Gods of Jade and Shadow(71)
It was true. She’d pressed all her fantasies like dried flowers in books, carefully hidden where neither Martín nor Cirilo would see them. Rarely, late at night, had she allowed herself to contemplate them. If she’d declared them in a loud voice Casiopea would have let them take root inside her, and she could not have that. Instead, she polished them in secret, precious bits that they were, but bits and not wholes.
She understood now, his paucity with words.
He did not kiss her. He hovered next to her, pressed his forehead against her own instead, which was worse than any liberty he might have taken, more raw.
“Words are seeds, Casiopea. With words you embroider narratives, and the narratives breed myths, and there’s power in the myth. Yes, the things you name have power,” he said.
Casiopea clenched her hands together, and her heart clenched too, and she nodded solemnly, though she also sighed when he drew away from her.
They were quiet and they were foolish, both of them, thinking they were treading with any delicacy, and that if they somehow moderated their voices they’d stop the tide of emotion. The things you name do grow in power, but others that are not ever whispered claw at one’s heart anyway, rip it to shreds even if a syllable does not escape the lips. The silence was hopeless in any case, since something escaped the god, anyway: a sigh to match the girl’s own.
Vucub-Kamé walked in the gardens of his palace, past ponds filled with minuscule glowing fish, until he reached a lake of considerable size. He set a hand upon one of the ceiba trees growing next to the lake, bigger than any of the other trees, its massive roots dipping into the water. The ceiba trees in Xibalba had a silver cast, but this particular one was brighter than the rest, its leaves more luminous, almost iridescent.
The lake was special too, its waters never reflected anything. Not a leaf nor a branch, nor the figure of the Death Lord circling it. Though curiously clear, the waters seemed bottomless and no fish swam there: only the Great Caiman, in its depths, which had traveled the seas when the world was young and teemed with the fury of chaos. Shards of chaos remained in the water, which was why it rejected reflections and why Vucub-Kamé could not read portents in its depths. Curiously, auguries function following the principles of order.
Or not so curiously. After all, prophecy traces clean paths. Vucub-Kamé’s ability lay in witnessing the arrow of what might be, of following the thread of order among what others thought was simple chance. Men also had this gift, but being a god, his power was unparalleled. Yet the more time passed, the more disorganized his visions of his own future became.
Vucub-Kamé had not tried to divine the future since leaving Xtabay’s home, but he had been considering the facts as he knew them, considering them very carefully. And pacing, pacing beside the lake and wondering about the strength of chaos upon his finely laid plans.
Vucub-Kamé was alone, the attendants of the god having been dismissed for the time being. Yet now two men approached the Death Lord, bowing low when they reached him. Aníbal and Martín. He’d sent for them. After they had abased themselves sufficiently, Vucub-Kamé bid them rise.
“How do you find my kingdom?” Vucub-Kamé asked Martín. The heavy obsidian necklace around his neck accentuated the harshness of his face, giving his words an added weight.
“It’s interesting,” Martín mumbled. He was prosaic and, lacking any desire for the fantastic, he would have rather kept his eyes shut the whole journey. Best ask a slug what it thinks of the architecture of a city.
“Do you think you can walk its road alone?” the god asked, aware now that there was no need for formalities and polite inquiries with the Leyva boy, and somewhat irritated by this since the vanity of gods extends to their constructions, and surely he desired to hear a long exultation of the beauty of the Black City.
“Martín progresses,” Aníbal said.
“Quickly, I hope.”
Aníbal inclined his head, a deferential nod. Vucub-Kamé began to walk again and the men trailed behind him, dogs waiting for scraps from their master. In the trees black birds stared at the trio but did not sing. The god had been irritable as of late, so they wisely kept their mournful melodies to themselves.
“Your brother is dead, Aníbal,” Vucub-Kamé said casually. “The problem with the old goat is he is always underestimating the difficulties of certain tasks.”
Vucub-Kamé turned around to stare the Zalazar man directly in the face. The god did not appear displeased, but the wind that had been tugging at his pale hair ceased, growing shy.
“Listen with care. Hun-Kamé and the girl will arrive in Tijuana soon. You, Leyva, will meet them there.”
“I?” Martín asked. “What for?”
“Because I set the tone from the very first step and because I want to offer certain terms to your cousin.”
“What terms?”
“The details don’t concern you. You’ll meet them and kindly escort them to Tierra Blanca. And you, Aníbal, will be polite too. No gnashing of the teeth or foolish revenges.”
“They killed my brother,” Anibal said.
“As if that was but a temporary condition.”
“It’s the principle, my lord, and you know precisely how—”
“I know precisely how much of an idiot you can be sometimes,” Vucub-Kamé replied, his voice harsh. “But I am not interested in stupid displays of pyrotechnics and whatever rough magic you command. Hun-Kamé and the girl will be received like honored guests. Especially the girl.”