Harbinger of the Storm - By Aliette De Bodard Page 0,75
and Teomitl, washing away their features until all I could see were two darker silhouettes, like shadows on limestone.
Light arced from the altar into the heavens, spreading upwards, the opening of a huge flower, petal after iridescent petal shimmering into existence above us. The flower stretched, lost its shape, and the light died.
When my eyes had accustomed themselves again to the dimmer light I saw, against the Heavens, the glowing shape of a dome, and felt a faint pressure at the back of my mind, like a reminder of its weight. The stars shone in the sky, but they were only pinpoints of light, and the air still smelled fresh, like the marshes after the rain, like the first flowering of maize.
Teomitl and Mihmatini sat on the altar, pale and drained, their skin an unhealthy white. Mihmatini had closed her eyes; Teomitl sat as straight as usual, but his quivering muscles betrayed him. The two priests had taken a step back. Their faces were mostly dignified, but not without smugness.
I approached the altar, the marble warm under my sandals, the stone beating triumphantly, like a living heart.
Safe. We were safe for a few more days, if nothing more. The word beat in my chest, wove itself in my brain, over and over; a litany, a prayer.
”Can you stand?” the priestess asked.
Teomitl gently teased the knot open. Light spilled from the folds of the joined cloths, like a scattering of gemstones into a sunlit stream. He pulled himself up, one articulation at a time, with none of his usual speed. He winced as his feet touched the floor. “Mostly,” he said. His face shifted from brown to the green of jade, and back to brown again. He couldn’t quite control Jade Skirt’s gift. He seemed to realise this, and shook his head in annoyance. “I’ve never had so much taken from me.”
”It’s because you’ve never asked for so much power.” Mihmatini had not moved; she still sat on the altar, her hair unbound like that of a sacred courtesan, the red around her mouth smudged like the maw of a fed jaguar.
”Did it work?” she asked. Light still clung to her, a stubborn radiance that coated her skin and reflected itself into her eyes.
She frightened me more than I could put in words.
”Yes,” the priest said. “Wonderfully.”
”Thank the gods.” Her voice was low, carefully pausing between words, as if unsure of the right one. Her hands shook. “If I’d gone through this for nothing, there would have been words, Acatl.”
”I can imagine.” The dome overhead pressed down on my mind, the words merging with each other in my thoughts. Safe, safe, safe.
I wondered why I couldn’t feel any happiness over it.
”Come on,” I said, ignoring the tightness in my chest. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
By the time they’d dressed in everyday attire again, I’d seen that the light around Mihmatini did not diminish in intensity. It remained around her body, and a thinner thread linked her and Teomitl, like a reverse shadow on the ground, beating ponderously like a man breathing in his sleep.
A remnant of the Duality’s touch, marking their new Guardian. As if we didn’t have enough problems already.
They were waiting for us at the entrance to the Duality House, a group of warriors in Jaguar Knight livery; exquisite, from the jade rings on their fingers to their turquoise lip-plugs, their macuahitl swords casually hefted in their hands.
”Acatl-tzin,” the burliest said. “Teomitl-tzin. Tizoc-tzin will see you now.”
Their angry, resentful tone left little doubt as to what Tizoctzin would want to tell us.
THIRTEEN
Master of the House of Darts
Tizoc-tzin’s quarters were, surprisingly, almost deserted, compared to what I had seen last time. A handful of richly-attired warriors lounged on the platform outside, and the inner chambers held only the remnants of a feast, the smell of rich food turning sour in the gold and silver vessels.
It smelled of neglect, and of fear, like the house of an old man facing Lord Death at the end of a long sickness. I half-expected to find a corpse somewhere; but the only occupant of the room was Tizoc-tzin, still sitting behind his polished screen.
He looked furious, his face pale and set, his hands clenched around a feather-fan as if he could grind it into dust.
”They haven’t bared their feet,” he snapped to the warriors behind us.
”My Lord–” The lead warrior sounded embarrassed, and perhaps a little contemptuous. I couldn’t be sure.
”You’re not Revered Speaker.” Teomitl’s voice held the edge of broken obsidian.