Gods of Jade and Shadow(82)

Vucub-Kamé was warning her. Or threatening her. And though she tried to dismiss it all as tricks, as ridiculous attempts to intimidate her, Casiopea knew there was some truth in the words he’d spoken and the things he’d shown them.

“Now, there are rules,” Zavala said. “First of all, Hun-Kamé’s magic may not protect you in Xibalba. You will be vulnerable to the elements and the piercing kiss of the blade. The same will go for Martín. No assistance can be provided; you will walk the road alone with an obsidian knife to keep you company. We are fair, after all.”

“What happens if I get there first?” Casiopea asked.

“The Lord Vucub-Kamé will kneel before Hun-Kamé and let him lop off his head for his intransigence. But if you should lose, dear girl, then it is Hun-Kamé’s head that will roll, and you will face an unpleasant life and an even more unpleasant afterlife, shackled inside the Razor House.”

She recalled the story of the Hero Twins and their journey through the houses of Xibalba. The Razor House was filled with knives, which flew through the air and sliced the flesh, but the twins had offered the knives the bodies of animals. As a result, the knives did not cut their skin. But that was a story, likely told to comfort mortals, and Casiopea did not think she’d be granted such a respite.

“You look upset, darling,” Zavala said, his voice full of mock kindness. “Would you like more champagne?”

“I’m fine.”

Zavala ignored her words, instead filling her glass to the brim again. She did not touch it, watching as her cousin finished his drink and fidgeted with a napkin.

“Well, one must always bet to win the game, and this is an important game, Casiopea. Being the champion of a god is no easy task. Now, you two don’t need to accept the proposal right this instant. Vucub-Kamé wishes to speak to you. He has a more magnanimous idea.”

“He has some trap he wishes to spring on us,” Hun-Kamé replied. “A trick of his.”

“Tricks, tricks, what an unkind thing to say. It may be he wishes to make amends, hmmm?” Zavala said. “Whatever he wants, he cannot address you directly unless you allow it, Hun-Kamé. Therefore, will you speak to him? He will visit you, if you agree.”

“As if we have a choice.”

“You have a choice. That is the point,” Zavala said.

“If I said no, what would he do? Place notes under my door?” Hun-Kamé asked. “We are at the end of this journey, after all, and must greet each other at last. He may show his face, if he wishes it.”

“Then it is accepted and arranged. Go back to your rooms. He will be there.”

Though the words were uncomplicated and mundane, Casiopea knew by now that every sentence spoken might carry hidden, magical meanings, and so it was in this case.

Zavala raised a glass, as if toasting them, and smiled at her. “You must know, dear girl, that Vucub-Kamé can be kind. Up to a certain point. But if you two force his hand…then it’s the Black Road. Tell me, honestly, do you fear death?”

Her eyes darted away, and she took Hun-Kamé’s hand in one fluid motion, rising to her feet with the quickness of an arrow.

“I think we should dance,” she said. It was the first thing that popped into her head, the excuse so that she wouldn’t have to answer the question.

Casiopea guided him toward the people dancing without sparing Zavala a single look. She felt her conviction faltering when he placed a hand against her waist. She did not know the steps to the song, which was slow and sweet, like syrup. She wanted to look down at her feet, to make sure they were moving in a somewhat coordinated motion, but she knew this would seem clumsy. Not that he was looking at her: his head was raised, as if peering above her shoulder.

“Your brother made me an offer today,” she said, finding a rhythm. “He spoke, somehow, through my cousin, and promised glory or gold. And he showed me, too, what might happen to me. He showed me death and Xibalba.”

“He has the power of prophecy, but not all his visions come to pass,” Hun-Kamé said.

“But I had already dreamed it, before, during the journey.”

He’d not been worried before, but now a frown creased his brow. His mouth grew tight.

“I am afraid,” she said. “You were right, if I was a hero I’d know this is the way things go. I wouldn’t hesitate to risk my life to save the land, to save you. I’d charge ahead. But I’m scared, and if we go up those stairs…maybe I won’t refuse him a third time. And…and so I wish we could just keep dancing.”

Hun-Kamé did not reply, sinking into one of his hard silences. She might have been worried if the music hadn’t been so divine, the swaying to the song so languorous. Had she not wanted to dance? Not quite to this song, not quite in this ballroom next to women in silks with diamonds in their hair and men with their bow ties and crisp jackets; these were unexpected elements to her fantasy. And of course she had never pictured her dance partner when she chanced to think of dances. She’d swatted the idea away too quickly, and her partner remained an amorphous figure. Even if she’d been able to picture a boy, he would never have come close to the man guiding her in the dance.

Therefore she danced, because she’d desired the dance and because if she paused to rest she might begin questioning herself. Do you fear death? Yes, she did.