The stone serpent’s ruby eyes shimmered in the crisp morning sun, its two-hundred-foot body stretching up the staircase, the head resting at the bottom and the tail disappearing onto the top-most platform. Workers painted its fang-bared face with glittering opalescence. Halfway up the pyramid stretched a band of frescos featuring frogs, fish, and egrets. Only the occasional shuttle flying silently overhead interrupted the clean blue expanse of the sky.

Quicaltia–the monument’s chief architect–counted a hundred and eighty steps as he and the construction foreman climbed the pyramid. “The second one-eighty is on the other side,” the foreman said. “The extra five are over there.” He pointed to the one-story blue temple to be dedicated to the rain god Tlaloc in two weeks. “The goldsmiths assure me the idol will be ready by early next week.”

Inside the temple, stone façade covered only one wall but several white-mantled workers were cementing a second together over the steel frame work. Another man worked on a mural of mountains and rain clouds on the one completed wall.

“Exquisite work,” Quicaltia said, stepping up for a closer look. He’d painted in his youth, before family obligations forced him to take up more tedious but lucrative work.

“A thousand thanks,” the man replied.

“It’s not very traditional though.”

“The new high priest desires something more realistic, so the god may feel at home in His new temple.”

Quicaltia stepped back for a full view. “Hopefully it won’t become too splattered with blood. I’d hate to see such beauty obscured by grime.”

“Rest assured I’ll keep it clean of the traditional ‘grime’, as you call it,” the city’s high priest of Tlaloc said as he stepped through the doorway. His stringy, blood-wetted hair hung around his shoulders like willow branches, and he wore a heavy black alpaca robe and large jade-stone plugs in his earlobes. He carried a computer pad in one hand and used his one of exceedingly long fingernails as a stylus. “I didn’t commission Tlacuilo here to paint this just to cover it in blood.”

“I didn’t mean to insinuate that you would,” Quicaltia replied. He held his breath when the foul-smelling priest stopped next to him. Why did he always land jobs designing temples? He didn’t even believe in the gods they honored.

“If I had my way, he’d paint all the walls, but we’re already a week behind schedule and the temple must be dedicated before Atlcahualo,” the priest replied.

“Perhaps he can finish after the dedication.”

“Unfortunately, he’s part of the dedication.”

Quicaltia immediately felt foolish. Of course the painter was a Teteotlacualli–“The Food of the Gods.” All the workers were, as was evident by their light-weight white cotton mantles. It was such a stark contrast to him in his silver-embroidered purple linen mantle, tan pants, and soft leather shoes. He shifted his gold-braided belt and muttered, “So sorry to hear that.”

The painter–Tlacuilo–continued working, either oblivious to the conversation or not caring.

“I wish we could keep him longer, for he’s vastly talented,” the priest replied, admiring the mural with a smile. “But when the gods draw your lot, you must answer.”

“Glory to Him who shines on our backs or rains on our crops,” Tlacuilo replied.

“Indeed.” The priest smiled with pride.

A waste, Quicaltia thought as he scribbled notes on the temple plans displayed on his computer pad, to keep from looking at the condemned painter. “Does everything meet your standards? No last minute changes?”

“I have concerns about the council hall,” the priest replied, walking towards the door. Quicaltia and the foreman followed. “I specifically said there must be four doors into the room, but there are only three, and your foreman refuses to change the specs without your approval. We will gravely offend Tezcatlipoca if He doesn’t have His own doorway.”

Superstitious old boar, Quicaltia thought but he said, “We’ll go downstairs and see what to do.” He then turned to Tlacuilo and said, “Your work is exquisite. The world will be a little darker without it anymore.”

But when Tlacuilo finally looking at him, Quicaltia stared, shocked. His own face peered back at him. “You’re–” He couldn’t finish for his breath stuck in his throat. Tlacuilo was his Omitzmahuizyoti–“He Who Honors You”–Quicaltia’s sacrifice to the gods; grown from a drop of blood harvested from his heel on the day he was born; destined to die to feed the gods, to keep them from destroying the Empire, from destroying the world. Or so the priests claimed.

Tlacuilo bowed to Quicaltia. “You honor me with your kind words,” he said and returned to his work.

~

“He could have been my twin brother,” Quicaltia told his wife Xochitla as she made dinner. He leaned against the counter next to her, his cup of chocolate forgotten in his hand. “Though I suppose technically he is, since the government cloned him from me.”

“I would be honored to meet mine,” Xochitla said as she cut up potatoes into a pot. “I’d hug her and thank her for the sacrifice she will make for me.”

Quicaltia snorted. “Well, I felt like telling mine, ‘I’m sorry you have to die for archaic, barbarous religious practice.’ It’s a complete waste of life…and potential. You should have seen this mural he was painting.”

Xochitla paused.  “He’s a painter? Like you?”

“I’m not a painter anymore,” Quicaltia said. “Maybe if I’d stayed with it….”  He shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe how beautiful his work was, Xochitla; mountains so real you’d surely wish to climb them. And the flowers….”

“You could always start painting again, you know.”

“I haven’t touched a brush in ten years. I don’t even know how to paint anymore.” The thought brought an unexpected flood of regret.

The front door opened and their fifteen-year-old son Cuetlachtli set his duffel bag down on the kitchen floor.

“How was ball practice?” his mother asked as she added diced chili peppers to the pot.

“I almost put one through the ring today. I was so close.” He took Quicaltia’s cup of chocolate and drank some. Seeing his father’s troubled look, he asked, “Tough day at the temple?”

“Your father met his Omitzmahuizyoti today.”

“Wow. I hope I get to meet mine someday.”

“You don’t have one,” Quicaltia replied. “Luckily you were born after the Emperor declared the practice voluntary.”

Disappointed, Cuetlachtli said, “But mom told me–“

When Quicaltia turned sharply to his wife, Xochitla lowered her eyes. “You didn’t,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

Xochitla sighed. “Just because you don’t believe–“

“We agreed not to have him cloned!”

“You were being selfish,” Xochitla fired back. “Do you really want our son to leave this world owing the gods his share of the blood?”

“Rubbish,” Quicaltia replied.

“I’ve got homework to do,” Cuetlachtli replied and slipped out of the kitchen.

Xochitla tried to take Quicaltia’s hand. “Please don’t stay angry with me, dear. I did what I thought was best for our son.” But he left the kitchen without answering her.

~

In the morning, Quicaltia called his secretary. After several minutes of investigation on the other end, she told him where the city kept the Teteotlacualli, so he called the priest in charge of the colony and set up an appointment to interview painters for a mural job. He fully intended to hire only Tlacuilo though.

He arrived at the colony’s front gates just before noon. The priest escorted him to the temple hall for the interviews. Unlike Tlaloc’s temple, this one–dedicated to the Feathered Serpent Quetzalcoatl–sat upon the ground, tall and cylindrical in shape, perfect for the wind to curl around unobstructed. A giant open serpent’s mouth served as the door. A small group of white-clad men and women sat around a wooden table in the middle of the sanctuary.

For the next forty-five minutes, each showed Quicaltia examples of their work, many very nice and probably adequate for the little job he had in mind, but nothing like Tlacuilo’s beautiful mountains and storm clouds.

Once the last man closed his portfolio, Quicaltia told the priest, “They’re all very talented and I would be honored to have any one of them create this mural for me, but while touring the new temple yesterday, I saw a mural that was everything I’m looking for. I don’t see that artist here though. Is he still working at the temple?”

“That would be Tlacuilo, and no, he’s finished his work there. He’s due to journey to Tlalocan soon,” the priest replied.

“Then he’s not available to hire?” he asked, disappointed.

“We like to give the Teteotlacualli free time to do whatever they want before they leave us, but if Tlacuilo wishes one last commission, we’ll certainly grant him that. Come. I’ll take you to see him.”

Quicaltia followed the priest through the clean, paved streets, past white-washed houses decorated with stone and wood carvings of serpents, butterflies, and birds–all animals sacred to Quetzalcoatl. Everyone they passed greeted them with warm smiles and formal salutations.

“Tlacuilo is your Omitzmahuizyoti,” the priest said suddenly. They’d walked in silence until then.

“Is that a problem?” Quicaltia asked.

The priest shook his head. “Many wish to visit their Omitzmahuizyoti in their final days, to bring them gifts and honor their sacrifice.”

Quicaltia wondered how many people sought them out with the intent of liberating them from their grisly fate?

They stopped at a door that looked no different than any other in the neighborhood. The priest rang the bell. Tlacuilo answered a moment later, a half-eaten tortilla in his fingers. “You honor me with your visit, Tecciztlicoatl,” he replied with a bow. When he saw Quicaltia, he inclined his head. “So soon we see each other again.”

The priest and Quicaltia sat on large pillows on the floor while Tlacuilo sat on the hearthstone. “Quicaltia here wishes you to take one last commission, to paint a mural in his garden,” the priest said.

“Nothing elaborate,” Quicaltia said. “I have a wall overlooking a pond in my yard and would like to paint it with something to honor the gods. I was very impressed with the work you did at the temple and would be very grateful if you’d grace my home with your beautiful work.”

“I would be honored,” Tlacuilo replied.

“I trust you can provide him with a room?” the priest asked Quicaltia, to which Quicaltia replied, “Absolutely.”

Twenty minutes later, the priest waved goodbye as Tlacuilo and Quicaltia sped down the road towards town.

~

Tlacuilo set his supplies out on the patio table next to the pink-stone wall that overlooked the clear pond dotted with lily pads and reeds. The water teamed with tiny Cutthroat trout snapping up water bugs, and frogs hopped in and out of the pond along the grass edges. “Which god do you wish to honor?” he asked Quicaltia, who sat in a patio chair, watching.

Quicaltia hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. “Well, I’m not particularly choosy. We’re an open household–“

“I think Xochiquetzal,” Xochitla piped up as she set chilled glasses of orange-guava juice on the table. “The Flower Goddess would be appropriate for the garden, don’t you think?” she asked Tlacuilo.

“Xochiquetzal spreads love and beauty everywhere she steps,” Tlacuilo answered. “She would be an excellent choice.”

“The Love Goddess then,” Quicaltia declared.

“I can draw up some ideas for your approval–“

“No, surprise me. I know whatever you do will be more than I could ever hope for.”

Quicaltia followed his wife into the kitchen while Tlacuilo began sketching on the stone.

“What are you up to?” Xochitla asked as she put the juice pitcher in the refrigerator.

“What do you mean?”

“You never mentioned anything about wanting to paint the wall, and now you suddenly bring him home to decorate it. Why?”

“It’s perfectly normal to want to visit with one’s Omitzmahuizyoti in their final days, dear,” Quicaltia replied.

“You’re scheming,” Xochitla replied.

Quicaltia scowled at her then turned his attention to Tlacuilo through the kitchen window.

Xochitla joined him. “He looks younger than you.”

“He does not.”

“You’re always harried. He looks like a man without a care in the world.”

“Odd for someone about to meet the gods, don’t you think?”

“Obviously he’s at peace with his Tonalli,” Xochitla said.

Quicaltia laughed. “His fortune should be the same as mine, shouldn’t it? I’m not marching off to my death in two weeks.”

“His Tonalli isn’t the same as yours. He was born at least nine months later than you, probably closer to ten. He’s you, but different.”

After watching the drawing unfold on the stone for a few minutes, Quicaltia asked Xochitla, “Do you remember those sketches I made of you, when we were still in school?”

Xochitla face darkened with a blush. “How could I forget? You call them art, but my father would have killed you if he ever found out about them.” Quicaltia hugged her close and she said, “You were a very good artist back then.”

“Drawings don’t pay for a house though.” Quicaltia shook his head, his envy growing the longer he watched Tlacuilo. “I could have been that good one day.”

Patting his hand, Xochitla replied, “You probably still could be.”

~

At dinner, Cuetlachtli bombarded Tlacuilo with questions about everything from colony life to the sacred ball game, Tlachtli.

“I used to be quite good at the game when I was younger,” Tlacuilo told him. “I’m too out of shape to play anymore, though I’ve heard it said that King Nezahualpili of ancient Texcoco was a legendary player well into his nineties.”

“I heard that too,” Cuetlachtli answered. “They say he beat Motecuhzoma Xocoyotzin when he was a whole sixty years older! And that he put the ball through the ring without it touching the edges! Can you imagine?”

“I played Tlachtli in college,” Quicaltia replied. Cuetlachtli seemed to have completely forgotten his father and mother were there too. “I was pretty decent, wasn’t I, dear?” Quicaltia asked Xochitla.

Xochitla simpered. “Of course you were, love, though didn’t you stopped playing because the coach thought you could go professional and you feared being beheaded?”

Cuetlachtli laughed. “The Emperor hasn’t sacrificed any players in three hundreds years, father.”

“The rule is still on the books,” Quicaltia said. “Go check it yourself: the winners may be sacrificed and their heads displayed on the skull rack. I like my head on my shoulders.”

Cuetlachtli laughed louder. He took a few bites before turning back to Tlacuilo and asking, “So, do you know my Omitzmahuizyoti?”

“Cuetlachtli!” Quicaltia hissed at the boy, glaring.

“It is okay,” Tlacuilo replied. “No, I haven’t met a teteotlacualli that looks like you, though I suppose technically he would be my son. We don’t live in family units like yours.”

“But then how do you live?” Cuetlachtli asked.

“I have many friends who are as close to me as brothers and sisters. We were all raised as children of the great Quetzalcoatl, one never favored over the other. We’re all equal.”

“Do you have a girl?”

Xochitla cut in, “Don’t you think you’ve pried far enough, Cuetlachtli?”

“I don’t mind answering questions.” Tlacuilo looked back to Cuetlachtli again. “Teteotlacualli are expected to remain celibate their entire lives.”

Cuetlachtli’s jaw hung open. “You’ve never–“

“I devote both body and soul to the gods completely.”

“Yeah, but isn’t it kind of weird, knowing you have a child that you had no part in making?”

“That is enough, Cuetlachtli.” Quicaltia glared at the boy. Cuetlachtli lowered his head and went back to eating. Tlacuilo averted his eyes and poked at his dinner a moment before complimenting Xochitla on her cooking. Quicaltia said nothing the rest of the meal.

~

When Quicaltia went to the kitchen to make coffee the next morning, Tlacuilo was already out in the back garden, beginning to paint. Quicaltia stepped outside to bring him a cup. “You’re up early.”

“I enjoy the quiet of morning,” Tlacuilo replied.

Quicaltia stood in the sun next to the pond. “I must apologize for my outburst last night.”

“There’s no need to–“

“No, I should have held my temper. I’m a little uncomfortable with this whole ordeal, of you being ‘food for the gods’,” Quicaltia replied. “It’s not something I agree with.”

“I’m sorry I’ve made you uncomfortable–“

“Actually, I’m glad you’re here. I should know you, considering that you’re…well, I should get in to work.” Quicaltia started to leave but paused. “If you need anything at all, Xochitla will be home all day.”

Tlacuilo bade Quicaltia a good day, but before Quicaltia disappeared into the kitchen, Tlacuilo told him, “If it’s any consolation, I’m not uncomfortable being Teteotlacualli.”

~

The declaration bothered Quicaltia all day. If he’d been in Tlacuilo’s position, he’d be a wreck of a man, afraid for night to come because it meant one last day he had left to live. How could anyone possibly feel at peace about dying? And how could such warped thinking still exist in the modern era, where men lived on the moon and ventured to the other planets? It was strange. It would also complicate Quicaltia’s plans.

So before he left for the day, he requested the next two weeks off, to deal with “personal matters” at home. “Ezcuahuaqui can take care of the finishing details on the temple. I trust him to make good decisions on changes. I’ll be back the day after the dedication.” His boss reluctantly agreed.

When he arrived home, Xochitla was frying zucchini for dinner. “Where’s Tlacuilo?” Quicaltia asked as he hung his wool cloak on the peg next to the back door.

“He’s down at the court, with Cuetlachtli. Why don’t you go get them? Dinner should be done shortly.”

Quicaltia walked past the pond to the flagstone steps winding through the pine trees and juniper bushes. At the bottom of the hill, the path opened onto a concrete court, I-shaped with two concrete walls enclosing the center. A metal ring stuck out from each half-way across. Some the historical courts, like in Tenochtitlan, still sported the traditional stone rings, imperfect in shape and more difficult to hit a ball through.

Tlacuilo and Cuetlachtli stood near one of the rings. Tlacuilo tossed the heavy black rubber ball into the air for Cuetlachtli to bounce with his knees and hips. Quicaltia nearly scolded the boy for playing Tlachtli without his protective gear–players had been known to die from a ball striking them in the chest–but he forgot about it as he watched his son bounce the ball closer to the ring until it finally edged up into the lip. It slid back out though. Quicaltia held his breath as Cuetlachtli bounced the ball up again and it teetered before slowly falling through the ring.

Cuetlachtli jumped, shouting. Quicaltia clapped. “Oh, hello, father. I didn’t see you,” Cuetlachtli replied, his excitement suddenly forgotten. “I’m sorry I don’t have my gear on–“

“That was fantastic.” Quicaltia thumped his son on the shoulder and smiled. “I only managed it once myself, but I was years older than you.” He bounced the ball against the concrete wall and tapped it with his shoulder when it came back. His joints ached with the impact. I’m certainly not as young as I used to be, he thought as he rubbed his shoulder. “Dinner’s ready so why don’t you go to the house and help your mother. And don’t tell her you were practicing without your protective gear….”

Once Cuetlachtli disappeared up the steps, Tlacuilo said, “He’s quite gifted at Tlachtli.”

“He follows all the professional teams, probably even dreams of being a famous player himself,” Quicaltia replied as they started up the steps. “I’d rather he chose something a bit safer though. People die playing that game.”

“People die just living,” Tlacuilo said. “Not everyone is fortunate enough to meet that end with true passion though.”

After dinner, Quicaltia joined Tlacuilo on the back porch, hoping to talk some more with the painter while he worked under the torch-lamps. He’d spent most of dinner mulling over how to delicately bring up the subject of the upcoming dedication and Tlacuilo’s part in it. He’d never been particularly good at subtlety, which this situation required.

“Your wife tells me you’re an artist too,” Tlacuilo said as he mixed paint on a square plastic palate, interrupting Quicaltia’s scheming.

Oh, she did? She was a bit of a gossip. “I used to be,” he replied.

“But no longer?”

“I suppose an architect is an artist, of some variety.”

“But you’ve painted before?” When Quicaltia nodded, Tlacuilo held a brush out to him. “Help me.”

“Oh no, I don’t want to mess up–“

“I will fix anything you disapprove of.”

Quicaltia took the brush tipped with sunflower-yellow paint. “On the flowers, down there?”

“Wherever you feel it belongs.”

Quicaltia knelt before the wall, his hand shaking. He was going to make a mess; he’d completely forgotten the strokes or the right amounts of pressure to apply. It would look like an infant painted it with his gooey fingers. He took a deep breath and put the brush to the stone.

But when he’d finished filling in the soft petals of the Alstroemeria, he felt as if he’d never put the brush down, so he started on another, the world around him completely forgotten in the joy of creating flowers from his brush.

He and Tlacuilo worked for hours, neither saying anything until Xochitla came outside. She’d brought hot chocolate for Tlacuilo. “I thought you might like something warm to–” She took a step back when Quicaltia stood up. “Are you painting again?” she whispered.

Tlacuilo stepped down off his stool where he’d been working on the sky with a broad brush. “He claims he’s no longer an artist,” he said with a smile.

Quicaltia looked over his work and rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers colored with dried paints. “It doesn’t look too bad, does it?”

“It’s beautiful.” Xochitla touched his hand lightly for a moment then hurried back to the kitchen for a second cup of chocolate. She glowed with a happiness he hadn’t seen in her for a very long time. Basking in that warmth reminded him of younger days, so he felt okay forgiving her flaws and her superstition. After all, that was the woman he’d fallen in love with.

~

For the next ten days, Tlacuilo and Quicaltia worked together on the mural every day, stopping only to eat their meals and to sleep. Quicaltia discussed maybe doing a mural on one of the Tlachtli court walls for Cuetlachtli, and Tlacuilo drew up a plan based on the myth of the Hero Twins, who played a game of Tlachtli against the gods of the underworld.

When they finished the mural, Quicaltia installed lights to shine up on it at night, and the family gathered next to the pond to gaze upon the young goddess of love. She frolicked in fields of vibrant flowers and sunshine, poppies springing from her fingers and a Bird of Paradise covering her like a dress. Tlacuilo signed the work with a stroke of blood at the bottom, pricked from his finger as he recited a simple dedication. Quicaltia wrote his name in red paint at the opposite side.

Once Xochitla and Cuetlachtli went inside, Quicaltia asked Tlacuilo to walk with him down to the ball court.

“I should return to the colony early tomorrow,” Tlacuilo told him as they started down the steps. “There’s much I must do to prepare for the dedication.”

When they reached the court, Quicaltia paused and said, “I’ve been trying to talk with you all week about this, so I guess I should just come out and say it. I don’t think you should go back.”

“Not go back?”

“You shouldn’t have to…I can take you away, hide you in the mountains.” When Tlacuilo stared at him, aghast, Quicaltia replied, “Your life is worth more than this. The dedication is a complete waste.”

Tlacuilo shook his head.

“Yes! You’re a human being–“

“I’m Teteotlacualli,” Tlacuilo countered.

“You are a human being,” Quicaltia pressed. “With great potential and just as deserving of life as anyone. I cannot in good conscience send you off to die.”

“The priests will send the jaguar knights after you,” Tlacuilo warned. “The gods will get their blood either way.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Quicaltia insisted.

Tlacuilo asked Quicaltia to sit with him on the bench near the path, overlooking the court. “It’s an honor to be Teteotlacualli, not a punishment, Quicaltia. It’s something very sacred, very beautiful, and is the only reason I was born at all, the only reason I lived. I am your blood, taken from your foot and grown into a feast for gods. That doesn’t bother me at all. I believe deeply in the sanctity of this tradition.”

“That’s only because you’ve never been allowed to truly live,” Quicaltia countered. “The priests have brainwashed you from the moment of your birth.”

“I’m no more brainwashed by them than you are by what you call ‘living.’ When I was young, I found it hard to understand why everyone wouldn’t want to be Teteotlacualli. What can be nobler than keeping the gods happy and healthy for the good of all? “It’s clear to me now though. Your kind is here to create the world while mine is meant to sanctify it. Both sides are necessary.”

“But you’ve been denied everything, Tlacuilo, the taste of a fine glass of octli, the joy of falling in love….” Quicaltia paused when Tlacuilo smiled knowingly. “Oh, really?”

“Her name is Xochitl. She’s waiting for me in Tlalocan.”

“But you said–“

“Love doesn’t require immediate consummation. This life isn’t so long when you know Heaven awaits you. My obligations to the gods terminate with the end of this life and I’ll finally be with her again. I want to go to Tlalocan.” Tlacuilo stood and looked around at the thick garden surrounding the court; hanging vines, evergreens, bright patches of red and pink flowers. “This is what Heaven is like, Quicaltia, like a magnificent garden, beautiful and green and full of life, and everyone your heart lost is waiting there for you. The gods give you every pleasure you withheld from yourself for their sake. They may seem blood-thirsty and demanding, but they are generous too.”

“And you really believe she’s waiting there for you?” Quicaltia asked.

Tlacuilo nodded. “She’s been gone ten years now, and every day that passes is one less I must spend waiting to see her again.”

Quicaltia sat in silence for a moment then said, “If that’s really what you want–“

“It is.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t come to the dedication.”

“I understand.”

Quicaltia looked up at Tlacuilo and said, “If you change your mind–“

“I thank you for your concern, Quicaltia, but I won’t. The only thing I ask of you is your understanding…and hopefully your gratitude.” Tlacuilo bowed to Quicaltia one last time then went up the flagstone steps, disappearing into the garden’s shadows.

~

Quicaltia spent the day of the temple dedication sketching the new mural on the southern wall of the Tlachtli court.

Cuetlachtli sat on the bench, watching. “Too bad Tlacuilo couldn’t be here,” he replied as he bounced the black rubber ball from knee to knee. “This woman he told you about…was she was mother’s Omitzmahuizyoti?”

“I didn’t ask,” Quicaltia muttered.

“That would be something, if she were.”

Quicaltia sighed. “Can we please not talk about him anymore?”

A few moments later, Xochitla came down the steps, dressed in a blue and white dress–the colors of the rain god Tlaloc–and her hair was wet with water. “How was the dedication?” Cuetlachtli asked, trying to keep his voice low so Quicaltia couldn’t hear him.

“Beautiful, of course,” Xochitla announced. “The Emperor Cuauhtemoc himself attended the ceremonies. Children poured water down the serpents for the crowd to dance in while the royal orchestra played.” She went over to Quicaltia and held out a bunch of white and blue flowers to him. “I brought you these to cheer you. The priests were throwing them into the crowd.” When he didn’t take them, she said, “You should be proud, Quicaltia. Tlacuilo was the first one to walk to the altar. Apparently there’d been some discussion among the priests that he should be spared from the sacrifice; the Emperor even granted him clemency. But Tlacuilo begged him not to.”

“Of course he did,” Quicaltia muttered.

She knelt beside him and set a hand on his shoulder. “Why are you so vexed?”

Quicaltia pressed his chalk stub so hard it snapped in half. “Why did he have to be in the temple that day? Why couldn’t he have kept his back turned?” He sighed. “I wish I’d never known him at all.”

But when he looked up at the half-finished sketch, he knew his words untrue. The picture looked just like Tlacuilo had drawn it, as if he were drawing it now instead of Quicaltia, as if he weren’t even gone at all. The thought gave Quicaltia unexpected peace.

Xochitla looked up at the sketch as well and sighed. “I’m glad you did. He made you whole again.”

~ ~ ~

First published in Dragons, Knights & Angels, 2006