Her head snapped towards him, and she looked startled. “Ehecatl? What are you—” She blinked. “Oh, gods.”
He held up a hand. Images of his entire life swirled before his eyes, and realization, too. This is Quetzalcoatl. The life of my people, the lord of mercy and light. While he lives, there is still hope for my people. And he is sorely wounded. And by Obsidian Butterfly? Ehecatl licked his lips, and said, with careful deliberation, “If there is anything I might do for him . . . if my life would be of assistance . . . I give it, freely.”
You have always been . . . my good servant, Serpentshadow . . . . A shock went through Ehecatl at the sound of those words. Lassair had occasionally called him by his Name over the years. But never had he heard it in the voice of one of his own gods. It shook him to his core. . . . which is why . . . I protected you . . . shielded your memory . . . from the others. Didn’t . . . deserve their malice . . . . It was a whisper, but still carried power with it. Stormborn . . . Lady of the Wilds . . . tend me if you wish . . . but I do not have the strength to enter the Veil on my own. If I die here, I will destroy this city, this refuge.
And throughout our entire journey through the Veil to here, Obsidian Butterfly pursued us, a new voice said, and Ehecatl looked up at the power in it. It seemed to be emanating from the lindworm. Certainly, Kanmi, Minori, and Adam were looking at the beast. He could see Sigrun and Saraid placing their hands on Quetzalcoatl’s body, and watched the wounds begin to knit. She will be waiting for us in the Veil. I do not like running. I would rather fight. But the only outcome of that fight would be her capturing you and taking you back to the mortal realm to finish what she has begun. Stormborn, can you and Saraid heal him enough that he might be able to defend himself, if I take him once more into the Veil?
I am working on it, Sigrun said, her eyes closed as she concentrated. This would be much easier if you would permit Lassair to assist us . . . .
No. Not within . . . my avatar . . . . Quetzalcoatl’s pain tore at Ehecatl, and he moved closer, and, greatly daring, put a hand on the god’s sandal, lowering his head. Offering whatever he could of himself, little as it was. What little strength he had left, was there for the asking.
“How did this . . . how did this happen?” Mazatl asked, his voice stunned and distant.
Ītzpāpālōtl has grown strong, fighting the Quecha and the Gauls. The words were overlain with agony, as another wound was closed. Anoku, first, a death-god. Then Ixchel, the crone, the midwife, the healer. Cizin and Cum Hau, too. Two more death-gods. And Vucub-Caquix. The demon bird of the ancient skies . . . he has lost power over the centuries, thanks to the Hero Twins, but Ītzpāpālōtl feasted on him. And then she turned against us.
“The Hero Twins?” Adam asked, sounding blank.
“The most-loved gods of the Quecha,” Ehecatl supplied, still kneeling, though his legs ached from it. “They were human-born, or so the tales say. Their father and uncle were challenged to a ball-game by the oldest and most arrogant gods, and when they were about to beat the gods, the gods tore them apart. They were reincarnated as twins in the womb of one of their wives . . . and killed and bound dozens of the ancient gods, before ascending. Becoming the sun and the moon.”
They were god-born? Sigrun asked, quietly, as she healed another of the savage claw-marks on Quetzalcoatl’s chest. Her fingers were stained turquoise with his blood.
They were . . . spirits defeated by the other Quecha gods . . . faced with death, they poured their essences into the children nestled under the heart of one of their human mates . . . twins. His voice was somewhat less pained. The brothers tried to revive their spirit-fathers with their Names, but only a feeble spark returned. They are among my people’s staunchest foes, at the moment. Before, they always . . . stood against . . . the arrogance of the gods.
That prompted a faint snort from Adam’s direction, which Ehecatl ignored as the god sat up, slowly . . . and his wounds began to re-open. Sigrun swore out loud and dropped to her knees, hands splayed over the wounds, and Saraid moved in, her face distraught, trying to heal the god as well. You will die if you do not rest, Lassair said suddenly, and sharply. If you will not accept my help, at least accept my advice. Sisters! Take of my power!
There are just too many wounds. Most are not to the body, but to his spirit. His essence has been sorely depleted. Saraid sounded strained, but Ehecatl barely noticed. Quetzalcoatl’s eyes were suddenly looking into Ehecatl’s own. And the gaze of the Morning Star filled his world.
I can hear . . . the echoes of words . . . spoken recently. Would you really . . . go among our people, Serpentshadow? Work to save them . . . if you had the power?
Beside him, Mazatl stirred, and Ehecatl managed speak before his son could protest. “I would,” Ehecatl said firmly, but he could feel tremors in his hands and legs. He was shaking. “I have spent my life in service to my people, and to Rome. I would do it again.”
And how would you accomplish this?
Mazatl whispered, “Father—”
Ehecatl held up a shaking hand. “I would go to the commanders of the Jaguar and Eagle warriors who are doing this. I would question them, till I found which ones were being forced into this, out of fear for their families, and which ones were . . . enthusiastic participants in the sacrifices.” He cleared his throat. “I would take the ones who are being forced, and ensure the safety of their families, and either remove them from Nahautl, or turn them against the rest.” His fingers balled into a fist. “The sacrifices cannot go on. The war against Gaul cannot go on. Even if it means civil war . . . .”
We are already at war with ourselves. And everyone else. Chalchiuhtlicue turned against the rest of us, allied with Chaac, in the hopes of growing to power once more. Of leading the others, or subjugating them . . . and perhaps saving our people. I do not know. Ītzpāpālōtl turned against us. It is every hand turned against one another now. The god’s head sagged, as if his strength was draining with his blood. I am sorry to ask this of you. You, who were named for me. For the god of the wind.
Ehecatl’s eyes stung, but he repressed it. “You require a sacrifice, my lord?”
There was no reply, but Mazatl said, sharply, “Father, no. Please. No. Let me—”
“You have a wife, Mazatl. You have children.” He turned and looked at his son. “Your mother died many years ago. My children are grown. And you have made me very proud.” He reached out, and touched his son’s arm, lightly. “Pass on what I’ve taught you.”
“Ehecatl—” ben Maor’s voice was raw. “For god’s sake—”
“Yes,” Ehecatl said. “For my god’s sake. For my people’s. I would not be forced into this by a priest of Tlaloc.” He turned back to Quetzalcoatl. “But it is my honor to give this. Because it is what I can do.”
He reached for the obsidian knife he still carried with him, tucked at the small of his back, prepared to slide it into his own heart. The god stopped him, catching his hand by the wrist. No . . . not a death. A life. I may have . . . enough control . . . to let you remain . . . aware.
And then power flowed through him, the kind of power that could create and destroy. Light and wind and mercy, as well as the vengeful fury of the Morning Star. Ehecatl opened his eyes as the power unmade him from within, and looked around hazily. Saw the frozen tears on Sigrun’s face, and wondered, fleetingly, if he’d ever know what had happened to her. He managed a smile, and thought, It’s all right, old friend . . . . and then turned and looked at his son. His last thought, as his blood burned inside of him, was, This isn’t so bad, Maz-pilli . . . .
A thousand images, all of his life. Training with the Jaguar warriors. Kissing his wife, Coszcatl, for the first time, under a bridge in Tenochtitlan—remembering as if it were happening, all over again. Holding his infant son in his arms, and being struck by the wonder of the obsidian eyes looking up at him muzzily. So small, fragile, and perfect. His to protect. Being sent to Rome for the first time—an honor, to be sure, but it was cold there, and th
e people were colder, calculating minds and hearts. Becoming a Praetorian, and rarely getting to see his family. Regrets, joys, sorrows. Becoming a lictor, working with Sigrun and Adam and finally retiring early to go train Jaguar warriors. Back in the perfect, green heart of the world, the jungles of southern Nahautl. Home. And then . . . the children all growing up. Moving away. Mazatl half a world away. Coszcatl dying. A protracted wasting disease, with many surgeries and more medications. Watching the light slip from her eyes in a hospital room in the early hours of the morning.
Quetzalcoatl looked up and felt, to his inexpressible relief, the presence of his avatar’s original spirit, still burning within him—indwelling. They were bound, and always would be, and the man’s life had enriched his essence. Not just in terms of a raw human sacrifice . . . but in terms of a life lived, and lived well. He knew each of these people around him now, through Ehecatl Itztli’s eyes, as well as through his own. His old avatar was a mass of dust on the floor, and he covered his face for a moment with his hands. My old friend, he said, quietly. Cualli. He and I were one for six hundred years. He is still in my mind and spirit. And your Ehecatl . . . lives on.
“Does he?” Steelsoul asked respectfully, but with a hint of challenge in his voice. “Can he speak to us?”
He is weak now. He must adjust, and adapt. I have done this many times. He has never before shared himself with another, as he must learn to do now. Quetzalcoatl looked at the others, and what his Veil senses showed him in Truthsayer and Emberstone left Ehecatl-within stunned. Amaterasu was able to be gentler with you, Truthsayer. She had more time to adapt your form. But you, Kanmi Emberstone, you know of what I speak, though Baal-Hamon was far less gentle with you. He stood, the feathers of his mask and headdress brushing the ceiling. I know you all, now, as he does. He honors you. Respects you. Trusts you. He nodded to Lassair. Forgive my lack of trust, fireling.
He turned back to Sigrun Stormborn and Niðhoggr, and bowed formally. I give you thanks for your assistance. And I ask that you, young goddess and you, dragon-god, akin to me in power, take me to Valhalla. That I might meet with your lord and lady, and . . . offer them my alliance. Since I am now an exile, I will seek asylum with them. And their assistance with taking back my people from my brethren. Every one of his brethren had accepted sacrifices at this point. Quetzalcoatl had accepted Ehecatl’s life, willingly offered . . . but hadn’t required his death. There was a difference. Will you take me?
Stormborn straightened, and she wiped away her frozen tears. Odin tells me to bring you, as you request, and to pay you every courtesy. Which I would do anyway, for I have ever respected you. But today, you have saved and enriched the life of one of my very oldest friends. I would honor you forever for that. She inclined her head, in deep respect. And he has already left a mark on you, has he not?
Only then did Quetzalcoatl look down at himself, and realized, to his mild surprise, that Ehecatl’s tattoos still showed on his skin. They were, however, made of shining light now, not the heavy black marks that had run and spread with age. Every binding goes both ways, he said, quietly. The binder is bound. And we change each other. He turned, and looked at Mazatl. Be at peace, young one. Your father wishes you to know that he loves you, and his grandchildren. And we will both watch over you. For many years to come, if we can help it. He glanced back at Stormborn. We must go.
Adam had watched, helplessly, as one of his oldest friends was assumed as an avatar. He remembered, vividly, that Inti’s avatar—the man who had once owned that body—had been able to speak separately from the wounded, weakened god. And he prayed, fully cognizant the irony of it, that Ehecatl’s spirit would remain separate enough that he would remain a full person, beneath the mask that Quetzalcoatl wore. A thought burned deep inside of him: Am I the only person left who values being human? Am I the only person on earth who’s choosing to remain what I am? And is there even a point, anymore?
Adam went to the window to watch Sigrun mount up on Nith’s back in the garden, and Quetzalcoatl rose into the air beside them. Once free of the constraints of the walled garden, however, he shimmered, and assumed what could only be his battle-form—an enormous winged serpent, easily the size of Nith, with a long ridge of feathers. Then both vanished. I’m surprised Sigrun left Mazatl with his memories, he thought, his lips curling down. Then again, he’s a follower of another god. That might be rude. He glanced at the younger man, and put a hand on his shoulder. Mazatl looked . . . lost. It was odd to realize, but Adam was only about ten years older than Ehecatl’s son. It felt as if a lifetime separated them. “You all right, Mazatl?”
Mazatl took a moment, and then swallowed. “No, commander. I just lost my father.” His voice was leaden. After another pause, however, he then added, “I will be, though. In time.”
Martius 14-Aprilis 17, 1996 AC
Sigrun had marked the anniversary of Livorus’ death by serving as Amaterasu’s—and Minori’s!—guard for their first meeting with Sekhmet, which had taken some time to broker. How odd that we should be plotting the assassination of a Roman god on the day on which the best Roman I ever knew met his death at the hands of an assassin, she’d thought, and put it aside. The world was coming apart at the seams. She didn’t like the necessity, but if it came down to millions more people dying, or one intransigent god meeting his end . . . she’d pick the god’s death every time. Even if it were not, strictly speaking, on the honorable field of battle. My ethics have been compromised. Possibly from the moment I accepted what I am. I am quite sure that that is what Adam would tell me. I can see it in his eyes every time we discuss the topic around him. He’s the one who’s advised me on the benefits of sneak attacks and ambushes for years, of achieving strategic advantages, and attacking from a position of strength. He has to know that this proposed action chafes at me . . . She shook her head. It didn’t do any good to think about it.
Sekhmet was more than willing to turn on Jupiter—the lion-headed goddess was savagely angry at the gods of Rome for what she perceived as their betrayal of the fundamental agreement every nation and every god had had with Rome—obey our laws, and we will defend you, when the time comes. The world had obeyed, and Rome had not lived up to its end of the bargain. But the major problem with Amaterasu’s plan was getting a message to Jupiter that he would believe. Mercury was obviously not an option. Iris was hidden with Minerva and Athena somewhere so deep in the Veil that not even Loki could find them.
Sekhmet and the rest of Egypt had technically been in a state of rebellion. Amaterasu, however, was a god of a foreign nation, even if that nation was currently dispersed. She probably could go to Olympus, ask to meet with Jupiter, and be admitted. But then what? Kanmi asked the others, pragmatically. You can’t kill him in the Veil, and what could you possibly say to get him to leave this bastion? You need an intermediary. One he’ll trust. Or he needs to get the information from someone . . . torture it out of the poor bastard, probably. Someone who won’t break, or at least, won’t break fast. And that’s a horrible way to set up the trap.
They were in a tent at Sekhmet’s camp outside of Judea, the cool Martius wind rushing in through the cracks. Sigrun tasted snow on that breeze, and closed her eyes to try to fight it back. Kanmi had taken to mind-speech with ease, probably because of his seven years of being unable to manifest a body. I don’t deny that he would be a useful ally, or that he’s being unjustly tortured. He took Min’s hand in his own, as he always did when the subject of torture came up. There must be someone left.
There is, Sigrun said. Though I despise myself for suggesting this. Nith’s head, the only part of him that could fit inside the tent, lifted slightly as his eyes focused on her.
Sekhmet’s fierce amber eyes glowed like a cat’s in the low light of the brazier inside her tent. What do you mean?
You mean to use your sister? Amaterasu asked, Minori’s face turning sorrowful.
My ethics are slipping, Sigrun admitted, stone-faced. Once, I objected to allowing Prometheus to touch
her mind. Now? I will lie to her, and with her thoughts being open to Apollo of Delphi, Apollo of Rome will hear what we want him to hear. Guilt and necessity warred in her mind, and necessity won. Of course, Apollo of Rome is not a fool. He knows that we know that Apollo of Delphi hears what she hears . . . . and that I would not be unguarded with my sister. So what I tell her must be carefully thought on, so that he must puzzle it out, and think himself quite brilliant . . . and bring it to Jupiter as a prize. Sigrun looked off into the mid-distance. I would very much like, she added, inconsequentially, to kill Apollo of Delphi someday. But there is a certain pleasure in the thought of using him, as he has used my sister.
Kanmi’s grin became vicious. I like the notion. In this way, they will convince themselves. You can’t give it all at once, Sig. It will have to be dribbled out.
Sigrun’s smile was so faint as to be indiscernible. You are our resident expert on intelligence operations and getting people to buy a story, Kanmi. You were very successful in your undercover work.
I don’t know about that. It got me killed. He sent Minori an apologetic glance.
There is that, Sigrun acknowledged, swallowing hard. You were good at it. I am . . . not good at lying. I will need help to make myself even remotely convincing.
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