Blood & Fur

Chapter Thirty-Five: Winland Funeral

Chapter Thirty-Five: Winland Funeral

The door to Ingrid’s apartment seemed taller than before. It loomed over me like the black gates of the House of Gloom, dark and silent.

I knew it was only a trick of my mind, an echo of my guilt. It still caused me to hesitate for a brief instant. A thousand conversations crossed my mind in the span of a second. I remembered the advice of my predecessors, Necahual’s words, and every other piece of information that could help me survive the battle ahead.

I gathered my breath and knocked.

I heard footsteps behind the door and a hand moving to open it. I half-expected to find myself staring at Ingrid’s glare, or Eztli’s cold, reproachful stare. A much more pleasant sight welcomed me.

“Oh, Iztac?” Nenetl stood on the other side of the threshold, her comforting smile immediately easing my soul. “I knew you would come.”

“Nenetl?” I replied with a surprised frown. “Why are you in Ingrid’s apartment?”

“I, uh...” Nenetl cleared her throat. “Ingrid’s mother is...” She winced before she could finish her sentence. “Of course you know that... I’m sorry, I shouldn’t...”

“You’re forgiven, Nenetl,” I interrupted her before she could bury herself in excuses again. I would take her clumsy kindness over false flattery anytime. “You came to comfort Ingrid?”

“I... I tried.” Nenetl joined her hands, her fingers fidgeting with tension. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t keep an emperor on the threshold like this...”

“You are one of my consorts. You’ve earned that privilege.” I stepped inside with one last order to the guards. “Stay outside. Ensure no one will interrupt us without my authorization.”

My masked jailers answered with utter silence.

“They scare me,” Nenetl whispered under her breath after closing the door. Did she fear that they would overhear her? “They smell wrong too...”

I raised an eyebrow. “Smell?”

“Everyone has a smell, but your guards have so many...” Nenetl shook her head. “I always think of a crowd when they approach.”

Interesting. Had awakening her wolf-totem improved Nenetl’s senses? I folded that information away in the back of my mind in case I could make use of it later. “And how do I smell?”

“Sweet,” she replied with a sheepish, adorable smile. “Like caramel.”

I wondered if Nenetl had started to learn spells. Her earnest gentleness always managed to soothe my soul better than any sorcery.

It became even more appreciated as we walked into grand chambers of polished marble and Lady Sigrun’s family chambers. The gemstone, seashell-shaped ceiling and knotwork decorations remained a marvel to behold. However, I immediately noticed a handful of worrying changes. Most shelves, once abundant with scrolls, jewelry, and potions, had been emptied. A handful of tapestries were missing from the walls as well.

I guessed what happened to them from the smell of smoke in the air. The sad, melancholic sound of a harp invited us to step onward.

A particular decoration had caught my eye the first time I visited Ingrid’s apartment: a miniature replica of the ship that brought her mother to Yohuachanca, sitting on a hand-carved table showcasing a map of the known world.

The table was still there, untouched and covered in a platter of chocolate sweets. The ship that once sailed on its sea of wood, meanwhile, ended its journey in the nearby hearth. Lady Sigrun’s daughters had stuffed its hold with the missing decorations and then set it on fire. I noticed Ingrid feeding scrolls to the flames with a blank face, her slim frame wrapped in black robes smoother than spider’s silk. Her younger sister Astrid played the harp beautifully, her eyes red from too many tears.

Other figures watched the pyre too. Eztli stood behind Ingrid like the shadow of death, the heart’s fires reflecting on her pale skin. Chikal sat at the painted table and studied its map. Her head perked up when she sensed me and Nenetl approaching.

All my consorts were here.

It surprised me. I knew Eztli spent the night trying to comfort Ingrid, and I could guess that Nenetl’s kind heart would encourage her to do the same, but Chikal? The amazon queen never struck me as the sentimental type. Why would she care for Ingrid’s well-being now of all times?

Our eyes briefly met, and she swiftly decided to enlighten me.

“Now you know,” Chikal said, her fingers tracing a line along the map, “how it feels to choose.”

I nodded in silent understanding. Chikal too had faced a cruel decision on who to save from the Nightlords’ grasp. The only difference was that she had to sacrifice a city rather than a single person’s life. I guessed I should consider myself lucky that the Jaguar Woman stopped at a handful of concubines.

“I hesitated,” I confessed.

“And you paid a great cost for it.” Chikal studied me for a few seconds, her gaze ever unreadable. “You will never forget it.”

No, I wouldn’t. It wasn’t a question, but a statement. I will never forget the cost of letting the Nightlords live.

Eztli greeted me with a blank look, and little Astrid with a glare sharper than obsidian daggers. My lack of surprise dulled its edge. I had expected that reaction. In spite of Necahual’s attempts to soften the blow, I did play a role in her mother’s death. As a child too young to properly understand the cruel world we lived in, I couldn’t fault her for blaming me.

Ingrid worried me more.

My orphaned consort briefly turned away from the fire to look at me. She looked slightly better than last night, the way a cleaned skeleton might prove less unsettling than a freshly killed corpse. Her pallid skin and sunken eyes belonged to the dead. She held onto life by a thread.

“My lord,” Ingrid said. I waited for more and received nothing.

A thousand words and a hundred flowery sentences crossed my mind. All sounded equally empty to me, so I did not speak.

My arms moved to embrace her.

I pulled Ingrid closer into a hug which she did not resist. She burst into tears the moment her head rested on my shoulders. Floodgates opened, and neither the presence of her fellow consorts nor her sister could hold back the flood.

I couldn’t tell how long I let her cry on my shoulder. Minutes? Hours? It felt like forever to me. I gently stroked her hair as her tears soaked my cotton robes. I thought she had shed them all last night. I was mistaken.

She is so thin, I suddenly realized. Eztli possessed the strength of a curse, and the late Sigrun an iron confidence little could break. Her daughter lacked it. She had managed to hide her weakness behind her training and carefully woven lies, only for the Nightlords’ malignant cruelty to dispel it all. She’s my age. So young and human.

Ingrid was no amazon queen, no Nahualli with hidden power, and no Nightkin cursed with immortality. She was no more than a witty young woman trapped in a gilded cage. She could only rely on her intelligence, beauty, and parentage; and none of them could give her the courage she desperately needed.

The harp song ended. I noticed Eztli leading little Astrid back to her room at the edge of my vision. Ingrid’s sister appeared ready to fight back until Eztli put a cold, firm hand on her shoulder, nipping all thoughts of rebellion in the bud. I admit it unsettled me; my oldest friend had retained some of her kindness, but the vampiric instincts were never too far behind. Meanwhile, Nenetl did her best to fade into the background, her back bent and her head pointing at the floor; as for Chikal, she focused on the burning ship, the flames’ light reflecting in her eyes.

All of them gave us a little space.

“Lady Eztli and her mother... they said you did not choose for mine to die,” Ingrid whispered softly, begging, no, pleading for the truth. “Is it true?”

My lips twisted into a scowl as I nodded sharply. “The Jaguar Woman overruled me.”

“I see...” Ingrid let go of the hug and studied my face for any hint of a lie. My sorrow and cold anger must seem genuine enough to her. “I shouldn’t say this in Lady Eztli’s presence, but... I’m glad to hear that.”

Ingrid had called Eztli by a deferential title twice now. I admit it surprised me. My oldest friend’s kindness must have dulled the edge of their rivalry. That, or Ingrid had realized that there was no point in continuing it now that her mother had died. The roles would have been reversed without the Nightlords’ cruelty.

“Mother must have disappointed them,” Ingrid whispered, more for her sake than mine. “Mother was a schemer... One of her plots must have displeased the goddesses.”

My grip on her back tightened on its own. I heard Ingrid gasp in surprise as my pulse quickened.

“You’re wrong,” I corrected her, my voice dripping with bitterness. “The Jaguar Woman wanted to teach us a lesson. Nothing more.”

“A... a lesson?” Ingrid’s hands tightened into fists. “But... why?”

“I asked questions.” In this place, that was a crime worthy of death. “You and your mother deemed that good service ought to be rewarded.”

Ingrid looked up at me with utter confusion, no, denial. She was the brightest of us and heard the Jaguar Woman’s words at her mother’s execution. She understood that Lady Sigrun died for nothing. That the Nightlords needed no reason to kill on a whim. She simply struggled to accept it.

It was human nature to seek meaning for pain and misery; we could predict and avoid what we could understand. To find causes for old tragedies helped us prepare for new ones. Hence we struggled to understand true evil: because it was purposeless.

“You seek a reasonable explanation for last night’s tragedy, Ingrid, and there is your mistake,” I told her as gently as I could. “Did you forget the Jaguar Woman’s warning? There was nothing reasonable about this ordeal. Our lives are at their mercy and there is no reward for service. They punish disloyalty, but good work buys no favor either.”

My words were harsh, but Ingrid listened to them nonetheless. Her lips strained in a mix of despair and anguish.

“She... she died for nothing.” I could see the last embers of Ingrid’s hope die. It was written on her face. “Is that what you are trying to tell me, my lord emperor? That she died for nothing?”

“I am sorry, Ingrid,” I apologized. “I wish I could lie and tell you your Mother brought this cruel fate upon herself. She did not. Senseless cruelty requires no explanation. It simply is.”

Ingrid let go of me, her hands moving to her shoulders as if to protect them from the cold. She looked down for a moment, mulling over my words, before glancing at Eztli. My oldest friend shook her head. She wouldn’t lie either.

“What do I do, my lord?” Ingrid asked me, her voice breaking in her throat. “What must I do? I... I am lost.”

I gathered my breath as I thought over my answer. I wished I possessed the wisdom she sought. The best I could give her was my earnest opinion.

Someone answered before I could.

“You live, Ingrid.” Chikal turned away from the fire to meet Ingrid’s gaze with eyes full of resolve. “If not for yourself, then for your sister. For your kin that will outlive you.”

Or for revenge, I almost added. I held back, however. Ingrid didn’t need to hear that. Not right now. Not until she had finished grieving her mother and recovered her composure.

“She’s right,” I said. Because she has been there too. “Astrid needs you.”

Ingrid pondered my and Chikal’s words before glancing at the harp her sister had been playing. She fell into thoughtful silence.

Moreover, I wondered what effect my blood would have on an animal. Vampire blood transferred a sliver of the curse to the priests and allowed Yoloxochitl to cultivate predatory plants. Would those feeding on my flesh inherit some of my borrowed divine power too? How would it change them? And most importantly, would their blood become poisonous for vampires too?

I was dying to find out.

After my menagerie visit, I spent my short nap alone in my bed, visiting Tlazohtzin under the guise of Inkarri. As I expected, he took his dismissal as confirmation that his brother would inherit everything. My trick had dispelled whatever doubts he still had over our enterprise.

“I have gathered all the Tumi and Sapa artifacts I could find, oh divine messenger,” he told me, kneeling in prostration. “Dozens of them.”

“Have your agents bury them across Smoke Mountain,” I ordered. “If the gods find your offerings pleasing, your fate might still be averted.”

I was almost sincere in my promise. If by some miracle the counter-ritual managed to kill all of the Nightlords and if I survived it, I would gladly rescind my decision. I very much doubted either of us would be so lucky.

Moreover, I intended to fix the scale of fate in my favor... and his misfortune.

“Now, I shall bless you on your task, brave soul.” I grabbed a feather from my plumage. “A blessing, yes...”

The Veil I surrounded myself with made me appear like a bird of radiant gold to Tlazohtzin, but my Gaze prevented me from lying to myself. The feather in my talon was blacker than a starless night. It promised no miracle, no secret wealth delivered from the heavens. I was an owl of darkness rising from the Underworld.

I was an omen of death.

Unfortunately, that was the only gift I could offer. I would bless the Nightlords with it in time, but for me to fulfill that goal I would need to make sacrifices.

I regretted what I was about to do. Tlazohtzin was no red-eyed priest or nightkin apologist. He was an innocent man who had the misfortune of being in the right place at the right time. I had indirectly killed many like him when I declared war on the Sapa Empire and when I first denied the Jaguar Woman; but this time I wielded the knife that would cause his doom. I regretted my choice, but I had promised myself never to hesitate again.

I would bear that burden.

My Veil delivered sweet words to Tlazohtzin even as my mouth whispered crueler truths to my feather.

“I bless your soul with heavenly luck, so that you may fulfill your duty with pride.”

I curse you to a short life of deceit, the truth of your actions forever unknown to you.

“I bless your breath with the power of truth, so that you may expose your brother’s treachery for all to see.”

I curse you to whisper lies into the eyes of red-eyed fools, so that they mistake you for a foreign enemy.

“I bless your body with a long life, so that you may prove yourself worthy of your father’s inheritance and a greater one to your children.”

I curse you to die a swift death in the service of a greater cause, your blood spared from the vampire kiss, for it is the one gift I may offer you.

I hoped I had another choice available to me. Alas, I couldn’t risk the Nightlords discovering my treachery. I placed my well-disguised feather inside Tlazohtzin’s shadow and poisoned his destiny.

“We shall not meet again until the New Fire Ceremony concludes,” I warned him. “Should the gods smile on you, I shall return swiftly. May the Gods-in-Spirit take mercy on you.”

I left Tlazohtzin’s altar room without waiting for an answer. I did not want to see his pleased face after he swallowed my lie. It would only worsen my guilt.

All the better to bury my remorse with work. The die was already cast.

All I had to do was to travel to Smoke Mountain itself and cast my Haunt spell over it. The trip being too long for a brief nap, I flew back to the palace.

I did not return to my room immediately. Instead, I shifted through the walls until I reached Ingrid’s bedroom. My invisible spirit slipped inside the main hall and landed on its altar.

Let us see what you hid from the bats, Sigrun. I put my head through the wood and stone, my eyes emerging on the other side. As I suspected, the altar covered a secret compartment at its base; one roughly three feet in diameter and just as deep.

Women often asked to be buried with their jewels, but Lady Sigrun was too wise for such vanity. She buried a treasure not of gold and silver, but of paper and ink. Piles of scrolls were neatly folded in small clay containers to protect them from humidity and insects. My eyes darted on a wealth of maps, letters, and other documents.

The Emperor’s codex was nowhere to be seen among them.

Disappointing, but not unexpected. It would have been madness for Sigrun to keep such an important manuscript in her room. In all likelihood, she merely recorded the place she hid it among her legacy.

I swiftly materialized a talon and examined the document at the top of the pile in the hopes it would provide a hint. Instead, I looked at a map of Yohuachanca, the Sapa Empire, and a landmass to the east beyond the Boiling Sea. This drawing included indications of the wind and water currents running from one land to another. A good sailor could easily use this information to travel from Yohuachanca to Winland and beyond.

Either a part of Sigrun never lost hope to return home one day or she entrusted this dream to her descendants. I wondered if the Nightlords possessed a copy of their own. Considering how Yohuachanca’s hunger for blood demanded constant conquest, they probably intended to invade Winland in future centuries.

Part of me hoped to visit these distant lands one day, after I’d killed the Nightlords of course.

I folded the map aside and quickly checked the next document, then the one after, and the one after that one. My blood would have turned to ice if I still wore my body. All of these papers showed a similar issue that truly compromised my plans.

Sigrun’s trove of scrolls was exclusively written in Winland’s runic alphabet.

I couldn’t read any of them.

I beat myself for not considering it sooner. Of course Sigrun would record all sensitive information in a tongue only her family could understand. She informed me of the cache’s location knowing full well I wouldn’t be able to decode it without her daughters’ cooperation. Worse, I couldn’t smuggle these objects outside to decipher them at my own pace elsewhere. Unlike my unsubstantial Tonalli, these scrolls couldn’t phase through walls.

No matter how I approached the problem, I couldn’t think of a way to exploit these documents without bringing Ingrid into the loop. I would need to either convince her to teach me her native tongue—and somehow master it in a few months on top of all my other obligations—or inform her of the cache.

Sigrun binds my hand even in death. I would have bet my hand that she anticipated my reaction when she hinted at the cache’s existence. Wherever you are, I hope you have the last laugh.

With little else to do, my spirit flew away from the cache and quickly checked on Ingrid and her sister. I found the latter sleeping in her bed and cradling her cushions. As for Ingrid, she was drafting letters in her mother’s office with the sharp focus of a young woman desperately burying her sorrow in work. A look over her shoulder confirmed to me that she was drafting a challenge to the Sapa Emperor claimants, just as I asked her to before her mother’s death.

We weren’t so different, she and I. We would rather both swim headfirst into our toil rather than dwell on the past.

The sight saddened me to my core. I could not bring back Lady Sigrun from the dead, but I could ensure her daughters would survive the Scarlet Moon. I would do my best to watch over them.

With darkness falling upon the realm, I returned to my body for another night of horrors. This time I spent it in silence. I said nothing when the guards and Eztli came to escort me to the temple. Our footsteps filled the silence as we walked among the living dead. Vampires great and small greeted us with what could pass for religious deference... with one exception.

The Jaguar Woman welcomed me with a thin smile on her lips.

Her smug, satisfied look sickened me to my core. She thought she had cowed me, the wicked witch. She thought she had tamed me. Broken me. I hated myself for playing along with this farce.

Victory excuses everything, I kept telling myself as I climbed the mountain of ash. One day. One day.

I buried my anger and fury under a mask of resignation, then proceeded to feed the sulfur flame. I had sated it with flesh last night. I spent this one feeding it scrolls of paper marked with thousands of names. Whether those belonged to the year’s dead or their living relatives, I couldn’t know. The burning abyss ate away at them all the same.

The depthless hunger within this malevolent fire had consumed so many lives. It would eat me and Eztli too if we dared to touch it. The whole world wouldn’t be enough to satisfy its ravenous appetite. The thought of this sulfur flame shining in the sky frightened me to my core.

Yet, that fear couldn’t open my Tomb. The end of the world and the onset of an age of vampires wouldn’t let me fuel that spell.

What is it that I fear? I wondered. What did I run from? If not death, what? To become a skull buried in a pile of them for all eternity? Is that my Tomb? Imprisonment? Eternal suffering? Deathlessness?

I had spoken all of these words when trying to cast the Tomb. None worked. My true fear transcended them all.

What frightened me? What was I running away from? What was I fighting with all my strength to avoid? I thought back to the moments that brought me the most dread in my life.

The Night of the Scarlet Moon, when my name came up.

Guatemoc’s death and Eztli’s transformation.

The sight of Yoloxochitl eating people in her true form.

And finally, Lady Sigrun’s cruel death.

I had pressed a weapon against my own heart, faced King Mictlantecuhtli—a god mightier than all four Nightlords combined—and survived the House of Gloom. Yet none of these events crushed my spirit the way the others had. Why?

The solution came to me in a flash of insight.

I had chosen to face these trials, and prevailed.

In all other cases, I had been powerless to affect the outcome.

I sought strength so fervently because I was afraid of being powerless. Of being trapped, my will crushed, my mind manipulated, my body broken, unable to stand, unable to fight. I pursued the power I’d lacked all of my life: the power to challenge a fate forced upon me at birth.

I craved what I feared most: control.

“Powerlessness,” I whispered.

I heard an echo in the very depths of my soul, the slight screech of a greased door opening.

I had uncovered the key to my Tomb.