“I will do what I can, but your brother has his ways. He may already be looking for you,” Loray warned him.
“I wove an illusion. It will conceal my escape, for a while.”
There was gravity to their exchange, but the demon punctured it by holding up his glass.
“Good! Drink with me. I won’t have you say I am not hospitable. We must toast. Our fortunes will soon change, and let’s hope for the better.”
“I will drink with you once I have recouped my throne.”
The answer was not what the demon had expected, but the god softened it somewhat. “The clothing you’ve provided is a thoughtful detail,” Hun-Kamé added. An oblique way of saying thanks.
“I thought you might like it. New fashions. The top hat is gone and not a moment too soon. You might find the music amusing. The dances are livelier. The old century was too prim.”
“What do I care which dances the mortals dance?” Hun-Kamé said.
“Don’t be dull. You’ll scare the lady away,” Loray told him.
Again there was that slight glint of malice in the demon’s face. He filled a second glass and handed it to her, leaning down and whispering so lightly she might have imagined his voice in her ear.
“Remember what I told you,” he said. “If you should be on the losing side, there may be a chance to side with the victor. Whoever that may be.”
Then he clinked his glass against hers, a smile across his face. Casiopea took a sip.
Nine levels separate Xibalba from Middleworld. Although the roots of the World Tree extend from the depths of the Underworld up to the heavens, connecting all planes of existence, Xibalba’s location means news does not travel fast in this kingdom. It is therefore hardly surprising that Vucub-Kamé, sitting on his fearsome obsidian throne, set upon a carpet of bones, was not immediately aware of his brother’s escape from his prison.
And yet, even at such distance, a warning echoed in Vucub-Kamé’s chamber. He thought he heard a note, muffled, like a flute being blown; it sounded once and he dismissed it, but the second time he could not.
“Who speaks my name?” he said. He felt it, like a volute of smoke brushing against his ear, a white flower in the dark.
The god raised his head.
His court was as it always was, busy and loud. His brothers—there were ten of them, five sets of twins—reclined on cushions and ocelot pelts. They were not alone. The noble dead who went to their graves with treasures and proper offerings, who were buried in their finery and jewels, were allowed safe passage down the Black Road and a place in the Black City of Xibalba (sometimes, for their amusement, the Lords of Xibalba had turned back or tricked these noblemen, instead picking a common peasant to join them, but not often). Thus, courtiers milled about, their bodies painted with black, blue, or red patterns. Women wearing dresses with so many jade incrustations it was difficult for them to walk whispered to one another while their servants fanned them. Priestesses and priests in their long robes talked to scholars, while warriors watched the jesters cavort.
Xibalba can be a frightful place, with its House of Knives and its House of Bats and many strange sights, but the court of the Lords of Death also possessed the allure of shadows and the glimmer of obsidian, for there is as much beauty as there is terror in the night. Mortals have always been frightened of the night’s velvet embrace and the creatures that walk in it, and yet they find themselves mesmerized by it. Since all gods are born from the kernel of mortal hearts, it is no wonder Xibalba reflected this duality.
Duality, of course, was the trademark of the kingdom. Vucub-Kamé’s brothers were twins: they complemented each other. Xiquiripat and Cuchumaquic caused men to shed their blood and dressed in crimson, Chamiabac and Chamiaholom carried bone staffs that forced people to waste away. And so on and so forth.
Vucub-Kamé and Hun-Kamé had walked side by side, like the other gods did, both of them ruling together, even if, unfairly, Hun-Kamé was the most senior of all the Lords of Xibalba and ultimately Vucub-Kamé did his will.
They were alike and yet they were not, and this is what had driven Vucub-Kamé into bitterness and strife. Spiritually, he was a selfish creature, prone to nursing grievances. Physically, he was tall and slim and his skin was a deep shade of brown. His eyelids were heavy, his nose hooked. He was beautiful, as was his twin brother. But while Hun-Kamé’s hair was black as ink, Vucub-Kamé’s hair was the color of corn silk, so pale it was almost white. He wore headdresses made from the green feathers of the quetzal and lavish cloaks made from the pelts of jaguars or other, more fabulous animals. His tunic was white, a red sash decorated with white seashells around his waist. On his chest and wrists there hung many pieces of jade, and on his feet were soft sandals. On occasion he wore a jade mask, but now his face lay bare.
When he rose from his throne, as he did that day, and raised his hand, the bracelets on his wrist clinked together making a sharp sound. His brothers turned their heads toward him, and so did his other courtiers. The Supreme Lord of Xibalba was suddenly displeased.
“All of you, be silent,” he said, and the courtiers were obediently silent.
Vucub-Kamé summoned one of his four owls.
It was a great winged thing, made of smoke and shadows, and it landed by Vucub-Kamé’s throne, where the lord whispered a word to it. Then it flew away and, flapping its fierce wings, it soared through the many layers of the Underworld until it reached the house of Cirilo Leyva. It flew into Cirilo’s room and stared at the black chest sitting in his room. The owl could see through stone and wood. As it cocked its head it confirmed that the bones of Hun-Kamé rested inside the chest; then it flew back to its master’s side to inform him of this.
Vucub-Kamé was therefore assuaged. Yet his peace of mind did not last. He played the game of bul, with its dice painted black on one side and yellow on the other, but this sport did not bring him joy. He drank from a jeweled cup, but the balché tasted sour. He listened to his courtiers as they played the rattles and the drums, but the rhythm was wrong.
Vucub-Kamé decided he must look at the chest himself. It was night in the land of mortals, and he was able to ascend to the home of Cirilo Leyva. Cirilo, who had been in bed, asleep already, woke up, the chill of the death god making him snap his eyes open.
“Lord,” the old man said.
“You’ll welcome me properly, I hope,” Vucub-Kamé said.
“Yes, yes. Most gracious Lord, I am humbled by this visit,” the man said, his throat dry. “I’ll burn a candle for you—no, two. I’ll do it.”
The old man, diligent, struck a match to ensure two candles burned bright by his bed. The god could see in the darkness, he could make out each wrinkle wrecking Cirilo’s face; the candles were a formality, a symbol. Besides, Vucub-Kamé, like his brothers, enjoyed the flattery of mortals, their absolute abeyance.