I withheld a curse and, drawing a new knife from my belt, slashed at what I could see of the creatures.
It was utterly ineffective. I could make them out, but not always. In the intervals when I couldn't see them, they would just shift out of the path of my blade, and I sliced only through air. It did not deter the creatures, which continued to converge on Quechomitl.
Quechomitl's face was growing paler and paler, and his grip on Neutemoc was slackening as his blood dripped onto the ground. His blood. Living blood: a powerful source of magic. Fool that I was!
I ran towards Neutemoc, snatching up my fallen obsidian knife as I did. Then I knelt by Quechomitl, closing my eyes again. The creatures were still crowding around him, trying to get past him – mindless, obsessed only by the idea of reaching Neutemoc. They paid little heed to me.
What in the Fifth World had my brother got himself into?
Mihmatini was opening her veins now, and pouring her blood on the ground. I dipped my hands in Quechomitl's blood and drew a sign on my forehead, calling on Quetzalcoatl, God of Creation and Knowledge, to grant me true sight.
"Yours is the knowledge of the priests,
Yours is the knowledge of the stars wheeling in the sky
You find the precious jade, the precious feathers…"
Fresh wounds opened on Quechomitl's arm, leaking blood in inexorable rivulets. The slave's face was pale, contorted in pain. I hurriedly finished my hymn.
"You find the hidden things, the secret treasures
Grant us Your sight, the sight of the gods."
The blood on my forehead went blazing hot, searing a mark into my skin.
A veil descended before my eyes, until the whole street went dark, the houses and the canals receding into faint shadows. Only the pulsing shape of Mihmatini's pattern retained some substance – that and the three creatures, hissing angrily at me.
With my eyes open, I reached towards the nearest one, letting the emptiness of Mictlan fill me, and sank the obsidian knife into it, where the heart would have been. This time, the blade went all the way in.
The creature hissed like a scalded jaguar and withdrew, but only a few hand spans. Numbness spread from the point of contact, up the hilt and through the obsidian blade – and into my hand, freezing my fingers into insensitivity.
Quechomitl grunted as three fresh wounds opened on his chest. His hand went slack and he started slowly, inexorably, to slide towards the ground.
The two others were already gathering around Neutemoc, in a frenzy to feed upon him. At Neutemoc's feet, his slave lay quietly emptily himself of the blood in his veins, his eyes already glazed, staring at nothing in the Fifth World.
With my awkward, frozen hand, I hefted my knife, trying to see where the creatures were coming from: if there was some thread of power I could follow to a summoner.
There was nothing.
Just a dying slave, and three creatures, gathering to feed on my brother.
Mihmatini. My sister's chanting reached a harsh, sibilant climax; her blood hissed as it filled the circle.
Light blazed, across the street, strong enough to dispel even my true sight. It spread in radiant wave after radiant wave, covering us, bathing us in warmth, growing in intensity with every passing moment. It was as if some covering of ice had slowly started to melt: as feeling returned to my injured hand, the creatures slowly melted away, with a disappointed hiss.
The light settled around Neutemoc and Quechomitl, seeping through every pore of their skin until they seemed to be made of it. It sank into me, too, hissing as it did so, leaving an itch against my hips when it encountered the knives in my belt, the magic of Huitzilpochtli conflicting with that of Mictlan.
I knelt, awkwardly, by Quechomitl's side. No more blood flowed from his wounds. When I groped, with a shaking hand, for the voice of his heart, nothing would beat under my fingers.
No. My fingers tightened on Quechomitl's skin, but there was no heartbeat. There would never be any heartbeat: never again, in the Fifth World or in the Heavens.
Mihmatini was helping a stunned Neutemoc rise. My brother was shaking, though I couldn't tell if it was from the wounds or from the sheer shock of the attack. I remained kneeling by Quechomitl's body, trying to understand how we had come here – how, on what should have been a simple journey back to Neutemoc's house, a man lay dead under my fingers, and for no reason at all.
I reached out, to close his eyes, but my hands shook so badly I couldn't. It took me three tries before the glazed gaze was hidden beneath his swollen eyelids.
Words came to me: the ones I said, over and over, for strangers. The only words I had:
"You leave behind your fine poems
You leave behind your beautiful flowers
And the earth that was only lent to you
You ascend into the Light, O Quechomitl,
You leave behind the flowers and the singing and the earth
Safe journey, O friend."
I thought of his soul, climbing towards the Heavens to meet the Sun-God – for he had died in battle like a true warrior, and the oblivion of Mictlan wouldn't be his lot. I thought of his soul, shedding the body like a worn-out shell, and I wondered what he had died for.
THIRTEEN
Funereal Thoughts
Between Mihmatini and me, we carried Quechomitl's body back to Neutemoc's house. Neutemoc himself trailed after us, still stunned and shaking. He hadn't spoken a word since thanking Mihmatini for saving his life.
In the courtyard, an old woman slave and Oyohuaca, the girl who had rowed me through the canals, were seated on the ground, waiting for us. When they saw Quechomitl's body, they gave a mournful howl.
"Master," they said, looking back and forth at Quechomitl's bloody husk, and at Neutemoc, whose Jaguar regalia were also covered in blood.
"Later," Neutemoc said. "Take him to the temple for the Dead. Give him a proper vigil and make the proper offerings." His voice shook at first, but gained in strength with every word.
Still oozing Huitzilpochtli's light, he walked, not into the reception room, but towards his living quarters.
I glanced at Mihmatini. "How long is your spell going to last?"
She shrugged. "Two, maybe three days? It's not going to be enough. Whoever got those to attack him will try again. And if they can't kill him, they'll try to harm those around him."
Like Quechomitl. "I know. Can you do something?" I asked.
Mihmatini puffed her cheeks. "I know a spell for warding a house against evil influences. It takes time to cast, but it's meant to last for a month."
"If you could…" I asked.
She nodded. "I'll go and get my materials. You talk to Neutemoc."