Gods of Jade and Shadow(16)

“It is not a trivial visit that I perform. I have come to gaze at the bones of my brother,” the god said. “Open the chest.”

“But Lord, you told me the chest must not be opened.”

This simple sentence, which truly did not hint at defiance, was enough to make the death lord’s serious face turn indignant. The mortal man noticed the change, and although Cirilo was old and pained by his age, he managed to turn the key to the chest and open it with an amazing alacrity.

The chest was empty, not a single bone left behind. Vucub-Kamé realized his sorcerous brother had crafted an illusion to make it seem like he was contained inside his prison. He also realized the portent had come to pass.

Vucub-Kamé, who had the power of foresight, had glimpsed this event, the predetermined disappearance of his brother. It was predetermined because fate had placed its seal upon him, ensuring in one way or another Hun-Kamé would be set free. Fate is a force more powerful than gods, a fact they resent, since mortals are often given more leeway and may be able to navigate its current.

Fate had therefore decreed Hun-Kamé would be set free one day, although it had not marked the day. Vucub-Kamé had prepared for this. That does not mean he would not have wished for more time to face his troublesome brother. Nor does it mean he was not upset.

“Oh, Lord, I do not understand,” Cirilo began, meaning to adopt the pose of the supplicant. He was not proud when it came to the matter of keeping his limbs attached to his body.

“Silence,” Vucub-Kamé said, and the old man shut his mouth and remained still.

Vucub-Kamé stood in front of the chest and stared at it. It was made of iron and wood; Xibalbans have no love of iron. Like the axe that had cut off Hun-Kamé’s head, this item had been crafted by mortal hands, which would have no problem grasping the metal.

“Tell me, what happened here?” Vucub-Kamé said, commanding the chest.

The chest groaned, the wood stretching and rumbling. It vibrated like the skin of a taut drum, and it had a voice. “Lord, a woman, she opened the chest and placed her hand upon the bones. A bone shard went into her thumb, reviving Hun-Kamé, and together they have escaped,” it said in a deep voice.

“Where to?”

“T’hó, to the White City.”

“And who was this woman?”

“Casiopea Tun, granddaughter to your servant.”

Vucub-Kamé turned his eyes toward Cirilo, who had begun to shake all over.

“Your granddaughter,” Vucub-Kamé said.

“I did not know. I swear, oh, Lord. That silly girl, we thought she ran off with some no-good fool, like her mother did. Good riddance, we thought, the stupid tart and—”

Vucub-Kamé looked at his hands, at his palms, which were dark, blackened by burn marks. He had suffered and labored for this throne. His brother could not have it.

“I want her found. Fetch her for me,” he ordered.

“Lord, I would, but I do not know how. I am feeble. I have grown old,” Cirilo said, grasping the mattress and attempting to lift himself back to his feet, making more of a show of his frailty than he should, for he had no intention of leaving his home to look for anybody.

The death lord beheld the wrinkled man with disdain. How brief were the life of mortals! Of course the old man could not chase after the girl.

“Let me think, let me think. Yes…I have a grandson, lord. He is young and strong, and besides, he knows Casiopea well. He can recognize her and he can bring her to you,” Cirilo suggested after he managed to stand and find his cane, pretending that this had not been his first thought.

“I would speak to him.”

“I will fetch him promptly.”

Cirilo went in search of his grandson, leaving the god to contemplate the room. Vucub-Kamé ran a hand across the lid of the chest, feeling the absence of his brother like a palpable thing. The girl had left no imprint, he could not picture her, but he could imagine Hun-Kamé reconstituted, in a dark suit, the kind mortals wore, traversing the country.

The old man waddled back in. He had with him a young man who looked like Cirilo had once been, his face vigorous.

“This is my grandson, my lord. This is Martín,” Cirilo said. “I have tried to explain to him who you are and what you need of him.”

The god turned toward the young man. Vucub-Kamé’s eyes were as pale as his hair, paler, the color of incense as it rises through the air. Impossible eyes that gave the young man pause, forcing him to look down at the floor.

“My brother and your cousin seek to do me wrong. You will find the girl and we will put a stop to them,” the god said. “I know where they will be headed, as they will no doubt try to retrieve certain items I’ve left in safekeeping.”

“I want to assist, but your brother…sir, he is a god…and I am a man,” Martín said. “How would I accomplish such a thing?”

He realized the boy was unschooled in magic, unschooled in everything. Raw like an unpolished gemstone. This might have been a source of irritation, but then Cirilo had been much the same and had played his role.

Besides, he could taste the mordant laughter of fate in this affair. That it should be Cirilo’s granddaughter who would assist his brother and in turn it should be the grandson who would assist Vucub-Kamé. Folktales are full of such coincidences that are never coincidences at all, but the brittle games of powerful forces.