Shadow of the Lords

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‘Listen!’ my brother cried. Mamiztli — ‘the Mountain Lion’ — was staring across the lake towards the island and city of Mexico. ‘Yaotl, what was that noise?’

‘Daybreak’, I said shortly.

For the first time in an eventful night, I noticed that the water surrounding us was no longer black. The lake’s surface had caught the deep blue of an early morning sky. It was going to be a crisp winter’s day, hailed by a yellow-white radiance spreading through the thin haze that veiled the eastern horizon. Mist blanketed the mountains surrounding the valley, and swirled around the countless temples in front of them, softening their harsh, angular forms.

Birds twittered and flapped among the sedges at the water’s edge, but the sound my brother had drawn my attention to had come from one of the temples, and as we gazed towards its source it came again, drifting lazily towards us over the still water: the call of a trumpet, hailing the dawn.

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