He had killed Payaxin. He had…
No. Blame was shared, equally. If I had taught my student better, he would not have rushed into such a foolhardy enterprise. He would have known better. I, too, bore the guilt of Payaxin's death, and it had been gnawing at me all those years, when I had cut myself away from the underworld. I could not go on like that. I could not be ruled by guilt and hatred.
The Wind of Knives was still moving, but His gestures were more sluggish. Acatl!
I closed my eyes. I trust you, I said, and opened myself to Him.
It was as if I were moving through a rush of water; every thought alien to me, every image His mind held too horrible to focus on. Skulls and stains of blood flashed before my eyes, but I held on.
And He showed me, without words, what I needed to know. Human blood. Human blood would dissolve the shards, if it went to the heart, driven by a human hand.
I rose, slowly. My hand went to my belt, retrieved the last of the obsidian knives I had brought here. Clumsily, I plunged the blade into the wound on my left shoulder, biting my lip not to cry out at the pain. Then, step by step, I moved towards the battling shadows.
“You are a fool, priest,” Tezcatlipoca said, and His voice rumbled, like the earthquake that would end the world. “A fool.”
I came, with the blood-stained obsidian knife. I came, and the Wind of Knives redoubled His attacks, until He had Tezcatlipoca pinned against a wall.
And in that moment I plunged my knife into the shadow god's chest, all the way to the heart. I felt obsidian give way, dissolve under the thrust of the blade. I felt the Wind of Knives seize hold of my mind and push, push deep into the twisted mind of Tezcatlipoca's incarnation. And everything gave way under our attack.
The god screamed. I had never heard such anguish contained in a voice. “I would have reigned,” He was screaming, even as the shards fell from His hands, from His whole body. Blood welled up from inside His chest, filled Him, until the darkness before me was tinged scarlet. “I would have…”
And the last shard dropped away, and Itlani's dead body fell at my feet, a grimace of fear on its features.
It was all I could do to remain standing. Shivering, I kept staring at the corpse, wondering if it was truly over, if the nightmare had ended.
A hand was laid on my shoulder, and gently turned me round. I found myself staring at planes of obsidian. “Acatl,” the Wind of Knives said. “It is ended.”
“Will He come back?” I asked, slowly.
“Perhaps.” The Wind's voice was toneless. Coldness travelled from my shoulder into my heart, until I felt nothing, nothing at all. “Not so easily.”
“And Ceyaxochitl?”
His face turned towards the unconscious body of the Guardian. “She may survive.”
I wanted to rest, to lie down. I wanted the underworld to go away so that the coldness would abate. “It is ended,” I whispered.
The Wind nodded. “You have no more need of me.”
I stared, not sure I had heard Him correctly. I had never heard Him speak such words. He seemed to be waiting for some answer for me. “No,” I said, at last, not completely trusting my voice. “I have no more need of you.”
He had started to fade on the last word; obsidian planes blurred into nothingness.
By the time Macihuin and his men reached the house, and summoned a physician to take Ceyaxochitl away, He had disappeared.
But I still could hear His last words to me. “Until next time, Acatl.”
I stood over Itlani's body, shaking and weak from loss of blood.
“Acatl,” Macihuin said. “You have some explanations to give.”
“Yes,” I said. I let the physician bind my wounds, and fuss over them. I let Macihuin ask me questions which I was too weak to answer.
Evening was falling; darkness filled the house, but it was a darkness that the sun would dispel, come time. The Fifth Age would continue.
Until next time, Acatl.
In the end, there were enough things to sort out, and I could tell Macihuin would be very busy in the hours to come. They left me alone, sitting on the dais with the remnants of my summoning, with the memory of the Wind's voice in my mind.
Payaxin was dead. We both had a share of guilt in that, and perhaps not even one. After all, he had been his own man, and had made his own choices. I could no longer go on, cutting myself off from the underworld and hating the Wind. As He had said, He was necessary.
I said, quietly, to the silent night, “Until next time.”
Beneath the Mask
First published in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, January 2009
“He's in here,” Huchimitl said.
I stood in the courtyard of her opulent house, amidst pine and palm trees, breathing in the smell of dust and fallen pine needles. Just outside, a few paces from me, was Moyotlan, one of the busiest districts of Tenochtitlan; but the bustle from the crowded streets and canals was barely audible, cut off by the walls of the courtyard. Around us were several doorways, closed by coloured entrance-curtains; and it was before one of those that Huchimitl and I stood.
Not for the first time, I wished Huchimitl wasn't wearing that accursed ceramic mask – so I could read her face. Or, failing that, that she'd at least tell me why she was wearing it. The only people in the city I'd seen wearing that kind of mask were disfigured warriors. But I'd asked the question twice on my way there, and been met with silence.
“I'm not sure I can do anything – “ I started, but Huchimitl cut me off.
“Please, Acatl. Just take a look at the man. And tell me whether he's cursed.”
Curses, unless they were from the underworld, weren't really my province. If I'd had any sense, I'd have refused Huchimitl when she'd arrived in my temple.
But she'd been wearing that mask, hiding her face from me. Surely…
Surely the girl I remembered from my childhood, the one who'd turned the heads of all the boys in our calpulli clan – including mine – couldn't possibly be injured?
I couldn't bring myself to believe that. There had to be some other explanation for that mask. And I had to know what it was.
Huchimitl was still standing before the door, waiting for my answer. “Acatl,” she said, shaking her head in that disturbingly familiar fashion, halfway between exasperation and amusement.
My heart twisted in my chest. In truth, I'd never had been able to refuse her, and even though it had been years since we'd last seen each other, it still did not change anything. “I can't promise you much,” I said, finally.
Huchimitl shook her head – sunlight played on her mask as she did so, creating disturbing reflections on the ceramic, like a breath from Mictlan, the underworld. I fought an urge to walk up to her and tear off the mask. “Acatl, please.”
Gently, I drew aside the hanging mat that closed the door, trying not to disturb the bells sewn into it. I paused halfway through, stared at Huchimitl. She stood unmoving, the mask drinking in the sunlight.