Harbinger of the Storm - By Aliette De Bodard Page 0,42

hear the swish of fine cotton cloth as he moved.

”Priest?” he whispered. His voice seemed spent, as if it had

crossed whole countries to reach me.

I bowed, as low as I could. “Revered Speaker.”

“I feel so cold,” Axayacatl-tzin whispered. “Cold…”

I reached with my hands, spreading a little of the blood on him. He rippled, as if I’d drawn the flat of my palm across a reflection in the water. “Priest…”

I started chanting again, the words that he needed to make his way across.

“Past the beasts that live in darkness, that consume hearts,

Into the city of the streets on the left, the city where walk the Dead

We must go, we must find the way into oblivion…”

The scene shifted as I spoke. We were in the middle of the lake, on a boat that held its steady course, and he was by my side, darkness sweeping over his face. The headdress vanished, as did the cotton clothes.

“The region of mystery, the place of the fleshless

Where the strength of jaguars, the strength of eagles

Is broken and ground into dust…”

Then we stood on the other shore of the lake, dwarfed by a huge mass of rock. Ahead of us was darkness, and the faint suggestion of a gate. The Dead passed us by, shambling on, unaware of our presence.

I lowered my hands, and let the blood drip onto the ground. Each drop fell upon the other and stuck, so that little by little a darker mass detached itself from the ground, the faint shape of a dog, shining yellow in the darkness, like a pale memory of sunlight or of corn.

“I give you the precious life, the precious water

The Fifth Sun’s nourishment, Grandmother Earth’s sustenance,

All of this, I give you as your own

To guide you, to take you down into darkness.”

When I finished chanting, the dog sprang to life, running around the shadow like an excited puppy, its tinny barks the only sign of life around us. Its paws struck up dust where it passed.

”It’s time,” I whispered to Axayacatl-tzin.

”I see,” the former Revered Speaker said, and his voice was clearer, stronger than on the other shore. He was among his own kind now, in the only place where his existence still had meaning. He turned towards me, a featureless shadow among featureless shadows. “Thank you, priest.”

I couldn’t help a slight recoil of surprise. The Dead tended to be tremendously self-focused – for such was the nature of death, which severed all bonds of the Fifth World – and I had never had any spirit turn back and thank me before setting on.

”I am Revered Speaker, Huitzilpochtli’s own agent.” There was a hint of self-deprecating humour in Axayacatl-tzin’s voice. “I have known propriety all my life, in death I will not forget.”

Though I’d only seen him from afar when he was alive, already I liked him, more than any of those who would claim his ruler’s mat. “I am honoured,” I said, bowing. “But I was only doing my work.”

”And you do it well.” If the Dead could look amused, he would have. “I’ll leave things in your capable hands.”

I could not help a slight grimace, and he was shrewd enough to see it. “Do you not think yourself capable?” His head moved, slightly. His eyes shone yellow, the same colour as the dog at his feet, a memory of the sunlight that had once been poured into him. His features had been completely washed away, so that he seemed to have become the mask they had put onto him. “Ah, I see. It’s others you don’t trust.”

Tizoc-tzin had been his choice and he would have approved the nomination of the other two High Priests – not to mention of Xahuia, favoured enough to bear him a son. “I apologise–” I started.

”No need to.” He sounded amused again. “I’d always known there would be a rift when I died. But only for a time. I’ve made sure it will close itself.”

“How?”

His head cocked towards me, a fluid movement like a bird’s. “Let that be a surprise, priest.”

”Someone poisoned the Guardian,” I said, the words torn out of me before I could think. “A devotee of She of the Silver Bells.”

”The Silver Bells? Her worship should be dead.” His eyes blazed, touched for a bare moment with all the might of Huitzilpochtli.

”So you don’t know who it could be?” I was pushing my luck. One did not interview the Revered Speaker – even less so the soul of the dead Revered Speaker – as if he