school of sightless fish flew above her head, as if they were birds, as if they had forgotten they were supposed to dwell in the deepest of waterholes, beneath the calcareous soil.
Her body ached, but the hand ached worst of all, and she pressed it against her chest. She could almost feel the time running out, like a gigantic beating heart that palpitated quietly across the land.
The salt was cool and inviting. She pressed on, and when her shoes were lodged full with salt, she took them off and continued barefoot. She was headed nowhere, and nowhere she went, hoping to find the Black Road even if she knew, within her, she could not.
She walked past towering pillars of seashells, pressed together like bricks, and reached a lake. It glowed a soft blue, like in her dreams.
* * *
—
The wind had dried Martín’s tears, which hurt more than the bruises on his body, more than his parched throat. He raced down the causeway that led into the Black City, raced past graceful buildings carved from onyx. In the windows of some of those homes stood people with white masks who regarded him curiously, and he encountered and ignored soldiers, priests, and commoners who also walked down the same road, who turned their heads to glance in derision at a mortal man who dared to navigate their knotted city.
* * *
—
Casiopea stood by the lake while the wind tugged at her hair. Forward, beyond the water there was only salt, and going around it might take a long time. She was forced to sit by the lake and catch her breath. Her body did not hurt anymore, but she knew this was a sign that the end was approaching. There would be no more time.
She felt the strength ebbing from her, and around her, like a vibration, she could also feel Martín’s steps upon the Black Road as he walked into the city, as he went past the black houses and black monuments and approached the Jade Palace.
She was dying. The mirage of her old age had been an illusion, but this was real, this death nibbling her fingers.
She was too far from the Black Road to ever reach the World Tree on time.
Casiopea grabbed the knife and sighed, turning it between her hands.
She remembered Loray’s advice. Cut off the hand, serve Vucub-Kamé. And Vucub-Kamé’s offer. Die and offer herself to him. She’d be invited to dwell in the shadow of the World Tree. Hun-Kamé would perish. But he’d perish anyway, and if she performed this one gesture Vucub-Kamé would look at her kindly.
He might be merciful.
Betrayal was in her nature, after all. Her grandfather had been disloyal.
She had dreamed this moment, the slicing of the wrists. It was the arrow of fate. She had been foolish to think she could win this challenge. Unlucky Casiopea, born under a bad star, could not prevail.
Casiopea clutched the knife, tight. Desperate, scared, wishing to weep her sorrow, she waded into the lake until the water reached her thighs. The knife was in her hand. The obsidian blade was sharp, unnaturally perfect, it was like a black mirror. She caught her reflection in it.
* * *
—
The Black Road grew more convoluted the farther Martín walked around the city. It led him down alleys with dead ends, it dragged him next to magnificent temples and through a market where men sold jaguar pelts and featherless birds, their bones inked with dozens of colors. Gamblers sat on woven mats and threw dice, moving red and blue pebbles across a board. They laughed, showing Martín their pointed teeth.
“Damn it,” he cursed.
But he caught a flash of green in his right eye and, turning, beheld, not so distant, the unmistakable silhouette of the Jade Palace.
Martín smiled.
* * *
—
She could hear Martín’s steps upon the stones of the Black City. She could hear his breath and she could feel inside her the last shreds of time wilting away.
Casiopea was scared. The fear was like a cloak lined with lead; it held her stiff in its arms. It would not let her move. She was bound in its coils. Live, live, she wanted to live. She wanted a way out.
It was as Hun-Kamé had told her: life was not fair. Why should she be fair? Why should she suffer? This was not even her story. This kind of tale, this dubious mythmaking, was for heroes with shields and armor, for divinely born twins, for those anointed by lucky