![]() “There’s magic involved, to put the shard straight into the heart with so little damage to the skin.” I closed my hand around the shard. And if the underworld was involved directly in a death, as seemed to be the case here, I advised magistrates such as Macihuin. I was a priest for the Dead: I assisted in preparing the corpses, in saying the proper prayers and making the proper sacrifices. And once we undressed him, there was a small splotch of blood over the heart–not large enough to be an entry wound. ![]() “From looking at the corpse, I would have said his heart had failed him. “How did you think of opening the chest?” I asked. “It was embedded in his heart, and quite deeply–the guards and I had some trouble extracting it.” I raised my eyes to look at Magistrate Macihuin, who stood in the courtyard, a few steps away from me, watching me intently. One did not find such objects in a dead warrior’s house. Its black surface shimmered with green reflections, and it quivered with the aura I associated with the underworld: blood and pain and death. ![]() The obsidian shard, half the size of my palm, lay in my hand: a sharp, deadly thing still stained with blood. OBSIDIAN SHARDS: AN OBSIDIAN AND BLOOD SHORT STORY
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