“Fine things suit her, don’t they, Martín?” Zavala asked, although he did not turn toward her cousin, who had not deigned to utter a word of greeting to her. “And you? How do you like the place, Hun-Kamé?”
“It is gaudy,” Hun-Kamé replied.
“Well, we couldn’t exactly have a pyramid, could we? This is a modern adaptation.”
“Is that what you are calling it?”
“Power flows through this building and even more power will flow through every tile and every wall, spreading across the land, bringing back the might of Xibalba. The name of the Supreme Lord will be on every man’s lips and they will lance their tongues and offer their blood to Vucub-Kamé,” he said, the mask of the kind patriarch yanked away, the magician, the priest, unveiled.
“Not while I remain,” Hun-Kamé said.
“We shall see.”
Hun-Kamé picked up one of the glasses and took a sip. She followed suit, drinking too fast, the sweetness of the champagne alien to her. Martín stared at her, and she almost apologized, the old custom, before remembering that his disapproval did not matter.
“Well, did we come to hear you speak the same inane words you have spoken for decades?” Hun-Kamé asked, setting his glass down.
“If you were wiser you’d have let me assist you and overseen the design of this fabulous palace. But you are stubborn,” Zavala said, again speaking like a kindly father might, chiding a recalcitrant son. It had no effect on Hun-Kamé, whose face was hard.
“And you are nothing but an upstart warlock almost as deluded as my brother. Tell me why we are here.”
Zavala held his cigar between his thumb and his index finger and stared at them, grinning, flashing a row of yellowed teeth. His face, if you looked at it carefully, was slightly jaundiced. They said that when Montejo attempted to conquer Yucatán he had captured Indians and thrown them to his pack of dogs, to be devoured. That’s what Zavala reminded her of. He devoured people.
“We are here to discuss terms,” Zavala said.
“Oh?”
“You don’t expect your brother will sweep in and you will skewer him with a sword, do you? The conflicts of gods don’t often play out that way. At least, not these days, and not with you in this state. You look…diminished.”
Hun-Kamé sat proud and dignified. He did not protest Zavala’s words, perhaps because they were true, or more likely because he thought it beneath him to answer such a charge.
“The Supreme Lord proposes a contest, the girl serving as your proxy and this young man here representing Vucub-Kamé,” Zavala said, slapping Martín’s shoulder. Her cousin was not pleased with the physical contact, grimacing.
“What kind of contest?” she asked.
“In ancient times we might have had two mortals face with shield and bladed weapons. Or perhaps play the ball game, the loser to be sacrificed upon the sacred court. Alas, I don’t think it would be quite fair, seeing as neither of you are ball players, nor are you warriors.”
Casiopea almost chuckled. Martín could ride a horse, but little more than that. He had no interest in sports, and while the other children in their town might eagerly chase a ball across the street, he did nothing of the sort. At least Casiopea had the strength developed from going to and fro around the house; the constant scrubbing of floors and the carrying of boxes stuffed with fruits and vegetables into the kitchen had developed her muscles—though these days, she felt tired and spent.
“The Supreme Lord suggests a more appropriate game. Whoever walks the Black Road and reaches the World Tree in the heart of Xibalba first wins. It is elegantly simple.”
It did sound simple, and if she had not seen the Black Road in her sleep she might have readily agreed, but the dream of blood and death made her curl her hands in her lap, clutching a bit of the fabric of her dress between her fingers. She recalled her meeting with her cousin, the visions she’d had in the garden. She could not pretend these were mere dreams. She had felt the touch of magic; she’d seen portents.
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.”