through some exer cises with his macuahitl sword, hacking and slashing at cacti as if they'd personally offended him.

  Palli, Ezamahual and I withdrew from the camp, making our offerings of blood to Lord Death. The sky was cloudy, and the sun nowhere to be seen: a gloomy, wet pall stretched over the marshes, clinging to everything it touched. I hoped it wouldn't rain today. There were few more unpleasant things than finding oneself without shelter on marshy ground.

  We ate one of the flatbreads, waiting for Neutemoc to finish killing innocent plants.

  "Feeling frustrated?" I asked.

  He didn't even rise to my jibe. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

  We walked the rest of the way to Amecameca, with the snowcapped heights of Popocatepetl's and Ixtaccihuatl's volcanoes looming ever larger over us.

  The land became drier, the lakes forgotten behind us, and the ground deepening into valleys and hills, with grass and conifers gradually replacing the sparse marsh vegetation.

  Neutemoc didn't speak much. From time to time, he'd p
oint out a place, and say things such as, "This is where we fought the first Chalca regiments." But he was again sunk into that melancholy mood he'd shown in Chalco, reliving the past and the carefree days of his youth.

  Towards mid-afternoon, we reached Amecameca, a small town nestled at the foot of a hill. Neutemoc pointed to the heights above us. "That's the place," he said. "The hill of Our Mother."

  I craned my neck. At the top of the hill was a small, ornate adobe building with red flags: a shrine to Teteoinan, Mother of the Gods.

  "We took it sixteen years ago," Neutemoc was saying. "A hardfought battle."

  "That's where Eleuia buried her child?" I asked.

  "You'll see," Neutemoc said.

  It was a small hill, dwarfed by the much larger volcanoes behind it. The ascent wasn't long. A steady flow of pilgrims came from Amecameca to make their offerings at the shrine: peasants, with their hands full of maize and feathers, and a procession of merchants leading a woman slave in a white cotton tunic, who would be sacrificed to the goddess.