Tlacotzin wondered whether he had dozed off for a moment. He didn't know, but he felt he had changed. When he moved, it was as if he were trapped in some kind of shell.
He smiled to himself. He was already partly dead. His transformation was almost complete. He felt neither pride nor joy—only sadness. When he stepped out of this chamber into the sunlight, Tlacotzin the young flutist would officially die and be laid to rest here. In his place would stand Tlacotzin, guardian spirit and patron of music. He smiled again—a delicate smile of painful acceptance.
When he remembered the moment he understood his fate, he had been desolate and terrified, but now… He touched his still-beating heart. Only it kept him in the world of mortals. If not for the tears of his loved ones, he would have given it up gladly, without a trace of regret.
Suddenly he sensed something: six people approaching, four of them bound closely to him.
So his perception of the world had changed as well…
A moment later they entered: Cuathli, Citalli, Meya, Nenetzi, Xilonen, and Izel. They looked slightly dazed when they saw him. He rose lightly and smiled at them. He felt weightless—as light as a butterfly.
"How do you feel?"
Meya spoke to him and suddenly blushed. Tlacotzin wasn't sure what to say—how to describe his state. In the end he said,
"I'm sorry."
All four girls answered together,
"You apologize too much."
They all laughed softly. The girls bowed and showed him his new garments. They had been preparing them for him throughout the long preparations—their last gift to the young flutist and their first to the guardian spirit.
They undressed Tlacotzin gently, with tenderness. In their hearts they wished they could spirit him away somewhere far, but they knew it was impossible. They also felt the change in his aura—their beloved was formally cut off from the mortal world. They anointed him with floral oils and then began to clothe him. At first Tlacotzin wanted to protest, but he was already beyond mortals and had to allow it. They dressed him in a white maxtlatl embroidered with pink orchids and blue butterflies, and the same for his cloak. On his feet they put sandals adorned with fresh orchids. On his head they set a wide headdress: closest to his crown were hummingbird feathers, ringed by the colors of parrots, and on the outermost layer the plumes of quetzal. Lightness and transience. Joy. Divinity. The feathers symbolized all of this. They added several jade ornaments on his ankles and wrists. Cuathli painted his symbol on his brow: a delicate pink orchid.
When they stepped back, they all admired him. Already he looked like a guardian spirit.
Tlacotzin suddenly felt it—the rhythmic blows that summoned him. After a moment he realized what it was: the huehuetl drums. The ceremony had begun and all were calling him.
"It has begun," Tlacotzin said. The others heard it and nodded sadly.
Tlacotzin stepped out of his underground tomb. The sun had already risen above the horizon and started its journey across the sky. Its rays fell directly upon him. The sudden brightness almost blinded him, but he did not shut or shield his eyes, nor did he turn away. He walked straight on. After a moment his mortal eyes adjusted to the light.
He stopped by his statue and looked around the temple. So many floral decorations everywhere. He thought of the work it had taken to grow those flowers and fashion the ornaments. He drew breath; he felt the fragrance of the blossoms and how their scent spread through his heart—no, through his soul. He felt gratitude—true and sincere.
His spiritual brides took their places at his sides. Cuathli stood apart at the edge of the platform, the pyramid of Xochipilli at his back. Citalli came forward to the steps. His high priestess spread her arms and began to speak.
"We have gathered today to honor the young musician Tlacotzin, who will become our guardian spirit. You all know who I was for years, but I was healed thanks to his kindness. Now I take up the role of his great servant."
Tlacotzin moved away from the statue and stood beside Citalli, who continued.
"This edifice will become his sacred place, where anyone may come to ask for help. The time has come to dedicate this structure to our guardian spirit."
Tlacotzin played his ritual bone flute. He summoned to himself the hearts that were to be offered to him. The drums joined his delicate, beckoning melody.
Priests led the offerings toward the temple in a line. All wore simple white maxtlatl; the girls had white bands across their chests as well. They went barefoot. Around their necks were carved collars of orchid wood, a sign of their devotion to the guardian spirit. Pink orchids were in their hair, and a pink orchid was painted on each forehead. At last they stood before the pyramid.
Tlacotzin went to his offering bowl and lit a fire within it. Then he took his place between the bowl and the techcatl. His four brides stood at the corners of the techcatl.
Citalli addressed the offerings.
"Thirteen hearts. Thirteen steps to the heavens. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten."
Feeling a great weight upon him, Tlacotzin raised the flute to his lips and began to play a sorrowful melody about loneliness.
It was the signal for the priests below. They stood to either side of Mecatl and led him up the pyramid. He climbed with heavy steps and stood before the sacrificial stone where his short, unhappy life would end. Tlacotzin spoke to him.
"I know what it is to be lonely and forsaken. If not for one true friend, I would be as you are, Mecatl. Don't be afraid—on the other side you will know neither cold, nor hunger, nor loneliness."
Mecatl smiled faintly, almost imperceptibly. For years he had known nothing but suffering. Being chosen as an offering had granted him a kind of dignity. Despite the ritual diet he had not gone hungry, he had been warm in the prison, and no one looked at him with contempt. He had no reason to go on living. Tlacotzin's words were balm to his sore heart.
Meya and Nenetzi stepped to him. They untied his maxtlatl, leaving him naked except for the collar—the sign of his readiness to give his life for the guardian spirit.
Mecatl stood by the altar, braced himself against the edge of the techcatl, and spread his arms and legs. The girls drew him onto the stone and held his limbs, positioning him so Citalli would have the best access. They were clumsy at it still; until now they had only practiced with other acolytes, never in a real ritual. Grief, pride, sorrow, compassion—everything mixed in their hearts, blurring their movements.
Tlacotzin looked at the young boy. He pitied the suffering he had endured. He wished there were some other way to help him. For some reason, looking at his chest, he felt the boy had done nothing wrong—he had suffered undeservedly, as Tlacotzin once had. He smiled to encourage him. Mecatl smiled back, though tears ran from his eyes.
Citalli took the obsidian ritual knife in her hands and raised it high. She looked to Tlacotzin.
"O Tlacotzin, you whose music heals. Here is Mecatl, who has known abandonment and loneliness—the one who is as you were at the beginning of your path toward divinity. Let his heart be the one to begin the godhood of your temple. Receive him, and grant him and this place your favor."
Mecatl threw back his head and clenched his teeth, trembling lightly. Citalli turned the blade toward the offering and, with a single motion, drove it into his chest.
Mecatl jerked and cried out in pain. The girls held him more firmly. Citalli widened the wound and reached inside. A moment later she tore out Mecatl's heart. The youth gazed with dimming eyes at his still-beating heart. His body slowly lost strength and sagged—like a flower wilting.
Citalli passed the heart to Tlacotzin, who took it into his open hands. He saw and felt it: energy poured out of that poor, wronged heart. He turned and placed the still-beating heart into the ritual fire. In his mind he repeated his promise to grant Mecatl an abundant life on the other side. As the heart began to burn, he felt a sudden surge of energy spreading through him and the entire structure. He turned back to his place while the priests carried Mecatl's body away to lie on a bed of flowers in the floral pavilion in Xochipilli's garden, awaiting the funeral rites.
It was time to summon the next. He played a warm, homely melody. Tochpanecatl stepped forward and began to climb the steps with the priests. He moved heavily, in pain. Unlike Mecatl, he had a family he could have returned to. He didn't want to leave them—he wanted to be with them. Yet he did all this for his family. Standing before the stone, he looked at Tlacotzin with sorrow.
"I know what it is to lose a father, and what it is when a mother falls gravely ill. My father did not return from the flowery wars, and my mother became deathly sick. I did everything I could to get beans for her medicine. I succeeded, but when I returned with the medicine, my mother was already dead."
He stared wide-eyed, as if he could not believe it.
"Your mother will recover. Together we will protect not only your family, but the entire city."
Tochpanecatl smiled faintly. The acolytes undressed him. Once ready, they led him to the stone and laid him on the techcatl. Citalli stood over him and raised the blade.
"O Tlacotzin, you whose music heals. Here is Tochpanecatl, who, like you, strove to save his mother and knew the pain of losing his father. He gives you his heart to protect his loved ones. Honor his sacrifice, receive him, and grant him and this place your favor."
Citalli set the obsidian blade to the offering. Tochpanecatl clenched his teeth and tears ran down his face. He jerked and cried out as the blade sank into him. With one movement Citalli tore out his heart and lifted it to the sky. As she passed the heart to Tlacotzin, Tochpanecatl's body began to die. Tlacotzin carried the heart to the sacred fire. He felt its energy spreading—different from Mecatl's. He marveled at how distinct the energy of hearts could be. Then again, Mecatl and Tochpanecatl were very different people. Tlacotzin sighed—he felt as if he had finally closed the door on his past. He turned and returned to his place.
He played again—a melody he knew well from the telpochcalli. Yolihuani emerged. He climbed the steps with a steady stride. He had finished the warriors' school and dreamed of glory, but one day he had overheard officers deciding he had little chance of success in battle. Still, he was a warrior; if he could not bring the gods others' blood, he should give his own. They assigned him to one of the units meant to be thrown to the enemy during the flowery wars to be captured for sacrifice—written off. He could not oppose the system, yet he also refused to go meekly to his death. When he heard of the new guardian spirit and the consecration, he decided that if he had to die, he would die on his own terms—in his home city. He came here of his own free will, a free warrior, not someone's captive.
Tlacotzin looked into his eyes.
"When I finished training, I wasn't accepted into the army. Thinking back, they would likely have assigned me to a sacrifice unit, as they did you. I don't know if I would have found the courage to present myself. You will no longer be a victim, but a divine warrior. Together we will defend the city."
Yolihuani smiled slightly and allowed himself to be undressed and led to the stone. Lying there, he tried to remain dignified to the end. He kept his eyes open, clenched his mouth, and tried to still his trembling—but he flinched when Citalli raised the ceremonial blade high.
"O Tlacotzin, you whose music heals. Here is Yolihuani—a warrior who chose death upon your sacrificial stone. Honor his courage and grant him and this place your favor."
Despite himself he could not stifle a cry when the obsidian blade pierced his chest. Citalli tore out his heart and raised it to the sky. Tlacotzin took it into his hands and looked at the dying warrior, knowing the same fate would befall him before sunset. He felt no pain—only a sadness like that in this heart: the sense that the young warrior's dreams would not come true. He placed the heart in the fire and watched them carry the body away, thinking he would give the man a new purpose on the other side.
Tlacotzin played the march he remembered from the warriors' departure for the last flowery war. Tletlaca stepped forward, climbing with an even, marching stride. He was a warrior who had taken part in campaigns, brought in captives, and received pay. Those who supplied captives climbed the social and economic ladder, yet few thought of the other side of that ladder—the captives who died not only for the gods, but also for the warriors' advancement. Tletlaca had not thought of them either until he himself was captured. A scar on his body marked that battle. The system demanded that warriors capture honorably—and also that, when their turn came, they walk to the stone with heads held high. On the night before his selection, he remembered all his captives and how they had gone to their deaths. Now it was his turn. He would die as a warrior—not only for his own honor, but to show that his captives had been more than offerings or rungs in his career.
He stood before Tlacotzin, who showed him the little warrior's tuft tied at the back of his head.
"I was never allowed to go to war. I don't know what it is to be a warrior—I've always been a musician. But I know your efforts had meaning. Your path will not be cut short. From now on you will be a spiritual warrior, and together we will defend the city."
Tletlaca smiled at these words. The acolytes undressed him, leaving only the collar, and laid him on the altar. The feeling was far worse than he had imagined, but he had to remain dignified to the end. Citalli raised the blade high. He looked at it and felt a shudder pass through him.
"O Tlacotzin, you whose music heals. Here is Tletlaca, who walked the warrior's path and through the flowery wars came here with head held high. Honor his valor and grant him and this place your favor."
She turned the blade toward him and drove it into his chest with a single motion. She widened the wound and drew out his heart, holding it up to the sky.
Tlacotzin took the heart and bore it to the fire. He felt strength and honor within it—qualities that reminded him of his father—yet he did not feel the same bond. If he had had a brother who followed his father's path, perhaps he would have had just such a heart. Gently he set it in the flames.
He returned to his place, and before raising the flute, he wondered whether the next would be as before. He began to play one of his father's favorite tunes. His mother had always frowned at that melody, and his father had often been scolded for it. Tlacotzin had to stifle a laugh at the memory. When he finished, Citalli shot him a look just like his mother's once had. Izel tilted her chin, and the other girls giggled—especially Xilonen, daughter of a high-ranking officer who had spent many days around the barracks and knew the song and when it was usually sung. Yaotl—coyote-blooded—mounted the last steps with an even, rhythmic stride, leaving the priests behind. His tail swished; he chuckled softly.
"I know that tune well. We sang it before every campaign."
"My father liked it too. He didn't return from the flowery wars."
Tlacotzin lowered his gaze. Yaotl's ears drooped; his tail fell.
"Perhaps I'll get to meet him."
Tlacotzin smiled.
"Maybe—but watch out for my mother. If she catches you singing that, she might whack you."
They all laughed—even Izel and Citalli snorted.
"You're a strong warrior. You're exactly the kind of man I'd want on the other side. From now on you'll be a spiritual warrior."
Yaotl smiled, spread his arms, and let the acolytes undress him. As they laid him on the techcatl, a thought struck him. He had always loved music, but had no talent for it. He'd tried various instruments, but played poorly; even his singing was middling. Still, his love for music never faded. He was a solitary third son with success in the army. One day he'd thought that if he captured a musician, he would try to keep him; in time he would find him a wife and listen to the music of an entire family. As he looked at the knife's flash of light, he thought how perverse life was. He had longed for a world full of music—and he would get one, just not as he had imagined. That was his thought as the obsidian blade gleamed.
"O Tlacotzin, you whose music heals. Here is Yaotl, whose heart is filled with love for music and an untrammeled spirit. Receive him and grant him and this place your favor."
Citalli struck his chest with the knife. Yaotl cried out. She tore out his heart and raised it to the sky, then passed it to Tlacotzin, who bore it to the sacred fire. As he carried it, he thought this was exactly the kind of man he wanted among his warriors on the other side.
Tlacotzin played a melody familiar from the temple's morning rites. Up the steps came Yaocihuatl, the young acolyte who had lost her entire family. After their deaths she had felt strange. She had mourned and pulled herself together, yet felt something else—a vessel filling drop by drop. Whenever she listened to Tlacotzin's music or watched him and the four acolytes, more drops gathered in the vessel of her heart. When candidates for the consecration were sought, she felt the vessel was full. So she volunteered. She felt Xochipilli had chosen her. From childhood she had longed to serve spiritually. She would do so—not in the mortal world, but as a servant to the one who would become a guardian spirit. She could not imagine a greater honor. She stood before the stone, trembled slightly, smiled, and bowed.
Tlacotzin smiled back. When he had first seen her in the selection rite, he hadn't understood what moved her. Now he saw farther and deeper, and understood. Her heart was full of faith; after her parents' deaths, it was no longer bound to the mortal world. That was why she was willing to give it.
"Yaocihuatl, we worked together in the sacred garden. Now we'll work together in Xochipilli's garden. You will be part of my divine family."
The girl smiled and allowed herself to be undressed. She blushed. She had known it would be so—she was showing her devotion—but she was still a girl who had never bared herself to a man; in truth, Tlacotzin was the first to see her naked.
She lay on the stone and let the sacred brides stretch her out. She smiled at them, then arched her back to ease Citalli's access to the heart that would soon no longer be hers. The priestess raised the knife to the sky.
"O Tlacotzin, you whose music heals. Here is Yaocihuatl, handmaiden of Xochipilli, who of her own free will offers her heart. Honor her devotion and grant her and this place your favor."
With one motion Citalli drove the blade into her, and with the next took her heart and raised it to the sky. The girl cried out in pain. For a moment her heart looked to her like a marigold—only red. The world darkened before her eyes. She felt life wither and slip gently into death's embrace. Tlacotzin took her heart and smiled at it, wishing she would feel at home in his sacred garden.
He returned to his place and played a tune he often used in the market, summoning his friend with whom he had played there—a street musician. Tochtzin answered the call and climbed the steps. He had led a simple musician's life. He managed to keep afloat and rejoiced in every melody he played. Yet he felt something missing. When he learned Tlacotzin had become a temple servant, he congratulated him on his advancement. But when he heard that a group of young acolytes were fawning over him and practically throwing themselves at his maxtlatl, jealousy ate at him—not only him; every market musician envied Tlacotzin. They all talked about what the group might be doing together. When they learned he had been chosen as an offering, they all grew sad. His musician friends decided to play together in his honor. One night he had a strange dream: he and Tlacotzin were playing again in an unearthly beautiful garden. The next morning a priest came among the market musicians, seeking candidates for the consecration offerings. Tochtzin agreed.
Standing before the techcatl, he widened his eyes. Tlacotzin looked completely different. He remembered him from the market and had seen him from afar during presentations, but now… there was something about him that made him look almost like a god. Tlacotzin spoke to him.
"Tochtzin, we played together in the market. Now we will play together in the realm of gods and spirits."
He smiled—just as in Tochtzin's dream.
The acolytes untied his maxtlatl and led him to the stone. He felt dazed. It was all unreal: Tlacotzin looking like a deity; the hard, cold stone at his back. Above him butterflies drifted over the pyramid. Sure hands gripped his limbs—the girls were growing practiced with each offering; their motions, hesitant at first, had become steady.
Citalli raised the knife. He trembled at the sight of it, shut his eyes, and threw back his head.
"O Tlacotzin, you whose music heals. Here is Tochtzin, with whom you shared the music that fed the souls of the people. He answered the priest's call and came here to give his heart. Honor his musical gift and grant him and this place your favor."
Tochtzin screamed as the blade sank into him. He felt a hand within him—and then, after another wave of pain, he saw his heart lifted to the sky.
Tlacotzin took his friend's heart and carried it to the sacred fire, remembering all the times they had played together in the market as he set it in the flames.
He played a passionate melody he remembered from Xilonen's dance. A young woman named Tlachpialotl answered, mounting the steps with a light, dancing gait—as if she were dancing rather than walking. At the techcatl she dipped into a graceful pirouette and bowed. She was like an older version of Xilonen—in looks, in temperament, and in dance. Xilonen clenched her fist—today she was losing both her beloved and her mentor. Tlachpialotl winked at her. Xilonen sighed, relaxed her hand, and smiled at Tlacotzin. It was a radiant smile. Energy surged in Tlacotzin's body—especially in one place. He struggled to restrain himself in front of the girls. Tlachpialotl seemed to take it as a challenge: she winked, shook her breasts, and swayed her hips. Finally she bowed in another pirouette so that Tlacotzin could see their size and the valley between them. When they rippled before him, he could no longer hold back. Tlachpialotl smiled in triumph at the swelling beneath his maxtlatl. Citalli shot her a scolding look—and not only she; Izel did too, twice—once for the behavior, and once for the size. The woman only giggled and arched herself slightly toward the priestess. Citalli gave her another measuring look. Tlacotzin smiled—she truly had been Xilonen's mentor. He wondered if he would have become like Cuathli had he trained as a priest. The girls began to undress Tlachpialotl. She showed that it didn't bother her—unsurprising for one who worked in a house of pleasure. For a moment an image flashed in Tlacotzin's mind of Tlachpialotl and Xilonen dancing together… naked.
He blushed and swallowed, cleared his throat, and spoke.
"Tlachpialotl, you were Xilonen's mentor. Looking at you now, you're like an older her. You will be a flower that never wilts. When the time comes, you will dance together."
She smiled and with a dancer's step approached the stone, stretching herself onto it like a cat. The girls gripped her limbs and drew her taut on the stone; now practiced, they did it swiftly. Tlachpialotl arched, displaying her ample breasts. Citalli raised the knife.
"O Tlacotzin, you whose music heals. Here is Tlachpialotl, mentor to your bride Xilonen—the flower who chose to blaze before she withers. Honor her courage, her dance, and her passion, and grant her and this place your favor."
Citalli turned the blade to Tlachpialotl and drove it into her. The girl cried out and jerked as if pierced by something else. Citalli tore out her heart and raised it to the sky. The dancer looked at Tlacotzin; he understood—she was asking if he had liked it. He took her heart in his hands.
He felt her energy—feminine, intense, passionate. He smiled. As a man, he could not help but appreciate such a gift; as a guardian spirit, he imagined the spiritual power of her dances. He placed her heart in the fire, thinking she had been a wonderful mentor.
Tlacotzin played a melody of clouds drifting among mountains. It summoned the one who could take to the sky: Cuicatlani, a young nagual whose arms were wings covered in colorful feathers. She climbed the steps. She longed to fly once more, but knew she could not—she had to walk this path properly. She was not a common offering; she was tribute. Her city owed much to this one. But all debts must be paid, and among the required gifts were hearts. News had reached them of the rising guardian of music. Many were gathered, and the candidate would be she who sang most beautifully. All tried; she was chosen. Now she walked in rhythm with the music to give her heart. The melody was beautiful—she wanted to soar and wheel to it. A pity she could not. She stood before the stone, seeing the blood of those before her; she swallowed instinctively. Then she heard a voice.
"Do not be afraid. Now you will fly higher than the rest. You will be as the quetzal, divine messenger. Your song will never fall silent."
She smiled. Those words truly eased her. The sacred brides undressed her and led her to the stone. It was no longer as cold, but still rough to the touch, and the blood upon it did not comfort. They stretched out her limbs. The high priestess stood over her with the blade raised.
"O Tlacotzin, you whose music heals. Here is Cuicatlani, who bears the spirit of the parrot, who flies the sky and blesses the world with her song. Honor her gift and grant her and this place your favor."
She saw what happened as if in slow motion: the blade fell upon her chest; she cried out; and then she saw her heart lifted to the sky. She felt life leaving her—strength ebbing—yet at the same time she felt so light… as if she were taking flight.
Tlacotzin took her heart to the sacred fire and smiled. It was filled not only with love of song, but with the longing to soar. He remembered from his vision how he had flown with butterfly wings. It had been a wondrous feeling.
He returned to his place and played a song that reminded him of the calmecac and the palaces. He knew that world mostly through Itzcoatl, but strove to render it as best he could—the music carried a story of pride.
From the line stepped Ayalli—a lizard nagual. Gleaming scales covered her limbs, and her tail swayed behind. She was tribute from a mercantile city—a well-educated, proud noblewoman. It sounded grand, but hid rejection. She was a bastard—an accident during her father's dalliance with a slave. Officially lesser, yet the family had given her the same education and standing as her "better" siblings—an investment meant to marry her into a good house. It had not happened. There were no good suitors; so they used her otherwise. She became tribute. Somewhere in her heart she had always hoped the gods would send her a good husband who would love her truly. They had not.
The gods had called her to the stone.
She had been taught this all her life. She walked straight, head high, sorrow in her eyes. A tear trembled at the corner, but she would not let it fall. She meant to show she was unshaken.
She stood before the stone and bowed to the chosen one.
"Do not fear. You will no longer feel out of place in a family, for today I will take you into mine in the garden of the gods."
Ayalli lowered her guard for a moment and tears flowed. Warmth lightened her heart. The sacred brides undressed her. She stood naked as a sign of readiness for death on the stone. She let them guide her to the techcatl, where they laid her out and stretched her. She arched to ease the priestess's work.
"O Tlacotzin, you whose music heals. Here is Ayalli, who possesses learning and education and has come proudly to your sacrificial stone. Honor her knowledge and grant her and this place your favor."
Now came the worst. She kept herself from closing her eyes. She could not stifle the cry of pain. She watched her heart in the priestess's hand. With her last strength she cast a silent question to the one receiving it—had she done well? Tlacotzin smiled at her—warmly, kindly. That alone was reward. She let go of life in peace, as if laying herself down on a bed of flowers to wake in a better place.
Tlacotzin carried her heart to the fire. It was full of knowledge—and of a sadness that reminded him of Itzcoatl. The nobles had their own troubles unknown to commoners like him. That was his thought as he set the heart in the flames. He wished Ayalli would never again feel such emotions and could live in warmth and love in his garden.
He began to play, telling of a sister who departed so the other could live happily. Up the steps came a girl with deer antlers upon her head and limbs lightly furred. Her hooves found rhythm on the stone to Tlacotzin's music. As she climbed, she remembered her path here.
Her city was subject to this one. Like all vassals it owed blood tribute. There had been no contest for her—only a drawing. The lot fell upon her sister, newly betrothed and happy, planning a family. Nenetl had immediately volunteered to take her place. She came here regretting only one thing—that she would not see their children. She stood before the stone and looked at the one who would receive her heart.
"Do not fear for your sister. She will bear healthy children. They will never forget you. We will be with them together, watching from the spirit world."
She smiled. It felt worth it. The acolytes undressed her and led her to the stone. They stretched her out with sure hands. Citalli raised the blade.
"O Tlacotzin, you whose music heals. Here is Nenetl—she whose sister was chosen for you. Out of love she came of her own free will to take her place. Honor her sisterly love and grant her and this place your favor."
Nenetl clenched her teeth and arched. She hoped the pain would be brief. The blade struck; in a moment she saw her heart raised to the sky. She left thinking of her sister.
Tlacotzin smiled as he carried it to the fire. He felt her love for her sister and family. Gently he set it in the sacred flames.
He began to play a delicate melody—like a gentle, steady wind through cacao trees. Xoco, a young girl, moved forward. Behind her stood her twin sister Nahui, next in line. Nahui reached out a hand, then drew it back. Xoco knew her sister well—of the two, Nahui wanted life the most. But they had to die. That accursed nobleman had entangled them in debt when Xoco rejected his advances. He had always seemed suspicious, but she had not imagined this. The memory of him filled her with disgust. She had rejoiced when Tezcatlipoca's priests ended his life—yet his estate, including their debt, had passed to the crown. It had not disappeared. While the family debated what to do, a priest came offering annulment of the debt in exchange for one family member. Their parents sent him away; they would not let any of their children die and meant to find a way. Xoco felt there was no way—either they would go hungry, or one of them would be sold into slavery. Since it had begun with her, she would end it. She secretly followed the priest and volunteered. She had not imagined that Nahui would come to save her. It saddened her to have drawn her sister to the altar, but she was glad they could be together.
At last she climbed the platform. For a simple peasant girl, entry here was an extraordinary honor. She would be buried here with the guardian spirit and the others who gave their hearts. She felt unworthy of the honor.
"You are worthy of honor and love. You embody gentle mildness. In my sacred garden you will know no pain or care. Your family will flourish happily, and you will always have a place in their memories and hearts."
Xoco smiled. She felt worries fall away—save one. She blushed and turned her head as the brides undressed her. They guided her to the stone and helped her lie down.
She looked fearfully at the blade above her.
"O Tlacotzin, you whose music heals. Here is Xoco—the first of two flowers grown from a single stem. She came ready to give herself for her family's good. Honor her devotion and grant her and this place your favor."
Xoco exhaled lightly—then cried out as the blade struck. She hoped Nahui would not do anything foolish below the pyramid.
Tlacotzin received her heart, his mind wandering to memories of being with his whole family. Gently he set it in the fire.
He returned to his place and began the final melody—a song of defiance and thirst for battle, burning like the fire in the heart he summoned. Nahui, the other twin, clenched her hands and climbed. The previous night she and Xoco had spoken at length. Xoco had begged her to behave during the ceremony. It was hard for Nahui to stay calm—especially when she heard Xoco's cry and saw her body carried away. Now she herself climbed the temple steps, hot with anger and helplessness. Again she cursed that nobleman. She wanted her family to live in peace. She pictured her younger siblings growing up, Xoco's wedding—and hers? Who would want such a firebrand? Reaching the top, she thought the stone might be the best she could hope for. Then she heard a voice.
"You underestimate yourself, Nahui. You have a beautiful heart and could bloom for anyone—if only you let others closer. There is a place for you in my garden."
She gave a crooked smile, mulling Tlacotzin's words as they undressed her. When had she ever given a boy a chance? She felt frustrated with herself. As they laid her on the stone, she wondered what she would do on the other side. Tlacotzin smiled at her—as if to say she needn't worry. Her nature flared again; she shot him a look that said, "Don't stare." He smiled once more. She had no time for another glare. Her whole body tensed at the sight of the blade.
"O Tlacotzin, you whose music heals. Here is Nahui—the second of two flowers grown from a single stem. She came ready to give herself for her family's good. Honor her devotion and grant her and this place your favor."
Nahui trembled once more before the blade fell. She cried out, and soon saw her heart lifted to the sky. In her last flicker of awareness she thought of her sister, her siblings, and her parents.
Tlacotzin took her heart and smiled at it. It was filled with the same gentle familial love as Xoco's—but also with will to fight and determination. He placed it gently in the fire.
When Nahui's heart had burned and her body lay among the other twelve, Tlacotzin felt it. It was like a wind striking him and swirling around—or like being seized by a rushing river. He understood at once what it was.
The ritual had worked. All the energy taken from the offerings now coursed through him to transform the structure. He felt as though he stood at the center of a whirlwind carrying flower petals; he felt the energy seeping into the stones, making the place sacred. When it quieted, he sensed the building's aura had changed. It was no longer merely a stone edifice, but a truly sacred pyramid full of divine power. It was strange to sense that it was his temple. At that moment all the surrounding flowers burst into bloom, and colorful butterflies covered the entire building.
He stood in the center of the platform and drew a deep breath. Even breathing now felt strange. The feeling of being trapped in a shell grew stronger.
Less and less tied him to the mortal world.
He touched his heart.
It was now the only thing holding him among mortals. But that was ending. Thirteen people had died so he could become a guardian spirit. Now it was his turn.
He had to die to become a guardian spirit.
He looked toward Xochipilli's pyramid.
The time had come for him to give up his heart as well.