Tlacotzin and the girls walked slowly behind Cuathli, several lower-ranking priests, and the woman called Citalli. The servants of the gods moved at an unhurried pace, as if to give the young ones time to grow accustomed to what awaited them. They were in a part of the residence they had never visited; that alone stirred unease.
Tlacotzin wondered who the mysterious woman was. At last, in a whisper, he asked the girls.
"Her name is Citalli. They say she's a Tzitzimitl."
Tlacotzin could hardly believe what he heard from Xilonen. Tzitzimimeh—demons dwelling among the stars, bringing chaos and ruin to the mortal world. If the priests were to be believed, they would destroy humankind should the sun die.
"That can't be true."
"I don't know if it is," Izel answered, fear in her voice, "but Citalli lives in an isolated wing she almost never leaves."
"Everyone is afraid of her."
Meya let out a faint groan, and Nenetzi muttered something, nestled against Tlacotzin. A moment later all four girls squeaked, as though something menacing had swept past them.
Tlacotzin could not reconcile it. He knew the aura of a wicked man—Texoc came to mind—but this… this was different. And what of the thorns he had seen at the height of her heart? Was he the only one who saw them?
At last they halted before a door. Cuathli bade them wait while he prepared the room, then stepped inside, leaving the young ones with Citalli.
The girls stared at her in fright. Tlacotzin felt lost. Citalli stood like a statue, her face of stone yielding nothing.
He reached for his clay flute, hoping music might ease the moment—when Citalli spoke.
"Use your new flute. You must grow used to it."
Tlacotzin took up the bone flute. On the pyramid he had not thought of it, but it felt nothing like his clay instrument. He examined it. When he played at the market, he could only dream of such a finely adorned piece. He sensed a power in it he did not understand.
He lifted it to his lips and played. He played a hymn to the beauty of flowers growing in the starlight. As he played, he felt the girls' fingers, clenched upon him, relax—calm seeping back into them. He smiled, encouraged—then something happened he did not expect.
Citalli began to weep. She did not move, but tears slipped from her eyes, and she spoke in a sorrowing voice, as though reproaching herself.
"I know what they say of me. They call me a demon—but I was not always so. Once I had a sister, and we were inseparable, until the day she was chosen as an offering. I wept, I screamed, I offered myself in her stead—so much that they separated me from her. Since then I have hated everything. The gods—for taking her from me. Mortals—for denying me even a farewell. And most of all, myself. Had I been calmer, perhaps I could have spent my sister's last moments at her side…"
Citalli lowered her head, hair veiling her eyes. The girls looked at her now not with fear but with pity. How much suffering does it take to turn a person into… this?
Meya reached out a hand toward Citalli, then snatched it back—as if pricked by a cactus spine.
Before anyone could speak again, Cuathli returned and invited them in.
It was a chamber adorned with paintings of Xochipilli and his flower-filled realm. At its center stood a massive carved column. Xilonen, who had once lain upon such a stone, understood first.
"A practice techcatl…"
Cuathli met her eyes and nodded grimly. Tlacotzin swallowed when he saw the column. He remembered what Xilonen had told him of her visit to Tlazolteotl's temple. But this was no meditation. He felt himself begin to tremble.
Cuathli looked to Citalli, and she began to speak.
"Listen carefully, Tlacotzin. This is very important."
She stepped to his side.
"In the telpochcalli, they surely taught you that it is a warrior's duty to give his heart to the gods."
Of course they had. That much was obvious.
"But even the finest telpochcalli and calmecac cannot teach one thing—no matter how they try, no matter how good their masters."
Tlacotzin glanced at her, puzzled—and not only he. The girls, Izel especially, leaned in. What was it that even the best schools and teachers could not impart?
"It is mastery over one's fear in the face of death."
All eyes fixed on her.
"Warriors learn this on the battlefield, in countless fights—bleeding themselves and watching their captives die upon the sacrificial stones."
She exhaled near the unshorn lock at the back of his head. That lock was proof he had no warrior's achievements—he had not even taken part in preparations for the Flower Wars.
"You have not been given the chance to learn this skill. You must learn it within the temple walls."
She set a hand upon his shoulder.
"Lie on the stone. Then you will understand what you must face."
She nudged him gently forward. He stepped ahead, uncertain, not believing it could be so terrible. He set his hands upon the stone. It felt strangely cold and hard. Still he went on. When his back touched it, attendants moved in. Each seized a limb and stretched him into the offering pose.
Then it began.
His heart lurched into a gallop. It hammered in his chest as if to tear itself free. He shook all over. His eyes flew wide and filled with tears. His teeth chattered.
Only now did he understand.
He understood what fear is.
He would die.
He would die here—and soon.
Today was the day…
And then—
"Enough! Raise him."
At Cuathli's command the attendants lifted Tlacotzin from the stone and set him upon the ground. He could not stand on his own. He fell to his knees, huddled tight, breathing hard, clutching at his heart.
It was still there.
Still…
That evening, Tlacotzin sat in his room—not his cell. Until now he had thought it an ordinary chamber with sturdy walls, but now…
Shaking with fear, he saw it for the first time as a prison. A prison with only one exit: death.
It was a beautiful place—filled with flower murals and pleasant scents. He had always felt safe here. His beloveds were curled against him now; he should have felt at peace.
Why, then, this fear?
Why?
Why?!
He asked himself again and again within his aching heart, and found no answer—until he heard a woman's voice.
"It is because of helplessness."
Citalli stood in the doorway with a steaming jug.
"Helplessness has sharpened a fear you had not known. Now you have met your worst enemy—and Cuathli and I will teach you how to defeat it." She held out the jug.
"A calming brew. Drink. We must all speak."
After several hot swallows, he felt a little steadier. Meya looked at Citalli.
"Is there nothing to be done?"
There was no hope in her question, only a sorrowful acceptance of the inevitable. Citalli shook her head. The girls understood—nothing could be done, and rebellion would only make it worse.
"Tomorrow we begin your formal preparations," Citalli said at last. She looked from Tlacotzin to the girls.
"It will not be easy."