Mike Allen - Clockwork Phoenix

People of every caste except her own.

There were none left in this domain, save Neniza and her father. Still, she found herself searching, looking at the hands of everyone in the plaza, until the day she realized that she was hoping to find another, hoping to convince herself that she did not need to be here. It was a desire born of weakness, and so she dug it ruthlessly out of her heart and cast it away. She would not be like her father, and let what had happened pass without consequence.

So she waited, hiding beneath her mask, until her luck finally changed.

“All kneel! All kneel! Kneel before the Master of the House of the Dawn!”

The voice rang out over the petitioners’ plaza from the balcony that overlooked it. Neniza glanced up long enough to catch sight of several amanteca, draped in glorious feathered robes and gold jewelry. One, standing forward of the rest, was serving as herald. This much she saw; then, like everyone else, Neniza threw herself to the ground, prostrating herself on the hot stone.

Everything fell silent as the last person grew still. In the hush, they could all hear the measured steps above. The lord of the land had come at last.

The amantecatl spoke again. “Today is not a day for petitions.”

What? Neniza thought, and heard someone near her sob once before stifling himself.

“The Revered Lord has come for another purpose,” the amantecatl went on. “Four dawns from now begins the feast of the Flayed God, on the day Thirteen Leaf. On this great festival depend our hopes of fertile fields, the growth of the corn which feeds us all. The Elevated One has come here today to seek a maiden to serve as the Rain Bride. The woman so honored will be guaranteed a place in the highest heaven, and the petition she brought with her to this place will be granted. Remain as you are, and he will choose from among you.”

Neniza’s mind raced as she heard footsteps descending to the plaza. More than one set; of course the lord would not come down here himself. It would be the amanteca, searching among the petitioners for suitable candidates.

She was suitable.

And if they chose her….

She could wait for another day, but there was no guarantee the lord would ever hear her petition, let alone grant it. This would bypass uncertainty entirely—but at a price.

I knew what I risked, coming here, Neniza thought, trembling with excitement and fear. I always knew.

She prayed silently as the footsteps ranged up and down the plaza. People said of her kind that they could manipulate others, driving them to think with passion instead of reason. Even Neniza didn’t know if it was true. Her father would never answer when she asked—afraid, perhaps, of what she might do with it as a daughter. If it were possible, she had no idea how. But she prayed, as if her thoughts could reach the minds of the amanteca searching the plaza. Choose me, choose me, choose me….

One set of feet stopped not far away. Neniza ceased to breathe.

A rustle of feathered robe, as if the amantecatl were gesturing. From above, a soft, sibilant response in Court Speech, and Neniza’s skin tingled at the sound of the lord’s voice.

“Maiden,” the amantecatl said, “the lord favors you.”

Neniza risked the tiniest shift of her head. And she saw that the amantecatl was gesturing, not at her, but at a young alux woman less than a pace in front of her.

No. This may be my only chance.

“I beg your forgiveness for my presumption.”

The words came out before Neniza could even decide whether to speak or stay silent. All around her, she felt others jerk in horror; they would have edged away, had they not feared to move. As well they might. Neniza would have taken back the words, but she could not; there was nothing to do but speak on.

She lifted her head just enough to speak clearly. To look up would only ensure her death, with the lord standing above. “I beg your mercy. But the woman you have chosen is no maiden.”

It was true. Like many others in the plaza, the alux had lain with men in exchange for food and water. How much it truly mattered, Neniza couldn’t say—surely they’d chosen wrongly before; was that what caused the drought years?—but having heard it so publicly, the nobles could not ignore her words. Everyone here knew the alux was no virgin, and to choose her knowingly would be to undermine their faith in the festival.

Dead silence had followed on her words. Neniza’s muscles ached with tension as she waited. Then a chiming rustle as the amantecatl stepped over the prostrate body of the alux he had been considering.

“Are you a maiden?”

“Yes,” Neniza said. Possibly the only one here.

The amantecatl said something in Court Speech, not to her. A pause, and then the lord responded again. Was he angry? Amused? Neniza strove to read past the alien, unfamiliar facade of his words, to the mind behind it. She might have just killed herself, and achieved nothing in doing so.

“Very well,” the amantecatl said. “You will become the Rain Bride.”

She wondered, in the four days that followed, whether the alux whose position she’d taken hated her. The lord’s gift to the Rain Bride, the granting of her petition, meant nothing to Neniza now. She would get what she wanted regardless. The alux might have lost her only chance. But petitioners went home again, once they had spoken or given up, and Neniza knew she herself would not. One always made sacrifices, one way or another.

Her status meant she was treated well, even lavishly. It almost became a problem. They brought her delicacies to eat, and she had to find a way to dispose of them without suspicion—not the peccary meat that villagers might eat in the wet season when food was abundant, but jaguar and eagle, the noblest animals of earth and air. For drink she had delicate wines of honey and fruit; her experience with them was limited, and the first night she drank rather too much. But she maintained her mask, and no one suspected.

Before dawn on the final day, an escort of eight ocelotlaca woke her and took her to be bathed.

Low-ranking amanteca had the job of preparing her. Neniza feigned blushing modesty and managed to wash herself, so that no one would examine her too closely. The higher-ranking artisan who took over once she was clean focused on things other than her hands, painting her breasts and belly and groin, draping her in “clothing” that was nothing more than sweetly chiming jewelry, dressing the soft bush of her hair with hibiscus flowers. The blossoms were an unexpected sign of the wealth and power that surrounded Neniza, for they did not bloom in the dry season, and the rains, of course, had not yet begun.

They prepared her, and Neniza curled her hands into fists to hide them from casual eyes. Let them think her nervous. I am not afraid.

The procession was dizzying. Her escort carried her palanquin, while twenty more ocelotlaca formed a solid wall that kept the crowd from her. They descended from the palace mound and crossed to the temple mound, and it seemed the entire city was there to see, for the feast of the Flayed God was second in importance to none.

She climbed the temple mound alone, on her own two feet, with the jaguar-men standing guard below. The carved and painted murals on each temple riser showed the gods in their glory, forming the miracles of the world. At the top, following the priests’ instructions, she walked four circuits around the worn stone of the exterior altar, then went into the blessedly cool darkness.

Neniza had never seen the inside of a temple. The space was smaller than she expected, given the imposing facade, but it still dwarfed the village shrines she had seen on a few occasions. The back wall was taken up by a hammered gold image of such intricacy that she could not make out half of it; only the World Tree, dominating the center, was clear to her. Copal incense smoked from censers in the four corners, musky and strong. The smell, more than anything, brought home the reality of what she was doing. Copal was the scent of religion. Copal, and blood.