Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Cloak of Luck

Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Cloak of Luck

A tense silence briefly fell upon my room as I processed my predecessors’ words.

“The failures?” I repeated in disbelief. “Of what?”

“Of the embrace,” my predecessors replied with a small, weak voice. “The Nightlords do not always succeed in siring a new vampire. Sometimes, the curse... does not behave as it should. The princes become... things.

A picture of the First Emperor’s silent, undead spawns flashed in my mind.

A chill traveled down my spine as I began to put the various pieces of information together. Why would the Nightlords require a breeding program if any child of an emperor could become a Nightkin? Why bother selecting the harem’s women among past princesses and interesting candidates when they should all work?

They’re trying to create a perfect bloodline. A breed of beautiful, healthy livestock whose embrace will always result in a vampire. The idea sickened me. Will my descendants improve the crop further?

“What kind of...” My jaw tightened on its own. “Things?”

“Horrors similar to the Nightchildren, those that know only how to feed,” the Parliament replied grimly. “The Nightlords imprison them deep within the Blood Pyramid’s stone bowels.”

“Imprison?” I frowned in surprise. “They don’t destroy them?”

“We do not know what they use them for, for none of us could ever infiltrate the lower levels.” The skull let out a sorrowful rattle. “We can wager a guess, however. The Nightlords sealed their dark sire’s corpse in this tomb, and if they gather his descendants there–”

“Then the Nightlords must use them to strengthen the seal somehow,” I guessed, a scowl of disgust spreading on my face. “They sacrifice these failed vampires to the First Emperor, or worse.”

How many of these horrors did the Nightlords’ sick breeding program produce? Thousands? Tens of thousands? I shuddered to imagine how many of them I would find in the Blood Pyramid’s depths.

As horrifying and disgusting as these revelations might have been, they only strengthened my resolve to find a cure for the vampiric curse. Not only for Eztli’s sake, but also for Fjor and the other lost princes of Yohuachanca. Ingrid, Necahual, and the previous emperors didn’t deserve to see their kin turned into monsters.

No one deserved a vampire in their family.

“Does Ingrid know?” I asked, my voice wavering. “About her brother?”

“No,” the Parliament replied. “We suspect that Lady Sigrun learned the truth though.”

“And she still chose to partake in the program to save her own life.” The Nightlords took her son, turned her daughter into a bed slave destined to die, and then murdered her on a whim. Those monsters corrupted all that they touched. “Does anything remain of Fjor inside that monster’s skin?”

“He retains as much humanity as your own consort.”

A picture of Atziri bleeding in Eztli’s bed flashed vividly in my head. I couldn’t tell whether my predecessors meant these words to reassure or frighten me. Eztli was a mere shadow of what she used to be; a ghost mimicking her time among the living.

Was Fjor in a similar state? Did he haunt his sisters’ steps, vainly attempting to recall a time when his heart used to beat for them? Did he still harbor a flicker of affection I could use to get through him?

An idea crossed my mind.

“The skulls I’ve set,” I said. “Can you see through them?”

“We can, our successor,” the Parliament confirmed, the ghostfire in their eyes shining brighter than ever. “One observes the palace’s gates on your behalf. Another stands on your consort’s shelf. The rest are stuck inside the Nightkin’s stomach, or so we would assume...”

“So you can roughly tell me where Fjor is for the moment.” How long would it take for a Nightkin to digest a pair of bird-sized skulls? “Can you hear anything interesting?”

“We are afraid not.” The skull let out a sound that could pass for a sigh. “We will spare you the details of a Nightkin’s bowel movements.”

A shame, but I expected as much. I doubted that Iztacoatl would suspect anything unless she gutted Fjor open from chin to groin, so my secret should remain safe for now.

My room’s door opened. I immediately knew who was visiting me before I even looked at them. My father always knocked, but Mother never bothered with rudimentary politeness.

“I see that you didn’t waste time, my son,” Mother said upon catching a glimpse of my new book. “Excellent pick. I hold Lord Atzin’s works in high esteem.”

“Father found it for me,” I replied. Mother bore a wide smile on her lips, which greatly worried me. Her joy reeked of sinister schemes. “Is he another one of your bound scholars?”

I expected Mother to frown at my remark, but her good mood proved unshakable. “I wish he was. Alas, his soul has long fallen into eternal sleep and merged with Mictlan. I could never find it.”

“A scholar lives on through their works, and the lessons that they teach the living,” the Parliament noted.

“A poor substitute for true immortality, but one that few ever achieved.” Mother waved her hand and invited me to follow her. “Enough wasting time, Iztac. Your father will entertain our guests while I oversee your training.”

Entertain? I had come to associate the word with dancers, singers, and concubines over my imperial tenure, but I doubted my parents indulged in these pleasures. I soon left my room to discover that Father had set up a strange board game on the main hall’s table. Lines of tiny stone soldiers stood on opposing sides of a checkered field. I counted sixty-four squares, while the pieces were a motley crew of watchtowers, footsmen, and trihorn riders.

“We do not recognize this game,” the Parliament commented. And neither did I.

“The Burned Men played it at the height of their civilization,” Mother explained. “I believe they called it the ‘Game of Kings.’”

“It’s pretty fun,” Father said with a chuckle. “Though it didn’t catch on with my wife.”

“It is not that I dislike it, Itzili,” Mother replied with bemusement. “I simply don’t have the time to play yet.”

“I await that moment with impatience,” Father replied with a laugh before waving his hand at the other side of the board. “I would assume Your Majesties would welcome some distraction. I can move pieces on your behalf.”

“We would appreciate the gesture,” the Parliament replied. I moved their skull to the other side of the table, then left with Mother. I last heard Father explaining that the game’s goal involved capturing the enemy’s king, or something similar. Perhaps I would introduce it to Nenetl after learning how to play it.

Part of me still resented the Parliament of Skulls for keeping the truth hidden from me for so long, but my anger had cooled down enough for me to assess the matter rationally. My predecessors made a bad call out of misplaced caution. I’d committed too many mistakes myself to judge them too harshly.

Moreover, the Parliament offered me more support than any of my other allies so far. I wouldn’t have gotten half as far as I did without their help. So long as they stayed true to their promise of treating me as an equal with their complete trust, I would let bygones be bygones.

I had too much on my plate already to hold on to pointless grudges.

“I often wonder where your father’s obsession with board games came from,” Mother mused as she led me deeper into her sanctuary. “He already insisted on teaching me Patolli when he courted me.”

“Strategy games sharpen the mind,” I replied. “And games of chance teach us to make the best of what we have.”

“I suppose there is some truth to it,” Mother replied with a thin smile as she guided me through dark corridors. “But a true sorcerer creates their own luck, and I shall teach you how today.”

My eyes widened with excitement. Her wording couldn’t be a coincidence. “Will you teach me the Cloak spell at last?”

“After reviewing your fundamentals,” Mother confirmed. “A sorcerer who has mastered ten spells will always prevail over the one who has merely learned a hundred.”

Our journey ended in a vaulted hall overcome by a low sheet of violet mist. The gas spewed from four rounded pools of purple liquid at each corner, where whorls of light glowed on their peaceful surface. A complex, spiraling mosaic of obsidian mirrors covered both the floor and ceiling. This place radiated power and focused it like a greenhouse.

“Are those Chalchiuhtlicue’s tears?” I asked Mother upon checking the pond’s waters.

She nodded in confirmation. “I brought them back with me from the Underworld’s first layer to study their properties. I hoped to harness sorcerous power from them.”

“Did you succeed?”

“Somewhat. These pools improved my divinations’ efficiency when combined with obsidian mirrors, but the results fell short of my expectations.” Mother approached the water’s surface and gently touched it with her hand. The sight of the spreading ripples seemed to amuse her. “They allow me to observe the world of the living nonetheless, so they do have their uses.”

“You seem quite chirpy today, Mother,” I commented. I’d only caught her smiling in happiness when she reunited with Father, yet she acted eerily delighted so far. “What has happened?”

“You happened, my son. Your work on the Legion spell helped me solve a certain conundrum.” Mother looked at the purple water dripping down her fingers. “I believe that I already mentioned trying to refine the Ride spell into a permanent soul transfer.”

My jaw tightened. I knew that this discussion would lead to dark places. “You did.”

“Your Legion spell might hold the key to its completion,” Mother explained. “Exploiting the curse that binds the emperors’ souls together to let them possess an extension of your own bones was a clever move, and one that I might be able to replicate.”

I didn’t like the implications. At all. “You wish to put a curse on yourself?”

“Nothing so self-defeating. My point, Iztac, is that my spell needs a strong spiritual connection between the host and the vessel that will let sorcery treat them as one and the same.” Mother stroked her chin, her gaze lost in the purple waters. “A common totem, a shared destiny, maybe a bloodline or close kinship.”

I recoiled in revulsion at her last word. That one hit too close to home.

Mother noticed my expression and swiftly tried to downplay the horror of her statement. “Do not put words in my mouth, my son. I would never use this spell on our family. This is purely hypothetical.”

“Is it?” I retorted, my voice dripping with disdain. “You wouldn’t mind testing it out on a stranger then, would you?”

Mother held my gaze. “Wouldn’t you, if it could extend your life beyond a year?”

Her comment hit me like a slap, doubtlessly since she was probably right. I wouldn’t use this spell against my kin—I couldn’t justify that to myself—but I’d already possessed someone and compelled him to commit suicide. I was very much capable of stealing a stranger’s life for victory.

The more I contemplated Mother’s idea, the more difficult it became to deny the potential tactical benefits. Transferring my soul to another body for a longer duration than the Ride spell without sacrificing my spellcasting would let me plan in safety and security, use magic without the risk of discovery, plot against the Nightlords...

Still, I couldn’t run away while leaving Eztli, Necahual, Ingrid, Nenetl, and the others at the vampires’ mercy. Nor could I continue to let their atrocities unfold. At this point, nothing short of the Nightlords’ destruction would satisfy my lust for revenge and justice.

“Do not speak of bloodlines, Mother,” I said after calming down. There lay the true source of my anger. “I am not in the mood right now.”

The Nightlords had fed their people a steady diet of imperial propaganda after the New Fire Ceremony debacle. What had been a failed attempt to raise a sulfur sun had become a heroic tale of a Godspeaker pleading with the heavens to spare mankind from punishment for their sins; and succeeding.

Millions of voices besieged by darkness now thanked me for sparing them an even worse fate. However fake the debt they owed, their gratitude was pure and true. This wind was their praise given form.

It was intoxicating, to be so praised after a lifetime of scorn. My joy at this flow of positivity was only matched by my amusement at the deceit from which it sprang. My heart swelled with confidence. Listening to prayers and worship made me feel invincible. They believed that I could do anything, and so I did.

I could get used to this.

“Go on, Mother,” I said, my quiet words strengthened into a thunderous boom by the storm. “Strike this faithful shield of mine, if you dare.”

Mother hesitated for a brief moment, then answered my challenge. She summoned the Doll’s talons of darkness and attempted to pierce through my hurricane. The wind formed an impenetrable wall into which her claws tried to sink. She pressed with all of her strength and barely progressed an inch. Her growing frustration amused me. I didn’t doubt that she possessed other spells that could pierce through my Cloak, but brute force alone wouldn’t suffice.

“You wondered why I spent time on petty intrigues instead of focusing on magical knowledge alone,” I reminded her. “But as you can see, both feed into one another.”

“An impressive display,” Mother conceded after recalling her talons in defeat. “Neither arrows nor swords will get past this wall. Stronger projectiles might, but it will weaken them nonetheless.”

That detail alone could make the difference between life and death.

“Can this spell be used for offense too?” I pondered out loud. I raised a hand at a wall and tried to blow it with a strong gust, yet the Cloak refused to bend my way.

Mother quickly crushed my hopes. “The Ehecatl is the wind of fortune. It does not harm, unlike the Yaotzin. It only protects.”

“All I hear is that you can use the Yaotzin to attack someone.”

“In theory,” Mother confirmed. “Though I have never succeeded in earning more than cruel knowledge from the Augury. The winds of chaos would exact far too great a toll for the potential reward.”

“For you, mayhaps,” I replied. The Yaotzin was born of hurtful words and curses. Many praised Yohuachanca’s emperor, and quite a few loathed him.

If Yohuachanca’s prayers of gratitude fueled my Cloak, would the Sapa Empire’s curses give birth to a new spell? The thought gnawed at me. My intuition told me that there was a possibility to exploit, an untapped well of power waiting to be uncovered.

As for the Ehecatl, I pondered if its inability to harm only applied to direct attacks. Summoning it did push Mother back, so I suspected the existence of a loophole of some kind.

I wonder how this spell would synergize with the rest of my repertoire. An idea crossed my mind, and my heart-fire burned with delight. How about the Blaze?

The wind had a terrible habit of strengthening infernos, after all.

I breathed fire from my mouth and watched on as the Cloak’s air currents carried the flames away. A bright purple blaze coiled around my body and forced Mother’s shadow talons to take a few steps back. A flaming tornado soon formed around me, creating a barrier of smokeless balefire.

When at long last both the flames and wind died out, a scorching circle of ashes and molten obsidian surrounded me. Mother studied the mark with a look of both fascination and concern.

“Have you ever tried to do the same?” I asked her. I couldn’t believe that the thought of combining these spells never crossed her mind.

Mother’s lips twisted into a scowl. Was that a glimmer of jealousy that I detected in her gaze?

“My flames didn’t take,” she whispered under her breath.

She never managed to summon a Cloak strong enough to sustain her Blaze, and part of her resented the fact that I could succeed where she had failed. It didn’t take me long to understand why.

Mother had made a crippling mistake on her sorcerer’s journey.

Much like my captors, I now understood the power of symbols and belief. The Nightlords cleverly used their divine image to reinforce their sorcery because the act of worship itself carried its own weight. The image of strength was almost as important as its reality.

Mother spent her life running and hiding from the world. The dead in Mictlan spoke her name in fear and mistrust, but they carried no breath nor fueled the fires of life. Most of them faded into the long sleep and carried their faith to the grave.

The living world knew nothing of Mother’s deeds and importance. Only the Nightlords had any interest in her, and they neither feared nor appreciated her. No cult paid homage to her. Her name didn’t inspire terror in millions. She downplayed her power instead of showcasing it.

A true Tlacatecolotl thrived in infamy and Mother’s caution had condemned her to oblivion.

She possessed an edge in knowledge and experience, but my power dwarfed her own. I could achieve worldshaking feats simply because thousands believed that I could. It seemed inevitable that I would surpass her given time.

How far could I take this relationship between symbolism and sorcery? Could I create new spells from nothing? Or could I harvest the trappings of superstitions to turn false rites into rituals with genuine power?

The more I delved into the abyss of magic, the more bottomless it seemed.

Mother recovered her composure while I was trapped in my thoughts. “Exploring the synergies between your current spells will serve you well,” she said. I could tell that relying on her authority as a teacher soothed her wounded pride. “You are ready for your next trial. When slumber shall claim you again, you will find yourself outside my sanctuary.”

“So soon?” I asked, bristling at her suggestion. “I barely spent time with Father.”

“Then it should provide you ample motivation to succeed,” Mother replied sternly. “You may return to my nest after you complete the fourth house’s ordeals.”

Mother clearly didn’t want me to become a freeloader. I was about to argue when I sensed the pull of the waking world. I didn’t have time to argue.

“I must go now,” I warned Mother. “But I shall return."

“I know.” Mother’s expression softened slightly in concern, which raised all kinds of alarms. “Use the Cloak spell well. It may yet save you from a gruesome fate.”

Why did I have the feeling that my next trial would be my most difficult yet?

I knew something was wrong before I even opened my eyes.

I barely had time to reincorporate my predecessors’ skull before I woke up. I couldn’t even say a word of goodbye to Father, though I wasn’t too worried. I expected to return to the House of Owls soon enough.

My hopeful mood lasted until I sensed a moist object on my face. Something thin and featherlight, yet strangely warm. A smooth weight that perfectly espoused the form of my face, leaving holes for my mouth, eyes, and nose. I heard Itzili the Younger making muffled noises near my bed, and my hands under the coverlet encountered a void where Chikal should have been.

“Did you sleep well, songbird?” Iztacoatl whispered in my ear.

My eyes snapped open, sending blood dripping down my visage. My hand instinctively moved to my forehead to wipe it away and quickly brushed against the thin layer covering my face. I immediately recognized that soft texture under my fingers.

Fur.

Tetzon’s fur.

I swept the bloody thing off my face to the tune of Iztacoatl’s cruel laughter. A spotted mask of fur fell onto the bed and stained it with blood. They had flayed Tetzon’s headless corpse and turned his bloody skin into a night mask, then placed it on my face while I slept soundly.

Iztacoatl sat along the bed, laughing with cruel glee. Her masked guards held back Iztili with leashes and muzzles. My pet raged fruitlessly against his bindings, but his inhuman strength folded under the weight of our captors’ numbers.

“What a shameful display, Your Majesty!” Iztacoatl mocked me in between fits of dark laughter. “Can you fathom how difficult it was to skin that cat before you woke up? The tense hours your beloved staff spent peeling the fur off his flesh, all while ensuring that the blood would remain warm enough to smooth your beautiful skin?”

I was sorely tempted to burn her own with the Blaze. How sweet it would feel when I finally turned her laughter into screams of distress.

“You’ve...” My outrage was genuine, but my surprise wasn’t. “You’ve killed my pet?”

“So quick with the accusations.” Iztacoatl pinched my cheek, which caused me to recoil in disgust. “Poor Tetzon wandered where he shouldn’t have and I had to teach him the cost of trespassing. As a lawmaker and judge of men, I’m sure you understand.”

My hands clenched into fists. I didn’t even have to fake anger. The very sight of this snake inspired me nothing but disgust.

When I failed to answer her cruel joke with words, Iztacoatl took my head in both of her chilling hands. Her forehead pressed against mine in an iron grip.

“I’ve heard that you speak to your animals. I thought it was a joke of some kind, but now I am starting to wonder...” Iztacoatl studied my expression, searching for any hint of deceit. “Did you send that poor margay out to gather information on your behalf?”

She was so close to the truth, and yet so far. The fact she partly believed in my Itzili deception helped make my following snort sound all the more genuine.

“Are you so craven that a cat frightens you?” I replied, playing the fool.

Iztacoatl let out a dark chuckle, her fangs flashing under her lips. “You know nothing of fear yet, Iztac,” she said with all of her kind’s boundless malice. “But you will soon, if you don’t answer me.”

I knew she would smell a lie, so I quickly defaulted to another strategy: blind her mind with rage and anger so she wouldn’t think straight. Twist the knife in an open wound and keep her guessing.

“Was this punishment for our last encounter?” I smirked ear to ear, savoring the quick look of humiliation that passed over her face. “If you wanted my attention, you only had to ask for it.”

“Punishment? Of course not.” Iztacoatl moved her lips close to mine, her eyes shining with burning hatred. “I have a far, far worse fate in mind for you, songbird.”

She began to lick Tetzon’s blood off my skin. I shivered in disgust as her tongue slithered on my cheeks with the coldness of ice. A reaction that only amused Iztacoatl.

“You will have to wait until Acampa for the surprise,” she said. “The lash loses its sting if you know when it will strike... but I suppose I can give you a taste of what is to come.”

She leaned in until her lips brushed against my ears, where she whispered five words. Five words, so simple and yet so ominous.

“We have found your mother.”