As the woman had died struggling to bring a life into this world, her soul would already be flying upwards, to accompany Tonatiuh on His journeys; but the family's grief would be eased if the rites were said accordingly.
"I see," I said. "Well… I'll leave you to it."
Ichtaca looked at me. He seemed to be expecting something more of me, but I couldn't see what. Some orders? He had absolutely no
need for that.
"I'll see that message," I said finally.
Ichtaca shrugged. Clearly, I had not given him what he had expected. "It's in the shrine. Come."
Before leaving, I detoured through the storehouse to take a parrot and a handful of marigold flowers: offerings for Xochiquetzal. Palli had been replaced by a younger novice priest, one whom I didn't know. He bowed to me, making me feel ill at ease.
Carrying the parrot's cage against my hip, I went to the address Ceyaxochitl had given me: a house on the outskirts of Moyotlan, the south-west district of Tenochtitlan. The city was on an island, of which the Sacred Precinct was the heart. Streets and canals snaked out from the central plaza, leading to the four districts – and further out, to the fields where we grew our crops. I walked away from the centre, into streets bordered by canals on either side. Small boats passed me by, ferrying their owners to their business: to the artisans' districts, to the marketplace, or an audience at a nobleman's house. The aqueduct canals were crossed at regular intervals by bridges. On each bridge stood a water-porter, ready to dip his bucket into the water, and to offer it to anyone who paid.
From the houses around me came the familiar grinding sound of maize pounded into powder, and the wet slap-slap of flatbread rolled onto the stones. That sound had woken me up every day when I was a child: Mother's daily ritual, making the food that Father would take to the fields. Long before I took the path to my humble priesthood, back when my parents had still been proud of my thirst for knowledge.
Lost in reminiscence, I finally reached my destination: a small, unremarkable alley, half street, half canal. At the back of the alley were the featureless walls of a huge house, one that seemed to waver in the morning light, even though there was barely any mist.
Magic hung thick around it: the familiar, bold strokes of Ceyaxochitl's spells, woven into a cocoon around the house, hiding it from the world. An uninitiated person could not have seen enough of that house to open its door.
The house had two storeys, a luxury reserved for noblemen. A lush garden of poinsettias and marigolds adorned its roof. In the courtyard, pines grew by the side of a stone pool, the water within, clear, cloudless, reflecting the perfect blue of the sky.
"And you would be?" a voice asked.
Startled, I turned, and met the eyes of a youth wearing the wooden collar of slaves – though he had jade and silver bracelets on his arms, and heavy amber earrings weighing down his lobes.
"No," I said. "I've come to see Xochiquetzal."
His face didn't move, save for some fleeting contempt in his eyes as he scrutinised me. "A priest, eh? I don't think She wants to see your kind."
"Someone's life is at stake," I said, more sharply than I'd intended.
He shrugged. "It's always the case. Life is cheap in the Fifth World, priest." He half-turned away from me, walking back into the building he had come from.
Life is cheap. My own brother's life, cheap?
My fists clenched of their own volition. Before I realised it, I was halfway through the courtyard, following him into the house.
What stopped me wasn't anything material – but rather a slow, prickling sensation running along the nape of my neck, and spreading to my entire back, like fiery embers touching my skin: raw power, coalescing in the sunlight. I had the feeling of being watched and dissected by something vast and unknowable, though there was no one but the slave and I in the courtyard.
The slave had turned. He watched me, his smile mocking me. "And you think this will solve anything?"
I struggled to find words, to mouth an abject apology, but could not bring myself to. "No. Nor will your arrogant attitude. I asked for an audience."
He spread his hands in a blaze of silver. "You did. And it's my right to refuse it."
"You–"
He shook his head. "Still not understanding? Defiance brings you nothing." He smiled again, displaying teeth as yellow and as neat as maize kernels. "But you're in luck. It has been a boring week. Wait here. And don't think you can look around. I'll know if you do."
I had no doubt he would.
He entered one of the rooms around the courtyard, the bells jingling as he pulled aside the entrance curtain. He came out again almost immediately. "My, my. You're definitely in luck, priest. She has nothing better to do, so She'll see you."
His arrogance was staggering, but I bit back the angry reply that came to me. I had already seen anger or despair would earn me nothing in such a house.
The slave pointed lazily to my obsidian knives. "Those will stay outside."
"My weapons?" I asked. He was observant: the knives, which were those of the temple, had been blessed by Mictlantecuhtli, and were saturated with His magic.
His smile was malicious. "Consider them payment for an audience. You'll get them back – maybe."
"I will get them back," I said, as I undid my belt and gave them to him. "Or else I won't be the only one hunting you."
He smiled an even wider smile. "Do you think you can touch me?"
I wanted, desperately, to try – to summon a minor deity from the underworld, to teach him fear and humility. But I knew I couldn't. He was Xochiquetzal's, and I'd already seen what kind of power She wielded.
Inside the room, it was dark, and cooclass="underline" the fire in the three-stone hearth had sunk to smouldering embers, and yellow cotton drapes hung over the only window. The air smelled of packed earth, overlaid with copal incense. There was no need for light, though. The figure seated on the dais made Her own: a softly lapping radiance that played on the floor, on the frescoes of flowers on the walls, and on the backs of my callused hands.
In the silence, I knelt, laying the marigold flowers at the feet of the dais. Then I opened the cage and, using one of Xochiquetzal's own knives, slit the parrot's throat. Blood spurted out, covered my hands. I laid the bird by the side of the flowers and, bowing my head until it touched the ground, started singing a hymn to the Quetzal Flower.
"By the side of the roads
And the steep mountain paths
By the Lake of the Moon
And on the faraway battlefields
Grow Your flowers
Marigolds and buttercups, flowers of corn and maguey
Flowers to adorn the maidens' necks
To be carried by amorous warriors
Flowers to remind us
Of Your presence everywhere."
When I was finished, there was only silence. I dared not look up.