Gods of Jade and Shadow(88)

Casiopea and Hun-Kamé were ushered into a windowless room decorated with intricate carvings. Bone-white were the walls of this chamber, though the floors were black, and polished with such intensity they reflected the columns and the frieze and the walls, as if one were walking upon an ocean of ink. Although it might be used for one casino function or another—a dance, a lavish party—the place had the quiet air of a temple.

As if to reinforce this impression, in the middle of the room there were two heavy wooden chairs with high backs, fit for priests or kings, or both. Between them a rough stone pedestal had been set, and on it rested a huge axe.

Vucub-Kamé sat on the chair at the right, but when they walked in, he rose and walked in their direction, his cape trailing down his back. The cape was a curious creation, made of bones and owl feathers, stitched with the silk of moths, standing stiff and strong despite its delicate components. When he moved, the bones rattled and laughed.

Behind Vucub-Kamé stood Zavala—looking more yellow than before, his white clothing contrasting badly with his jaundiced face—and Martín, who also wore white.

“Your time is up,” Vucub-Kamé told them. “Will you be wise and take my offer, or foolish and reject it?”

“I’ll walk the Black Road,” Casiopea said.

Vucub-Kamé did not appear surprised nor annoyed by the answer. He looked down at her with his pale eyes, impassive.

“You reject me at every turn,” he said. “Very well. I’ll teach you humility.”

She said nothing, chose to stare back at him rather than regaling him with her fear.

“You may have a blade and a gourd filled with water for your journey, but nothing more,” Vucub-Kamé declared.

She saw then that he’d set up two tables with these items, the obsidian knife and the gourd. She wore an evening gown not fit for traveling, but when she held the knife her clothes changed, the pale cream chiffon became plain cotton, transforming into a black blouse, a long black skirt, and a black shawl, like the ones she might have worn back home. At her waist was a belt, with a sheath for the knife. The gourd had a cord, which she might place around her neck or tie to the belt, but as she held it, her fingers twitched, and there came the pain brought by the bone shard, as if it had dug deeper into her flesh.

“Allow me to assist you,” Hun-Kamé said, looping the cord around her belt. When he was done, he held her hand between his. “We could—”

She felt she might faint, but she shook her head firmly. “It’ll pass, it always does,” she said, and tried to play the part of the fearless hero, even if she did not quite feel up to the role.

Her performance must have been acceptable, because he nodded.

“Let’s not waste any more time,” Vucub-Kamé said, though he sounded more bored than eager to begin the game. “Your champion looks ready.”

“A minute,” Hun-Kamé replied.

He grasped her hand, tighter, and she thought he might bid her goodbye, he might kiss her one last time. He leaned forward.

“Xibalba will attempt to confuse you,” Hun-Kamé told her in a low voice. “But you must not let it. The road listens to you, you don’t listen to it.”

He let go of her. This was his farewell. She could not help the drop of disappointment, even if they had already, for all intents and purposes, parted ways by the ocean.

Hun-Kamé sat down on the chair on the left. Vucub-Kamé sat on the matching chair, his bone cape clacking, looking indolent. She imagined the brothers had been like this in Xibalba, side by side, in a fabulous underground throne room.

“Shall we begin?” Vucub-Kamé asked, looking ahead, his eyes empty.

“We will,” Hun-Kamé replied, and he also looked ahead, but his gaze settled on her.

Zavala lit a cigar and stood before the twin gods, taking a puff.

Casiopea glanced at her cousin, and he replied with a wary look, but no words were exchanged. What was there to say?

Zavala opened his mouth and spat out a violent cloud of smoke and ash, which enveloped Casiopea and Martín.

The smoke was substantial, and the room grew darker, but it did not bother her throat, she did not cough. As the smoke thickened, it erased the borders of the room, the contours of the brothers’ faces, Martín’s silhouette, the carvings on the walls. It even wiped away the floor on which she stood. Casiopea rested upon a surface and yet she stood on nothing; she might have been floating, no angle to guide her eyes and give her a sense of perspective.

Slowly the world recovered its contours and she found herself upon a lonely road. Above her head there was an odd, starless sky, and all around her stretched a desolate grayness. She had descended into Xibalba.

Casiopea took a deep breath and began her journey. She walked for many minutes, but when she looked ahead the land was exactly the same, and behind her there was only the road, the gray desolation. Hun-Kamé had told her it was not possible to determine how long it would take her to reach the city. Time and distances were not the same as in Middleworld. Now she understood what he meant, because she had made little progress; it was as if she’d walked the span of three steps in an hour. Even worse, she could not spy the gaps Hun-Kamé had mentioned.

Casiopea pressed the gourd against her lips and took a sip. She walked slowly, looking down at the road, trying to see if there were spots where it was different, but it was all a deep blackness, like obsidian.