Blood & Fur

Chapter Seventy-Four: Murder in the Family

I took as much from Lady Zyanya as I gave her.

Draining lifeforce through Seidr came to me much more easily than healing wounds. The latter required direction and a sacrifice on my part, while the former was like drinking from a pond of honey. I simply had to pace myself to avoid draining my partner dry without letting her notice.

I was unwilling to train this skill on my consorts considering the risks involved. Zyanya was expendable, and I wouldn’t sleep with her often enough for her to notice the long-term effects of Teyolia draining anyway. I would leave her more exhausted than usual; hardly anything suspicious in itself for her, but a good exercise for me.

Draining her without notice proved a bit more difficult than I expected. I had grown experienced enough at seeing the shape of my and my partner’s soul that I could snuff out their life like candlelight. There was something faintly addictive about stealing another’s health and vigor, especially after giving Necahual some of mine. It was so easy to steal rather than to earn.

The Nightlords probably felt that way when they betrayed their monstrous father. The thought kept me grounded enough not to overstep, though it demanded a mental effort to restrain myself.

Zyanya was thankfully a skilled lover, so I found the experience quite pleasant. I hardly spared a thought for the late Tlazohtzin and poor Tlaxcala while I spent my seed into their moaning wife; the way I saw it, it was merely a necessity to hide the Mometzcopinque ritual.

“Your Majesty…” Lady Zyanya let out a sigh of pleasure and exhaustion once we finished. “That was… divine…”

“Savor that memory, Zyanya,” I replied after pulling out and letting myself fall on the mattress’ side between her and Necahual, who had been watching everything. “That pleasure will taste all the sweeter for its rarity.”

Zyanya’s satisfaction turned into a grimace. “Your Majesty is welcome to enter my bed at any time.”

“While it is an enticing thought, I have a war to wage,” I replied while Necahual lovingly stroked my hair. “You and your husband will serve the empire better by staying here in Zachilaa and keeping our internal enemies in check.”

Truthfully, I was content to end this charade and move on from this opportunist. I’d spent weeks pruning her and Tlaxcala to set up this exact situation. With Iztacoatl going on the warpath against my imperial privileges and the loss of surprise that taking her First Night provided, Zyanya’s usefulness to me had sharply dropped.

Nonetheless, it never hurt to be polite.

Zyanya studied me with a scowl. I could see her assess her different options. On paper, she had already gained much from our association. Tlaxcala might not be the ideal partner, but he granted her access to his family’s wealth and connections. Publicly ‘gracing’ her the way I did would also bring her great prestige. What more could she want from me? And what did she have to offer in return?

“Would you mind indulging a simple request, Your Majesty?” she asked me suddenly. “Would you kindly show me your holy blood again?”

“Have you developed a taste for sunlight, Zyanya?” I mused. Though her wish surprised me, it was easy enough to grant. I bit my palm and let fire pour out of my wound. “Behold its shine and warmth.”

Zyanya eyed the burning flame of my blood with desire. It reminded me of Lahun’s own intense interest, albeit with a subtle difference. Lahun’s fascination was born of comprehension, of watching the sorcery she sought for years performed before her eyes in true; Zyanya’s own interest was born of ignorance, of the awe of seeing something she couldn’t fully understand. She was a mortal entranced by the sight of a true miracle.

Zyanya dared to move her hand close to mine, although she pulled back the moment the flames licked her skin. I saw her hesitate to try again. She reminded me of an animal enticed by honey: the prize looked so sweet, but the buzzing bees lurking nearby never ceased to threaten her.

“I have seen many emperors,” she whispered to herself, “But none who could perform Your Majesty’s miracles.”

“My predecessors paved the way for my coming.” In a way, I was entirely truthful there. “I am the herald of a new age for Yohuachanca.”

“Yes… Yes, I see that now.” Zyanya nodded to herself, as if reaching a decision. “I must inform Your Majesty of a plot against his person and that of his consorts.”

My palm clenched into a fist. Necahual tensed up at my side, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“A plot?” Necahual asked on my behalf, knowing an emperor couldn’t show concern in front of a lowly mistress.

“My husband and I were approached three nights ago by a priest in Lady Iztacoatl's service,” Zyanya declared. The mere mention of the Nightlord’s name caused my heart to skip a beat. “We were ordered to spy on Your Divine Majesty and report any suspicious behavior. In return, we would receive financial favors and protection beyond Your Divine Majesty’s term.”

I would have loved to say it took me by surprise, but I’d sadly expected as much. It also helped contextualize some of their recent behavior.

My predecessors had warned me that Iztacoatl would seek to subvert my spy network and plant someone in my bed in order to gather information. Approaching Tlaxcala and Zyanya made sense; after all, I’d selected them as my catspaws because they were greedy and ambitious opportunists willing to do anything for imperial favor.

It was why I’d been careful to use those two without revealing too much about my true activities. They had been useful, but untrustworthy.

Why would Zyanya tip her hand like this?

“Interesting,” Necahual said while faking amusement. “And have you found anything suspicious?”

“I do recall that Lady Ingrid had us obtain an odd set of supplies and send them to what I assume was an intermediary,” Zyanya replied sharply, her eyes meeting mine. “Nothing incriminating by itself, but definitely suspicious. Of course, I saw no reason to waste the goddess’ time with mere supposition, and my new husband is too foolish to notice anyway.”

I waited a moment before finally speaking up with a low, dangerous voice. “Are you threatening me, Lady Zyanya?”

“No,” Necahual said shrewdly. “She would not say it now of all times, when we could easily snap her pretty neck with no one the wiser.”

“Your favorite is cunning, as expected of her,” Zyanya replied with what could pass for halfway sincere flattery. “I am Your Majesty’s faithful servant.”

“For a price, of course,” Necahual guessed. I let her do the talking for now in order to keep my options open without committing to anything. “What do you want?”

“First of all, I would like to deepen my relationship with Your Majesty.” Zyanya traced a line along my chest with her finger. I must have left a good impression on her. “I have no wish to end up trapped inside your harem, but I would enjoy the benefits of your public affection.”

“You wish to become my official mistress,” I guessed. “Did Iztacoatl put you up to this?”

“My husband and I thought it would be the best way to worm our way into both of your good graces,” Lady Zyanya replied. “I expect to be showered with the wealth and honors of my station. Meanwhile, I will ensure that Lady Iztacoatl hears everything she needs to hear.”

Necahual looked at her with some measure of interest. “Everything we want her to hear.”

“I see no difference,” Zyanya replied with a cunning smile.

“You intend to play both sides for as long as you can,” Necahual said with a hint of contempt. “To ensure you win no matter what.”

“Why make this offer at all?” I asked Zyanya. That part puzzled me. “You are not blind. Surely you must know that a Godspeaker cannot offer more than the goddesses he speaks for.”

“Simple.” Lady Zyanya glanced at my wounded palm. “A goddess would not ask me to spy on Your Majesty if you weren’t a threat to her. If she wants me to investigate Your Majesty and keep an eye on those close to you, then it means that she fears you.”

I knew Zyanya was shrewd, but her sharp insight took me aback. Of course, it could be a lie; a long con meant to gain my trust on Iztacoatl’s behalf in order to sell me out later for a higher price. Nonetheless, the miracles I’d performed would indeed present me as something utterly new in Yohuachanca’s history: a viable alternate source of power to the Nightlords. The potential rewards of such an uncertain situation exceeded the risks.

“It is quite the unique opportunity, I’m sure Your Majesty would agree,” Lady Zyanya said.

“You said ‘first of all’ earlier,” Necahual noted. She had grown halfway experienced at intrigue by now. “Becoming his mistress is only part of your price. What else do you want?”

“Widowhood.” Zyanya’s face twisted into a scowl. “I would like Your Majesty to secretly arrange for my new husband’s demise, hopefully as soon as I can confirm my pregnancy. A heroic death in battle would suit me best, so that he departs this world with glory and honors our house on his way out.”

I couldn’t help but scoff. “Has Tlaxcala truly been so tiresome that you would seek his death so soon?”

“Tlaxcala is a wastrel and a fool,” Zyanya replied with a scoff of absolute disdain. “Which I assume is why Your Majesty chose him as their tool.”

“True,” I conceded. “Nonetheless, a good tool is always useful.”

“He hardly listens to me, and I swear that he will waste away his father’s fortune within a mere few years with his incompetence.” Zyanya’s sneer reminded me so much of Necahual’s. “I do not appreciate Tlaxcala, but I desire his family’s wealth and contacts; both of which I would inherit once he perishes. He has outlived his usefulness to both Your Majesty and I since the moment we held our wedding. I would see his wealth prosper and serve Your Majesty better than he ever did.”

She was probably right, though I saw a wrinkle in her plan.

“It is true that he has no heir that could threaten him now,” I said, having removed his only major competitor myself. “Nonetheless, your claim on his assets will remain shaky as his widow. You would need to bear him a child to secure your position.”

“Yes.” Zyanya smiled ear to ear. “‘His’ child.”

A dark shiver coursed through my body. I knew Lady Zyanya to be ruthless and willing to throw her husbands to the wolves for an advantage, but I never expected her to go this far to secure our alliance. She was well and truly ruthless.

“Quite bold, are you?” I asked while stroking her cheek. “This could lead to… complications.”

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“Who will be able to confirm the truth?” Zyanya replied, her wicked ambition now laid bare before me. “Certainly there will be rumors and ambiguity, but those were unavoidable the moment Your Majesty took my First Night. Were my husband to die in a glorious battle, any protest would be seen as slander and be met with outrage. Your Majesty’s bloodline would rule Zachilaa forevermore, and I would not have to suffer my husband’s existence.”

Necahual studied Zyanya with a cold, blank expression. She had already been forced to bear an emperor’s child while passing her off as her husband’s own, so I assumed the proposal deeply gnawed at her.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

“You would use your own flesh and blood as a tool to secure your wealth?” she finally asked Zyanya, her tone more disappointed than anything.

“We women have precious little power in this land, Lady Necahual,” Zyanya replied with a shrug. “Our gods value us for our work and ability to give birth, and our men for the pleasures we provide. We do what we must to scrap what freedom we can find. I will do what I must to secure my house’s place in the sun.”

I finally realized why Zyanya had often felt so familiar: she reminded me of Lady Sigrun. Perhaps Ingrid’s mother behaved the exact same way once, scraping any bit of power she could secure through her bloodline and political connections to an emperor. The Nightlords had seen to it that the empire’s women would fall into that trap again and again; they were condemned to play pointless games of intrigue for a scrap of glory and a vampire’s ingratitude.

Nonetheless, Lady Zyanya’s offer presented an opportunity I couldn’t pass on. Assuming that she spoke the truth, at least partially, then I had a unique way to filter information to the White Snake in a way that would provide me with a key advantage.

I knew Iztacoatl. She wouldn’t let me go even if Sugey sidelined her for the duration of the Flower War. If informed of a plot, she wouldn’t resist the opportunity to catch me in the act herself. This would neatly reinforce the operation that I had in mind for her, Astrid, and Fjor; perhaps even ensure its success. I could spin a web so strong it would catch the snake in its net.

I reached a decision.

“I could have you and Tlaxcala join us for the Flower War,” I said, stroking her hair. “There he could find the glory he deserves…”

“We would of course accept Your Majesty’s invitation,” Zyanya replied, her eyes alight with ambition. “I shall also keep an eye on that Aclla woman, as you asked me to.”

Necahual observed us for a moment, then spoke up. “On which day were you born?”

“The first day of the Monkey Month,” Zyanya replied with a frown. “Might I ask why?”

My favorite lied about learning divination, though I knew better and suppressed a smirk of amusement.

My witch was already scouting her future coven.

I awoke in front of the black pyramid.

I had only ever seen the edifice from afar in the past, though it could be observed from any point in the city. Now it towered over me like the fang of a hungry and starless night. Its obsidian walls were smooth and untouched by the decay that struck the rest of the city; its peak seemed to rise on forever, obscuring the gray sky and the faint glow of Tlaloc’s sun in its dark majesty.

A single entrance was carved into its base, served by a set of stairs and surrounded by decorations that reminded me of teeth. Shadowy vapors and vile mists billowed out of this maw of nightmares to fuel the fog overtaking this cursed city. A thick and impenetrable wall of miasma surrounded the edifice and kept me separated from the rest of Xibalba.

Mother awaited me atop the stairs.

“You knew,” I said immediately upon seeing her, my heart overtaken with resentment. “You knew about Nenetl.”

Mother looked down on me with haunted eyes. She always carried herself with authority, even in her human form; yet tonight her posture seemed frail and fragile, like a stick of wood ready to fly away with a burst of wind.

“Yes,” she whispered, far too softly. “Yes, I… I knew.”

Something was wrong. Utterly wrong.

I could feel it in my bones. Mother’s eyes were sunken into her owl-mask, her posture too crumpled for her, her voice too weak.

Mother was shaken.

“I was afraid that…” Mother cleared her throat. “That your father would think less of me if he knew that I…” She looked down with an emotion I’d never seen from her: shame. “What I’ve done to survive.”

“He would. He will.” I clenched my fists. “We have to tell Father. You don’t get to keep his daughter away from him.”

Mother remained silent for a terribly long moment, then slowly shook her head. “It… it won’t change anything now, my son.”

The sorrow in her voice chilled me to my core. The seed of the darkest of doubts wormed its way into my heart. “Mother?”

“Come in,” she said, so quietly I hardly heard her. “The Lords of Terror await you.”

“Let them wait,” I replied angrily. “You said that this city’s doors were open to me.”

“Things have… things have changed.” Mother joined her hands together and looked down at the stone floor. “The invitation comes from above. From the First Fear itself.”

I frowned in confusion. “The First Fear?”

“The heart of Xibalba.” My mother’s hands were shaking. “The primal terror from which all the others arose.”

By the gods, she is terrified. Mother was a powerful sorceress with the knowledge and spells to cheat death itself. For her to be shaken enough to tremble like a leaf…

The most horrible of fears suddenly seized me. I could only think of one thing that would scare her.

“Mother?” The dreadful words formed on the tip of my tongue, my blood turning to ice in my veins. “Where is Father?”

Her long, ominous silence was enough of an answer.

The Lords of Terrors had spent many nights trying to find a way to scare me, and finally found one.

“What have they done?” My fists clenched in panic and cold rage, as did my jaw. “What have they done?”

“There is… no other way but forward now, my son.” My mother turned her back on me, her gaze facing the maw of Xibalba’s pyramid. “No other way but forward.”

I hardly hesitated before ascending up the stairs, my steps echoing across the silent mists of Xibalba.

My concern for Father’s soul was only matched by my blazing fury. My baleful heart-fire shone as bright as the all-burning sun of Tlalocan.

Were they holding Father hostage inside the pyramid? Was that their ploy to force me to behave as the demon they wished me to become? If those so-called Lords of Terror dared to hurt my father, then I swore to the gods I would gather all the past suns’ embers and return here to smite their cruel city to smoking rubble!

The suffering they inflicted on their victims would look like a childish prank compared to what I would put them through!

I followed Mother into the pyramid, through the vast miasma pouring out of it as though moved by pulsing lungs. I could hardly see through it, even with the Gaze spell on. The ground had turned chalky white, its ancient stone replaced with a carpet of powdered bones. Walls of obsidian carved with ancient diagrams, words, and forgotten tongues glowed around us.

I began to hear a sound the further we progressed; a subtle, pounding tremor that coursed through the air and stones, too weak to be an earthquake yet too strong to be caused by the drums of war. Part of me found it strangely familiar, though I couldn’t put my finger on why.

The path behind us had long vanished into the mists by the time we reached the ballcourt. It was immense, larger than the capital’s greatest arenas. Its stadium stretched on a plain of bones surrounded by dark stands of carved obsidian and crystal skulls. The upper goal, a ring of bones overseeing the ballcourt from a wall, loomed high above us.

The twelve Lords of Terror watched us from the spectators’ stands.

They were all gathered on six platforms of bound bones and sinew. Each of them hosted a pair; ghoulish Hun-Came stood in the light and the illusive Vucub-Came remained in the dark, an unknown phantom hidden in the shadows; sweet smiling Chamiaholom sat next to Chamiabac, the very essence of a hateful world materialized in the shape of a skeletal cloud of ice; Xiquiripat and Cuchumaquic, the plague and the hunter, remained side by side as a totem of bone and a hill of diseased flesh; Ahalpuh and Ahalgana, two faces sharing the same loathsome body, ate a rotten meal in a bowl between their thighs; Ahalmez and Ahaltocob, the master and the slave, had the former floating above and dangling the latter on his bench like a puppet; as for Xic and Patan, the swirling spiral of the void holding the lonely one trapped in her bosom. All of them had materialized in the form of human-sized avatars looking down on us mortals from above.

“We welcome thee into our hall, sorcerer,” Hun-Came said, the fear of death and first among equals. He stomped the ground with his ancient staff like a judge opening a court case. “Your graduation to true demonhood is at hand.”

“Where is he?” I seethed through my mouth, looking up to better glare at these overmighty parasites. “Where is my fath–”

I stopped upon catching a glimpse of the thing hanging from the ceiling.

It dangled from high above, far higher than the Lords of Terrors themselves, like how the sun shone upon kings and commoners alike; though there was nothing shiny about this horrible, monstrously huge diseased organ pounding above my head.

I’d seen enough human sacrifices to identify a heart.

It was blacker than the darkest night and of titanic proportions. Whatever giant once bore it in its chest probably rivaled King Mictlantecuhtli in size. Its diseased flesh pulsed with the strength of unlife, its surface a tapestry of silent faces frozen in eternal terror; for no one would hear them scream in the House of Fright. Hooks of iron and bronze hung the heart above the ballcourt by black feathered wings replacing its arteries. I immediately recognized them for what they were.

I’d found the heart of Xibalba, and it had owl wings.

“Behold the First Fear, the Heart of Nightmares; the very soul of Xibalba made manifest,” Hun-Came declared with reverence. “Gaze upon the flesh of terror and despair. Every fear, every evil, every cruelty known to mortalkind flows into it; as we feed it, so does it feed us. Gaze upon your progenitor, Tlacatecolotl.”

My progenitor? The longer I looked up at this heart, the more the owl in my soul rejoiced. This dark heart called to me with each pulse of its rotten countenance. I sensed its vile and putrid alien affection for me, like a proud parent welcoming its child back to the roost. Its whispers soothed the fear seizing my heart, albeit only barely.

“This is…” I inhaled the mists in the room. They tasted of home, of a nest of nightmares from which the beast within me once took its first flight. “My totem?”

“Yes,” Hun-Came said. “The first fear and the last, born not of men, but of the very gods themselves. The fear of the end.”

The heart fueled Xibalba’s fog. Its faces breathed out the cursed mist with each pounding, letting the essence of fear flow into the city to give life to a thousand nightmares. This place had taken its first pulse on the dawn of the first humanity and would continue to haunt it well into our final nights.

“When the four creators gazed upon the skull of King Mictlantecuhtli for the first time, they too learned that they were mortal,” Hun-Came explained. “That all of life, all that which they have created, all their glories and triumph, would one day come to a close. As their terror wormed its way out of their hearts, it grew wings and flew away to the land of the living to torment them. At the site of its birth arose our eternal city; the nest to all of the children of fear, and which has followed in death’s wake as new suns replaced the old.”

The word ‘children’ broke me out of my trance. The anger surging within my heart lifted the cloud of fascination obscuring my mind and reminding me of my purpose for coming to this cursed place.

“It’s quite the touching family reunion, but the only one I seek to see is my father,” I rasped, a finger pointed at Hun-Came in challenge. “What have you done with him, demon?”

“Nothing,” said the Fear of Death.

“Lies!” I snarled, my hands swirling with the fires of the Blaze. I would burn down this entire temple and its very heart if I had to. “I have conquered your trials and overcome your schemes! You have no right to take my father’s soul away!”

The Lords laughed at me, Chamiaholom first among them.

Their dark glee echoed across the halls. Not all of them mocked me, since the likes of Hun-Came were beyond laughter and joy of any kind, but enough did so to shake the walls.

My heart sank into my chest. I had suffered enough mockery in my life to recognize what kind of joy I inspired; the smug, condescending irony born of watching a fool unaware of a hurtful truth.

Hun-Came stomped the stand with his staff and silenced his colleagues.

“Your presence and freedom within these halls are at the whims of the First Fear and the will of Xibalba,” Hun-Came declared to me. “Your father’s soul was your mother’s property, as per the covenant she formed with us. We had no power over it until now.”

“I’m afraid you misunderstand, sweetheart,” Chamiaholom said with a rancid smirk. “We are here to congratulate you and your mother on your graduation. You have already passed with flying colors.”

“The ballcourt game is a pure formality in your case, Iztac Ce Ehecatl,” Hun-Came said calmly. “Your mother already supplied the required sacrifice.”

He uttered the last words so absentmindedly, like a bureaucrat discussing a technical administrative issue, that I almost missed their awful and deep cruelty.

The pieces fell into place into a ghastly picture.

My mind refused to entertain the possibility at first, in spite of all the hints presented to me. My eyes turned to Mother, whose guilt and sorrow were written all over her face. She cradled her arms and suppressed a sob.

She wouldn’t have… In spite of her cowardice, in spite of abandoning me and Nenetl, in spite of everything… That was the one line she would never cross. She couldn’t have…

Lies. Those were lies. Another illusion meant to deceive me like in the Razor House, a vile trick to poison my mind against my mother and crush my spirit. I could tell it was all a lie.

A lie told to myself.

“What have you done?” I dared to ask, though I already knew the truth within my heart. “What have you done, Mother?”

Mother wouldn’t answer. The coward wouldn’t even face my gaze. Even in the face of the ultimate crime she could have committed, she still wouldn’t own up to it.

“What have you done?!” I shouted at her, the flames of my rage and disbelief illuminating the ballcourt.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know, sweetheart?” Chamiaholom wiped out a tear from her eye; an act which I found infinitely more ominous than the Lords of Terrors’ trials and laughter. “Every sorcerer must provide their ball to play their graduation game and leave our fair city. Such is the toll that Xibalba asks of you… a duty which your loving mother so kindly agreed to pay out of parental affection.”

Hun-Came stomped the ground with his staff, and all of Xibalba trembled.

“Fetch him the ball,” he ordered.

The ball court shifted beneath my feet, its powdered field of bones reassembling itself into a small tower of skeletal hands. It arose in front of me, fingers clicking and chittering as they brought forth a treasure buried beneath the arena’s floor and presented it to me.

Hope died within me the moment I lay eyes on it.

My father’s soulless skull silently stared back at me.

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