Gloriana's Masque

by Eleanor Burns

  “Reverend Mother! Your friend Amoxtli’s back in town! Sir Necalli told me to tell you he’ll be waiting at the pochteca guildhall.”

  “Thank you, Zyannya,” replied Xochitla, rather stiffly. “You may tell the good knight that I will see Amoxtli when I have finished my duties, and do please try to keep your voice down. This is a house of meditation, not some hawkers’ bazaar.”

  Zyannya blushed, bowed, and made a hasty exit, leaving Xochitla feeling slightly guilty. After all, it was not as if the priestesses of Citlacoatl were required or even expected to be celibate anymore. Since the Day of Great Blessing, nobody required any more of them than that they simply be, and any worldly pleasures they indulged in were seen as more than well deserved. In Xochitla’s mind, however, as one who had lived through the stricter years before the drought, not to mention the downright oppressive years of the Theocracy, she instinctively preferred not to have her amours blazoned far and wide.

  Still, in spite of her slight embarrassment, the message itself was very welcome news. Although the network of merchant-spies had been scaled back since the Blessing, which had finally allowed a lasting peace to settle on the city-states of the Axoyatl Valley, the guild still employed a few of them out of good defensive habit. It was rare for a pochtecatl to return to their home city after a trip of only a few days, yet Amoxtli had been away for no longer than that, and Xochitla had not been expecting to see him again for at least a month. Thinking on that fact, the news was perhaps more troubling than it had first seemed, and as she approached the end of her liturgy, intentionally hurrying it, she felt a marked absence of spiritual peace.

  Merciful Citlacoatl, I hope no harm has come to him, she thought, as she dismissed all of her acolytes except for one, who helped her to remove her elaborate cloak and headdress of dyed feathers, and her many bracelets of gold, jade, and turquoise. But for her fear of setting a terrible example, she would have just yanked them straight off, dumped them on the floor, and run straight to the guildhall. Her sense of duty prevailed, but it had to fight fiercely against her fear and impatience. I’m just being silly, though, she reassured herself, almost successfully. After all, what could have happened to him? His job had its dangers, but they were more limited now than they had ever been. The tzitzimitleh, once so terrifying, had not attacked the people of the valley since the Blessing came, and even the wild animals seemed more docile these days. Furthermore, young although he was, Amoxtli was a fully-trained pochtecatl who had taken the eastern road to the Endless Lake many times before, and had never returned home the worse for it. Still, she derived little comfort from any of this knowledge. Perhaps it was just because the event was unprecedented, but it had a distinct air of wrongness to her.

  The brightness of the day and the cheerful bustle of the city seemed to mock her paranoia as, now clad in reed sandals and a simple white dress of woven ychcatl, she exited the temple and took in the impressive view from the pyramid’s summit. Tlateochihual was only a small city, but its modest ritual precinct was a model of elegance and symmetry. The pyramid-temples, the cloistered municipal buildings, the market stalls, and the public gardens were arranged in a beautifully balanced layout, although the gardens were looking sadly wild and untended these days. Whatever become of our love of order? thought Xochitla, with the faintest touch of wistfulness for the past. At least the Theocracy had known how to run things efficiently, not that this is reason enough to miss or forgive the murderous bastards, she quickly reminded herself, glancing distastefully at the two huge stone chalices that stood at the head of the pyramid stairs. The priestesses had tried everything from kopalxocotl root, to pulque vinegar, to sheer elbow grease in the hope of shifting the reddish-brown stains that had impregnated the stone, but had eventually given them up as a lost cause. There had been talk of removing the chalices altogether, but Xochitla thought it was better that they remained there as a sobering lesson. We can blame the priests of Miquiztlitecuhtli all we like, but the blood in those infernal things was on all of our hands. Better that we do not fall into the mistake of thinking that we earned the Blessing. The teotl took pity on us, no more. With that humbling reflection in no way lifting her spirits, she commenced the long descent.

  However, as she came nearer to the level of the streets and heard the cheerful sounds of daily commerce, she forced herself to assume a more positive attitude. It would not do for the people to see her succumbing to despair and paranoia. Lest we also forget, it was fear, not cruelty, that almost led us down the path of damnation. Xochitla had become a figure of inspiration since that day when she and her sisters in the order had walked down the dead avenues of Teohuayotli, trusting in nothing but faith and a few scraps of lore to protect them from the tzitzimitleh. The creatures were then so powerful and numerous that even daylight was no safety against them. Nonetheless, the priestesses had somehow prevailed, praying for forgiveness before the Holy of Holies and thus bringing the Blessing upon their people, not that Xochitla or any of her sisters had been expecting that result.

  Happy accident or not, it had left Xochitla with an almost prophet-like status. Well aware of the responsibilities such an image carried, she walked the city streets with a forced smile, and accepted the enthusiastic greetings of the passers-by with both warmth and grace. Everyone she met seemed bright and joyous, if somewhat unkempt in their appearance, and a few of them thought nothing of walking the streets almost naked. Tlateochihual was certainly looking more disorderly these days, although it was unfair to blame that entirely on the Blessing. The fact that the streets were no longer constantly patrolled by Quauhtli Knights, Shorn Ones, and priestly militias, not to mention that the pyramid steps were no longer a constant waterfall of sacrificial blood, had certainly robbed the city of some of its old discipline. Most people considered this a very fair exchange.

  Still, at least the pochteca were keeping up their standards. As she entered the northeast calpulli, which belonged entirely to the merchant guild, she noticed an immediate change: the roadside trees were carefully trimmed, the streets recently swept, and the canals cleared of weeds and algae. The pochteca were almost as disciplined as any priests or warriors, considering that they had to be prepared to face hostility wherever they travelled. The roads were never completely safe, the merchants always running the risk of encounters with bandits as well as with tribes who had yet to forgive the cities of the former Axoyatl Alliance for all the humiliation and suffering their armies had inflicted during the Theocracy. It was hard to blame them for that. Mind you, if they’ve harmed Amoxtli, I don’t promise I won’t burn down their villages myself, thought Xochitla, quickening her pace.

  A Quauhtli Knight was standing guard outside the guildhall, his face shadowed by the beak of his wooden helmet, carved like the head of an alerion. Both the helmet and his quilted ychcatl body-armour were brilliantly decorated with flame-coloured feathers, and glaring red eyes were painted on the helmet, enhancing his forbidding, otherwise faceless presence. That, not to mention his obsidian-headed poleaxe, would have been enough to deter most unsolicited callers, but he stepped aside as soon as Xochitla approached, and bowed courteously, making her almost nostalgic for the days when they would just spit threats at her until she showed them her pass. Get used to it, hero, she thought, ironically, as she walked down the pillared hallway that led to Amoxtli’s office. If it helps them to believe that you knew the Blessing would happen, that you weren’t just acting out of desperation, and that you weren’t scared out of your wits with every step of that walk through the dead city … Not all of her sisters had survived that gauntlet, and she could see the unfortunate ones now, their faces contorted in silent screams of terror and agony as the invisible tzitzimitleh maimed and pierced them, their mutilated bodies fading out of sight as the demonic creatures bore them away into their dark hell. Why she and the others had survived – whether from superior faith, superior virtue, more potent amulets of protection, or sheer dumb luck – she would probably never know. At any rate, she did not
feel it was something she could justly claim much credit for, but the people seemed to disagree, and sustaining their morale had to be her concern.

  As she entered Amoxtli’s office, still dreading what she might find, she caught sight of him, sitting cross-legged on a reed mat and studying an old papyrus scroll. He had looked better – certainly less troubled and weary – but there was no trace of injury anywhere to be seen on him, and since all he had on was a pair of badly-worn sandals and a travel-stained loincloth, Xochitla had an advantageous view. Joy got the better of her own self-discipline at this point, and she raced forward; threw her arms around him; raked her fingers through his long, black, dusty hair; and covered his face in kisses before he could get a syllable out. By the time she gave him leave to, he was looking in somewhat livelier spirits, if slightly confused and rumpled ones.

  “Nice to see you too,” he declared, carefully laying down the fragile scroll lest it become an unfortunate casualty in the crossfire of their passion. “I, err, didn’t realise I’d been gone for all that long, though.”

  “Exactly. When you travel to Atlah you’re normally gone for a month or more,” pointed out Xochitla. “When I heard you were back after only five days away … but I’m probably being stupid. Were the traders from the south unable to come, or did you manage to sell all of your goods locally? I know it must have been something simple like that.”

  “It wasn’t … and you’re not being stupid, as if you ever could,” he replied, his affection not reducing the gravity of his words. “There was a particular reason I came back. I needed to know … Xochitla, you know of the Men of the East, don’t you?”

  “I’ve heard of them,” she answered, with a vague, academic curiosity. “Who hasn’t?”

  “True. Not all believe, though.”

  “Some of your brothers who’ve traded far north beyond Mictlamtlach have seen them, haven’t they, or at least met those who have? Sickly-looking men, almost like corpses, with strange clothes and deadly weapons made of dull but hard metals. Men who traverse the Endless Lake in great metal canoes, and whose artisans can manipulate fire and lightning as easily as ours can work stone, earth, and water … though how much of that may be true, I daren’t venture,” she added, sceptically. “At any rate, none have ever been seen except in the far north, to my knowledge.”

  “Your knowledge is due for an update, I’m afraid. I saw them land three days ago on the shore just north of Atlah … though their canoe was made of wood rather than metal, I’ll admit.”

  “You saw … ? You must have been mistaken in some way,” decided Xochitla, finding his bizarre tale a lot easier to dismiss than her earlier fears, although she tried not to sound too patronising. “Perhaps it was your southern traders, trying to navigate the shore instead of risking the roads. The Men of the East cannot come here. No unblessed men can, without putting themselves at the mercy of the tzitzimitleh … who have no mercy. Even your traders would not dare come into the heartlands, but will only meet you in a remote place like Atlah, and we have given them amulets and the knowledge to protect themselves. The Men of the East have no such protection.”

  “Maybe,” he answered, doubtfully, “but I don’t know that means they wouldn’t try, and I do know the difference between a southern merchant caravan and some monstrous serpent-headed raft sailing out of the east, beg pardon.”

  “I’ll bet you do. Interesting choice of words, though,” observed Xochitla, with suspicion, as her eyes drifted to the pictographic scroll he had been reading. “Rather familiar, in fact, and that is the Lay of Citlacoatl you’ve been studying. I should know that story as well as anyone. Any particular reason for it, Amoxtli, or did you just miss me so much that you’ve decided to become pious?”

  “‘Citlacoatl, the great Star Serpent, most benevolent of the teotl, who became incarnate in the kings of Teohuayotli,’” recited Amoxtli. “He then made that city the greatest and most virtuous in the world … until his enemy Miquiztlitecuhtli, Lord of Death, drove him into the east upon a raft of serpents, and the city became the mausoleum it is now. Yet is it not prophesied that as the End of the Sun approaches, and the tzitzimitleh devour all life in preparation for the next cycle, he will return?”

  “Indeed it is,” she replied, deadpan. “Shall we lead the whole city out there right now and hurl ourselves at his feet, or would you like a bath first? You probably don’t want to smear dust all over his sacred sandals.”

  “You’re the religious expert,” he stated, testily and a little hurt. “You know very well what I’d think of any teotl who’d suffer abominations like the tzitzimitleh to exist, and even your ‘Great Blessing’ hasn’t make a convert of me, so don’t expect a few foreigners to. I just wanted your opinion of the prophecy, is all.”

  “It falls under my opinion of most prophecy,” she replied, sympathetically but very gravely. “The priests of Miquiztlitecuhtli prophesied that if we spilt the blood of many sacrifices in his honour, we would be raised to eternal glory. The drought would end, the lands would be restored, our enemies would lose the will to fight, and even the tzitzimitleh would bend to the will of our priests. I think we all know how that turned out.”

  “Invisible monsters attacking folks in broad daylight, the priests themselves having their own hearts carved out in the hope that would atone for our sins – fat chance – and finally you and your sisters volunteering to march right into the heart of the chaos and save all our souls with your prayers,” he added, gratefully but with a slightly cynical note. “Not the sort of thing I’m liable to forget.”

  “It worked … although not in a way any of us expected, I admit. Did even the Blessing not make you question your beliefs, or your lack of?”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong. I believe that teotl exist as a force of nature … a deadly one. They say even the Men of the East believe in that, but they don’t believe in worshipping them. I’m inclined to agree with them there. I don’t know what you did in the dead city, and I am grateful for it, but I do think you got lucky. No offence, but that’s the kind of stuff mortals were never meant to mess with. The Theocracy believed they could control it for their own ends. Could they fuck …”

  “I’ve no arguments there,” she conceded. Even she had no idea how or why their prayers had succeeded, but nowadays there was not a priest left in the valley who would dare to invoke the power of the teotl for their own selfish ends. “Still, I cannot believe the teotl to be as amoral and inhuman as you think them, Amoxtli. There is danger, and evil, but the Blessing is real enough. There is also compassion in the heavens, and justice. The teotl took pity on us in our humility, and spared us.”

  “We may call that justice,” said Amoxtli, sardonically. “That isn’t what they’re saying in the coastlands and in the south, and all the other places our legions used to ravage for loot and sacrificial victims. They’re saying justice would have been if the tzitzimitleh had dragged every last one of us to the deepest of hells. In any case, the Blessing did a damn sight more than merely sparing us. Just ask Sir Necalli.”

  “True, but it also broke our power,” she pointed out, patiently. “We’ve lost the will to be a warlike people ever again. You’ve seen how the people are these days: strong and healthy, yes, but their drive and focus are all but gone. Even I feel it: as soon as the thought came to me that you might have been injured, my mind came straight off my duties, and I rushed them carelessly so that I could see you all the sooner. Can you imagine me having done that under the Theocracy?”

  “Only if you fancied having emetli thorns shoved through your eyelids … Bless you, anyway,” he added, with a smile, and kissed her again. “I know what you mean, though. Something’s changed, though I do think things will probably go back to normal when everyone comes down from the high of having survived those wretched times. Pity, really. I like us a whole lot better this way.”

  “Perhaps,” she replied, doubtfully, “but it has been over a year, and I see no signs of any comedown. To my mind, the Blessi
ng was both a mercy and a punishment. We are forever humbled and weakened, but we are protected too: our enemies would have taken their revenge long ago, but their warriors will not march into our lands for fear of the tzitzimitleh. We are an isolated people now, pariahs where we were once lords, but we have been given a second chance to live in peace. I know espionage is part of your training, Amoxtli, but can you not accept the Blessing for what it is, without having to find new reasons for fear and suspicion? Even if these Men of the East are careful enough to avoid the tzitzimitleh, or clever enough to survive unblessed in their midst, what can a single group of them do? They could hardly mean to invade us in such small numbers.”

  “That’s true,” he agreed, although with no sense of reassurance. “I’ll admit, when I first got back here, only hours ago, I wondered if it was just force of habit and training, and I was being overly-suspicious. That was until–”

  “Until you met me,” finished a grave, familiar voice from behind her. Xochitla turned, and saw Sir Necalli standing in the doorway. He was nearly sixty, but one would never have known it from the lustrous black of the single, long braid that dangled from the left side of his otherwise bald head. His face, however, did look more lined than usual, although to judge from the severity of his frown, this was the result of recent exercise rather than age. He still had the powerful build of a Shorn One, but instead of armour he wore a simple, coarse tunic of emetli fibres, and his feet were bare. She stood at once to greet him.

  “Tlacateccatl,” she began, using his former rank purely out of long-ingrained habit, but she immediately regretted it as his face contorted painfully.

  “Please, Xochitla. A tlacateccatl needs an army, and we have none,” said Necalli, matter-of-factly, but she could sense his remorse: it was never very far away. “A knight only needs his honour, and the people seem to think that I still have mine. Who am I to contradict them?”