The brightly-coloured frescoes adorning the room were a relief after the blank adobe of the outer walls. All of them represented sacrifices to the gods: young children weeping as their throats were slit to honour Tlaloc, God of Rain; a maiden dancing to honour Xilonen, Goddess of Young Corn, later replaced by a priest wearing her flayed, yellow skin; a warrior, his face thrust into burning embers as a sacrifice to Huehueteotl, God of the Hearth.
Again, those were not unusual. I well knew that only human blood and human lives kept the end of the world at bay. I had abased myself before gods, offered them what they needed, from human hearts to flayed skins; I had wielded many obsidian knives myself in many sacrifices. But the concentration of images in that room seemed almost unhealthy.
I found Huchimitl sitting on the dais in the centre. She turned her masked face towards me. “So?”
“Something is wrong.” I looked at her, sitting secure between her walls, never suspecting about the curse affecting more than just Citli. “The house is wrong.”
Her gaze rested on me, and would not move away. “An odd thing to say.”
“Don't tell me you haven't felt it.”
For a moment I thought I had convinced her. And then she spoke, sinking her barb as deep as she could. “Not all of us are fortunate enough to have gone to calmecac, and become a priest.”
Now that I had seen where she lived, the oppressive atmosphere of the house, more than ever I regretted not coming to visit her. I should have insisted when her family rejected me. I should have done something, not turned away like a coward. So I kept my peace, and said only, “They say your husband died in odd circumstances.”
“How would you know?”
“Does it matter?”
“The servants told you,” Huchimitl said, with an angry stabbing gesture. “They talk too much, and most of that is lies.”
I kept hoping she'd give me something, anything I could use to understand what was going on. “Do you deny that his death wasn't normal, Huchimitl? All I have to do is ask the slaves, or check the registers – “
“There was nothing odd about my husband's death,” she snapped, far too quickly.
Nothing odd? The hollow in my stomach was back. Had Xoco been right about Huchimitl's guilt? “Why do you say that?”
“Because my husband's death has nothing to do with Citli's illness. Tlalli had a weak heart. He exerted himself too much on the battlefields abroad; and he died of it. That is all.”
“They say you quarrelled.”
Huchimitl nodded; the reflections on the mask moved as she did so. I felt queasy just seeing that. “We did, often,” she said. “Do you want me to lie and say it was a happy marriage?”
“No,” I said. “Though I truly wish you'd found happiness.”
“We don't always get what we wish for,” Huchimitl said. “Acatl. Trust me. I saw Tlalli die. It was a heart failure. This has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with Mazahuatl. He has enemies– “
“You told me that already,” I said. She had sounded sincere when swearing to me it had nothing to do with Tlalli's death, but I could be mistaken. “Why did you come to me, Huchimitl?”
Her voice was low, angry. “I thought you could do something. I thought you could help. A curse, after all, is easily lifted. But it seems you cannot manage even that.”
“I– “ I said, but words had deserted me. I remembered a time when I could read every one of her expressions, could guess her thoughts before she uttered them. I knew I no longer could do any of that. I suspected I could not help her, and it made me angry at myself for being so incompetent – for failing her.
“I am no worker of miracles,” I said.
“Clearly not,” Huchimitl snapped. “I thought you would – “ And then she stopped, as if she had uttered too much.
“Do what? You tell me nothing. You hide yourself from me, under that mask. You lie to me.”
“No.” The mask turned towards me, expressionless.
“Then tell me what is under that mask. Please.” Talk to me, I thought, silently, desperately. Don't hide your secrets from me, Huchimitl. Please.
“Nothing,” Huchimitl said. Her voice was quiet. “Nothing that concerns you, nothing you can repair, Acatl. I am beyond help. My son is all that matters.”
“Then tell me more about your son.”
“Mazahuatl talks little of his life among warriors.” There was longing in Huchimitl's voice, clear, unmistakable. “But I'm no fool. I can guess that things go ill. That he is not liked. That some would like to see him fall. But I have no names.”
“I see,” I said, and rose to leave. “I'll ask Mazahuatl, then. Where can I find him?”
The mask moved towards me with the speed of a pouncing snake. “It's not the solution.”
“Then tell me what would be.”
“No.” Her voice was fearful. I could not help remembering the girl I'd played with, the girl who had once climbed the festival pole and stood at the top, laughing, daring me to come up and catch her. Not once had she shown fear.
“Huchimitl – “ I said, but she shook her head.
“You'll find Mazahuatl on the training grounds,” she said. Her voice was emotionless again – an unnerving change of tone.
Mazahuatl was on manoeuvres with his regiment. I walked to the training grounds, my mind filled with memories of Huchimitl and of my days as a boy – of all the races we'd run through the fields of maize around Coyoacan, of all the quiet moments when we'd dream of our futures.
Had I loved her?
For years I'd told myself that I had not. But I knew now that I had always cared for her. I knew that even though I had felt no regrets on entering the priesthood, still I had left something behind, something infinitely precious that I could no longer recover.
On the training grounds, the warriors were fighting each other wielding maquahuitls, wooden swords with shards of obsidian embedded in the blades.
Several warriors had finished, and stood to the side, their bare arms gleaming with sweat. I walked up to them and said, “I'm looking for Mazahuatl.”
One of them gave a short bark, and the others snickered. “Are you now?” he said.
The warrior's face was heavily scarred, and he wore the quetzal-feather tunic and braided leather bracelets characteristic of tequiuas, those warriors who had taken more than four prisoners and been ennobled. He had their arrogance, too. I said, “Yes, I am looking for Mazahuatl. In what way would it concern you…”
“Yohuacalli,” he said, curtly. “I'm in the same regiment as Mazahuatl. Tell me, priest, why would you be looking for him?”
Yohuacalli had a faint aura about him: a talent for magic, though whether sorcerous or not I could not tell. Still, he looked dangerous enough – as dangerous as a coiled snake.
“Tell me why it should matter to you,” I said.