Servant of the Underworld

by Aliette de Bodard

  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.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Small Vigils

  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. "Th
ey'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.

  Teomitl laid his hands on Neutemoc's chest again, pushed down, hard. Light blazed from his fingers, wrapped itself around my brother's body: a green luminescence much like the reflections of light on jade, which uneasily called to mind the depths of Tlalocan, and the memory of the pulsing roots, and of Father, laid out among them like a living offering.

  I heard Chalchiutlicue laugh, in my mind. Priest, She whispered, and suddenly She stood behind Teomitl, Her hands outstretched to cover his head, a mocking parody of the Storm Lord's position at Popoxatl's side.

  You used Teomitl. But then we'd all used each other.

  "He's in My land," the Jade Skirt whispered, and Her voice was the lament of the wind over the stormy lake. "But not so far gone. I can give him back to you."

  "I'll pay the price," I whispered, again.

  She laughed. "Such impatience. You owe Me a favour, priest. One day, I'll come and claim it from you."

  And then She was gone, and Teomitl's magic had sunk down to nothing again. And Neutemoc was coughing up stale water, struggling to rise. I'd never thought I'd be so happy to see him moving.

  "Acatl?" Neutemoc asked, his voice rasping in his throat.

  I took his hand, pulled him to a sitting position. "Welcome back."

  Neutemoc grimaced. "So is the Fifth World over?" He stared at the sky, and at the gathered priests. On the lake, a flotilla of boats was making its way towards us. In the prow of the first one was the familiar figure of Ceyaxochitl. "I guess not."

  "No," I said.

  Neutemoc closed his eyes. "I remember Father…"

  I waited for him to remember the rest, how I'd almost let go of him in my selfish urge to judge him. But at length he said, "I guess I owe you."

  I shrugged. "Nothing much." Chalchiutlicue would claim Her debt, but there was nothing I could do about that.

  Neutemoc sat in the mud, watching the lake. I made my way towards the altar, and found Ezamahual tending to Palli. "How is he?" I asked.

  "Nothing serious," Ezamahual said. "He hit his head when the boat capsized. He'll survive."

  "And the others?" I asked, slowly, already knowing the answer.

  Ezamahual's gaze was distant. "Two novice priests are dead. And some of them won't live out the night."

  "I see."

  "They gave their lives for the Fifth World," Ezamahual said, his voice toneless, as if reciting something learnt by rote. "It's our only destiny."

  It was. But it didn't mean we wouldn't mourn them. Like Quechomitl, like Commander Quiyahuayo, they would ascend into the Heaven of the Sun, to find their afterlife far more pleasant than the toil of this world. But we would still miss them.

  I, more than anyone: for I had used them, barely knowing them. I knelt, slowly, by the altar and Ixtli's body, and whispered the first words of a prayer for the Dead:

  "We leave this earth

  This world of jade and flowers The quetzal feathers, the silver…"

  When the flotilla of boats reached the island, Ceyaxochitl was the first on the ground. Accompanied by Yaotl, she made her way towards me with her usual energy, and a frown on her face which told me I would have a number of explanations to give her.

  "I see you're alive," Ceyaxochitl said, with a snort. Her eyes took in my priests, slumped on the ground; Ichtaca, who still hadn't opened his eyes; Neutemoc, sitting cross-legged in the mud; and Teomitl, standing by my brother's side, oozing Chalchiutlicue's magic. "And I see you've had some interesting adventures."

  "I'll–"

  She raised an unsteady hand. Suddenly, I saw how tired she looked; how pale was her face, and how she'd wrapped her left hand tightly around her cane's pommel, to prevent it from shaking. Tending to the Emperor had taken a heavy toll on her.

  "We'll get you back," Yaotl said. His face in the dim light was expressionless. "We can see about the rest later."

  We had to leave most of the bodies in the water. The ahuizotls were feeding, and not even Teomitl's commands could make them abandon their grisly meals. Out of about thirty dead on our side, and the priests of Tlaloc on the other, we'd retrieved only four: two of my novice priests, one Duality warrior, and Ixtli.

  On the way back, I found myself riding in the same boat as Neutemoc, watching the water part around the prow.

  My brother was silent, as he had been on our journey to Amecameca. But this time the silence wasn't filled with pent-up aggressiveness, or things we'd failed to say to each other.

  "You'll be fine?" I asked.

  He said nothing. He watched the water, moodily. "I don't know."

  "You can't go back," I said, finally.

  "No," Neutemoc said. "You never can. But you can always dream of what could have been."

  "And destroy your life?" I asked, more vehemently than I'd meant to. "Sorry."

  Neutemoc shook his head. He dipped his hand in the water, watching the droplets part on his skin. "It doesn't matter," he said. He sighed. "Huei–"

  "There's no need to talk about her," I said, more embarrassed than I'd thought.

  Neutemoc didn't speak. "She told me to forget her," he said. "To find myself another wife, to raise the children."

  "She told you that?" There would be no divorce, but nothing prevented him from taking on a second wife. He'd be more than able to support her.

  "In the temple," Neutemoc said. "I don't know what I'll do."

  My chest contracted. "You don't have to decide right now."

  "No," Neutemoc said. "I guess not. What will you do?"

  "I don't know," I said, truthfully. There would be accounts to make to Ceyaxochitl – vigils for Ixtli and the dead priests – and life would, I guessed, go on much as it had always done.

  Neutemoc snorted. "A fine pair we make." His face closed again. "So you killed the child?"

  "Yes," I said, curtly. And Eleuia, too; and perhaps Father. I wasn't sure.

  "Going down alone into Tlalocan… You'd have made a good warrior, you know."

  I shrugged. "Some things aren't made to be."

  "Perhaps not," Neutemoc said at last. "But you'd still have made it, if you'd wished to."

  "I didn't," I said, finally, and it was the truth, the only reason I'd chosen that path on exiting the calmecac.

  We passed through the streets of the Moyotlan district, and saw everywhere the ravages of the flood: the canals which had overflowed, bringing water into the courtyards of the grand houses, knocking down the wattle-and-daub walls of the humbler ones. In the water were wicker chests, reed mats, codices – and the bodies of those caught by the flood, facedown in the canals, as unmoving and as unbreathing as Ixtli's warriors.

  People we
re out in the streets, salvaging what they could from the retreating water. I saw a woman carrying a very young child around her shoulders, trying to recover a rag doll, and my heart tightened.

  Ceyaxochitl's flotilla moored on the quays at the foot of the Sacred Precinct. Her warriors helped lift the dead and the wounded out of the boats.

  "I guess I'll be going back to my household," Neutemoc said. He grimaced. "Mihmatini is going to flay me alive."