Harbinger of the Storm - By Aliette De Bodard Page 0,1
below us
The beautiful place, the home of our mother, our father the Sun
Above us, below us
The region of mystery, the place of the fleshless…”
It was nothing so spectacular as the aftermath of Axayacatltzin’s death. Rather, green light slowly suffused the circle, a faint, ethereal radiance that carried with it the dry smell of dead leaves, the crackling noise of funeral pyres, the rank taste of carrion… the breath of Mictlan, the underworld.
I slashed both my hands, let them hang over the skull, as if in blessing.
“Above us, below us
An order as solid as a rock
The mountain upheld, the valley held in Your hand
We, Your servants, Your humble slaves,
We give our blood, our precious water
For that which maintains life
For that which maintains the Fifth World…”
The light slowly spread, sinking into the earth and the frescoes of the buildings until nothing but wisps remained hovering above the circle. Overhead, the stars were fainter, an illusion afforded by the protection, for nothing but Huitzilpochtli’s power would banish the star-demons.
Ichtaca rose carefully, his silver lip-plug glistening in the moonlight. “It’s done. Hopefully they’ll last long enough.”
I tore my gaze from the sky, unable to dismiss the heaviness in my stomach. If experience had taught me anything, it was that whatever could go wrong usually did so. “Let’s hope they do. I’ll leave you to wake up the priests while I go to the palace. Can you spare me Palli? I’ll need an escort, if only to keep up appearances.”
Ichtaca grimaced. He was much fonder of forms than I was. “It goes without question. You will–”
”Change into full regalia. Yes.” I sighed. “Of course.”
”And the rest of the priests?” Ichtaca asked.
”You know it as well as I do,” I said, a recognition of competence, with no animosity. “Prepare the mourning garb and the chants.”
”I’ll see to it.” Ichtaca’s gaze was sharp again, his mind set on the tasks ahead.
Mine too, however, there was one significant difference. Ichtaca was looking forward to his work. I, on the other hand, had absolutely no wish to go into the palace – not late at night, not right after the emperor’s death, when the infighting would have started in earnest. A Revered Speaker’s successor was not determined by blood ties, but appointed by the council; and the council could be bribed, coerced or otherwise convinced to vote against the best interests of the Mexica Empire.
Not to mention, of course, the fact that more than half the people awaiting me at the palace despised or hated me, with the whole of their faces and of their hearts.
The Storm Lord strike me, it was going to be an exhausting night.
As I’d promised Ichtaca, I changed into full regalia before leaving. The owl-embroidered cloak and the skull-mask were definitely magnificent, calculated to impress even the most arrogant of noblemen, but it was a warm and sweltering night. I felt trapped in a portable steam bath, and it did not promise to get better any time soon.
Palli was already waiting for me in the courtyard, and he followed me in silence. It was scarcely a time for meaningless gossip. There was a hole in the universe around us, one that jarred with every heartbeat, every movement we made. Anyone with magical abilities could feel it.
Our temple, like all the major ones in Tenochtitlan, lay in the Sacred Precinct, a walled city within the city that made up the religious heart of the Mexica Empire. In spite of the late hour, most temples were lit. Most priests were awake making their usual devotions, though their blood penances and prayers had grown more urgent and desperate.
May the sun remain in the sky, may the stars not fall down into the Fifth World…
The palace lay east of the Sacred Precinct; we went through the Serpent Wall to find ourselves dwarfed by its sandstone mass. Torches lit up the guards who let us pass with a deep bow.
Like our temple, the palace was a mass of buildings, except on quite a different scale. A maze of huge structures opening onto courtyards and gardens, including everything from tribunals to audience chambers, warrior councils and workshops for feather-workers and goldsmiths.
I made straight for the Imperial Chambers, which overlooked a wide courtyard paved with limestone. Normally, it would have been empty of all but the highest dignitaries; now noblemen and warriors crowded on the plaza, a sea of goldembroidered cotton, feather headdresses, jaguar pelts sewn into tunics, and the shimmering lattices of personal protective spells. But I barely had to