The royal palace. One of the side chambers. A place filled with beautiful flowers, marvelous paintings, and splendid objects. Yet the great servant of Xochipilli paid no attention to them.
Cuathli felt his heart being torn to shreds by an indescribable sorrow. He looked at the youth who was like a son to him—someone young who, for the sake of the community, was to be deprived of his life, by Cuathli's very own hands.
Tlahcoatl had been right. Becoming attached to Tlacotzin had only brought him pain.
"I'm sorry, Tlacotzin. I'm so very sorry."
Tlacotzin looked at him in surprise.
"The great servant of Xochipilli has nothing to apologize for."
"Oh, but I do. I was the one who found you on the temple steps and brought this fate upon you."
Tlacotzin met his gaze with determination.
"Thanks to that, the high priest pulled me out of the abyss of loneliness and despair. The high priest has nothing to apologize for."
Tlacotzin lowered his head slightly, but did not break eye contact.
"The high priest is like a father to me. I would like to remain with you, but I must also die—for your sake."
Cuathli's heart ached even more, knowing now that their bond was mutual. And yet he had to say the words, though every fiber of him resisted. How much he wished he could simply take Tlacotzin to the pulquería and talk about everything and nothing. But that was impossible.
"Come, we mustn't keep the council waiting."
Tlacotzin and Cuathli entered the chamber. Cuathli walked straight and steady. Years of priestly discipline allowed him to conceal the signs of his torment. Only his eyes betrayed him. Tlacotzin seemed to shrink into himself. Tears welled in his eyes. He walked slowly with a bowed head, as though crushed under a great weight. This was the beginning of his final journey.
The priest scanned the chamber. One man was missing: the priest Huehuecoyotl. Rage stirred within him. Where could that…
"Beg pardon!"
Both he and Tlacotzin turned. Tlacotzin's eyes and mouth opened wide, while Cuathli clenched his lips and furrowed his brow.
The priest of Huehuecoyotl was approaching them—or rather, crawling on all fours, rattling his bone ornaments as he went.
"Much preparation! Very busy!"
Then, like a monkey, he climbed to his place and began to sway side to side.
Tlacotzin was in shock. This man… was a high priest? A great servant of the gods, embodiment of wisdom and virtue?
Cuathli whispered to him not to worry—that he was always like this.
Once the tardy priest had taken his seat, the king began the council.
"I trust you have all read the record of the vision."
At these words, the priests and nobles withdrew folded slips of paper and held them up to the king. They displayed them with calm composure—except Huehuecoyotl, who waved his note like a banner.
"The vision of a dead world given to the great servant of Xochipilli is terrifying. Without a doubt, it means we face famine and barrenness. Fortunately, the gods have shown us how to avert disaster."
The king's gaze fell upon Tlacotzin. He wore only a plain white maxtlatl, simple sandals, a red band across his eyes, and three red vertical stripes upon his chin. Around his neck hung an amulet, which the king discreetly recognized. This was a youth who had suffered greatly and found his place in Xochipilli's temple. His simplicity and composure radiated readiness for sacrifice.
"Step forward, young man, and tell us your name."
With stiff, halting steps, Tlacotzin came forward and knelt on one knee.
"I am Tlacotzin, your majesty."
"Tlacotzin, you have suffered much in our city. Now the community must ask you to save it from the coming catastrophe. Will you give your heart to Xochipilli?"
Tlacotzin bowed. His hair veiled his eyes. No one saw the despair hidden within them.
"Yes, your majesty. Though I long to remain here, I will do it to protect those I hold dear."
"Tlacotzin, I thank you for your sacrifice."
Cuathli looked at the council. All sat upright—save Huehuecoyotl. They looked upon Tlacotzin with pity, yet it was a cold pity. In their eyes, this was no tragedy, no youth losing his life and dreams. Before them knelt simply another offering to the gods, to be followed by the next. Sad, perhaps—but not cause for grief. Their hearts were hardened by the burden of duty to the community.
Exactly as Cuathli had foreseen. No one saw in Tlacotzin a person—only a part of the system that kept the world alive. He bowed his own head in sorrow. He knew it all too well; how many times had he sat among them, blind to the tragedy of one life, seeing only the benefit to society?
Suddenly, a loud cry pierced the chamber.
"This young one—he makes trills? Beautiful trills?"
Cuathli sighed. Huehuecoyotl clearly did not grasp the moment.
"Yes, great servant of Huehuecoyotl. It is him."
"I want to hear his trills! Hear his trills! Trills now!"
All the priests, nobles, and the king looked at him with disgust. He shouted and leapt like a howler on a branch—or a child begging for sweets. How could such a man be a high priest?
"So be it. Young man, play something for us."
Tlacotzin smiled faintly and reached for the flute at his side. He lifted it to his lips and began to play.
At first, a slow, mournful melody—like one who had never known joy. Suddenly it shifted, chaotic and joyful, an invitation to carefree celebration. Then it softened, tender and soothing, like a protective embrace. It became calm and happy. A moment of sensual passion, before ending in a quiet sorrow.
Cuathli understood. Tlacotzin was telling the story of his journey: from a life of despair, through revelry with Itzcoatl, to being found by Cuathli and the joy of a new life—ending with acceptance of his destined sacrifice.
When the melody ended, silence filled the chamber. No one had moved. No one had spoken. It was as if the music had consumed them.
The first to react was Huehuecoyotl. He did not stamp, nor cry out, nor roll about.
He rose slowly, with solemn dignity. He took a few calm steps forward, his bone ornaments clinking gently. Then he spoke:
"I have just heard the most beautiful music ever played in our city—music that pierces the soul and shatters the stone of even the hardest hearts. If this music is not close to the gods, then none is. For no other music captures the beauty of the soul and the willingness to serve the gods."
He returned to his place and sat with stately composure.
For a moment, silence hung heavy. Then—
"He can speak normally?!"
The golden-tongued nobles could not comprehend.
"He can walk normally?!"
The well-traveled lords could not understand.
"He acts like a normal man?!"
Those versed in ethics were baffled.
"He speaks like a true sage?!"
The devout priests could not bear it.
Huehuecoyotl—the uncouth madman, bereft of manners or sense—was suddenly acting like a sage.
It was beyond the grasp of mortal understanding.
Chaos erupted.
Everyone scrambled through their notes, convinced they had missed something. They asked one another if they had ever heard such wondrous music. Of course, none had. They all demanded: Who is this youth pointed out by Xochipilli? Who is Tlacotzin?
Cuathli smiled faintly as he watched them. They mirrored the turmoil of his own heart. For a moment, they could truly understand what he felt.
The hall buzzed with restless frenzy. Only one remained still—the king. He sat quietly, but his hand tightened on his knee, and a tear slid down his cheek.
"Silence."
At once the hall fell quiet. The king rose and approached Tlacotzin. The youth bowed even lower before him.
"Tlacotzin. Stand, and lift your head."
Tlacotzin trembled at the words. Slowly, with inner resistance, he obeyed and looked at the king. He felt he was far too close—he was not ready. But even less was he ready for what happened next.
The king… bowed to him.
"Thank you for your music. In my life I have heard many musicians, but none who could move human hearts so deeply. You are truly exceptional, Tlacotzin."
Panic seized Tlacotzin. He waved his hands frantically, sweat soaking his back. He did not understand what was happening.
"Your majesty, I am not worthy of such words! I am only a street player."
"You are exceptional, Tlacotzin. Do not deny it out of humility."
The king's gaze grew solemn.
"The gods grant life to our world, but to sustain it, we must give them offerings."
A tear fell from his eye.
"When a warrior brings in a captive, we call him a flower, like the blossoms we offer to the gods. The most splendid flower of the mortal world now stands before me."
He locked eyes with Tlacotzin. The youth wished to flee that gaze, but could not.
"Tlacotzin, everyone in this hall, myself included, wishes you could remain with us. But we are the council. We cannot be ruled by our desires. We must put the welfare of the community first. Tlacotzin, forgive me, but I cannot save your life."
Tlacotzin knew this. Still, the words cut deep.
"I understand, your majesty."
He bowed.
"My father, a warrior, taught me the meaning of sacrifice. I learned the same in the Telpochcalli. I understand the role given to me."
The king looked at him.
"Even so, it is unjust that such an extraordinary person suffered so in the city under my rule. I cannot save your life, but I can give you something to ease your pain. I grant you one wish. Ask for whatever you desire. You shall have it—within reason."
Tlacotzin stared at the king in astonishment, then fell silent in thought.
"In Cuathli's vision, Meya, Nenetzi, Xilonen, and Izel will bear my children. I wish for them and for my children to be under the king's protection."
"So you desire a safe future for your loved ones. The king shall grant your wish. Your children will grow in peace, and their mothers shall want for nothing."
Tlacotzin smiled faintly. The king then gave the order:
"We must prepare the official presentation of Tlacotzin for this evening."