Reverently, Balam opened the cloth cover and unfolded the bark pages. They stretched out in a long continuous sheet of glyphs and phonetic symbols. He recognized the archaic language he had long studied, confirming that this was the knowledge he desired as his own.
“Can you understand it?” the thief asked, curious.
“Of course,” Balam said absently. His mind was already focused on the writing before him, his eyes devouring the first page. You hold before you the Manual of the Dreamwalkers. Those who eat of the godflesh and practice the spirit magic therein risk madness, as my sisters may attest from their cold tombs. But for those who do not fear, unfathomable power is yours.
“What does it say?”
“Hmmm?”
“The book. What does it say?”
Balam brought his attention back to the present. He folded the pages into the book and closed it before giving the thief a wry look. “Do you wish to become a sorcerer?”
“Me?” The man laughed, leaning back against the altar. “I have no use for magic.”
“There was once a time when thieves practiced shadow magic as part of their profession. It is said to run in their blood.”
“Old superstition,” he said, before spitting on the floor. “A sucker’s endeavor, something for the feebleminded. I’ll stay in the light of reason, thanks.” He touched his fingers to a pendant around his neck, a small golden replica of the sun.
Balam’s eyes flicked in irritation at the globule of spittle on the ancient stone floor. He ran a tongue around his teeth, as if clearing them of words better unspoken, and said instead, “And if I told you that even the Sun Priest’s power was simply magic derived from the old gods?”
“I’d tell you that you were a fool, too, esteemed Lord.” He bowed mockingly. “But it’s none of my business why you want the book, truly. My only god is that which you hold in your hand.”
The cacao. Balam gestured for the man to give him the sack. He did, and Balam slid the book back inside and set it at his own feet. In return, he handed the man the purse of cacao. The thief’s eyes shone with greed as he opened it. Balam watched as the man mentally counted the sum. Possible futures flashed across his features: new jewels, the best drink, the most beautiful women.
Balam slipped his knife from its sheath. “There is one other thing I need from you.”
“Name it,” the man said, eyes still focused on his new wealth.
Balam calmly stepped forward and slid the knife into the man’s belly. He jerked upward until he hit bone. The thief gasped, the purse falling from his hands. Cacao scattered across the stone floor, cascading down the altar steps. The thief beat feeble fists against Balam’s chest. He ignored it, lifting the man to lay him on the altar. He stepped back and watched as that brazenness that he had admired drained from the thief’s eyes.
Then he got to work, first collecting the fresh blood in his clay cup. When he had enough, he dipped his fingers into the bowl and painted vertical lines on the bottom half of his face. Then his palms and the soles of his feet. When he was ready, he placed the mirror on the ground and poured blood across its surface. He chanted the words to call forth the shadow. A circle opened before him as if reflecting off the mirror. The gateway was a bubbling darkness, frost sizzling and cracking along its boundaries. He hoped he was correct, and the thief’s blood would ease his way through the shadow world and, if not, that the offering of the thief on the jaguar altar would make his ancestors look kindly upon his journey. He slung the sack over his shoulder, whispered his destination, and stepped into the darkness…
… and out into his own private rooms, gasping. He dropped the sack and collapsed. His skin was glazed with a thin layer of ice, and his breath puffed white before him. He dragged a nearby blanket from his bed and wrapped it around himself. He lay there, shuddering, unable to do more until, finally, he began to thaw.
Once he felt himself, he made his way to an adjacent room where a steam bath already awaited him. He cleaned the blood and shadow from his skin and donned a simple pair of pants cut in the northern style. He called for a servant, who came immediately.
“I am not to be disturbed,” he explained, as he arranged the table in front of him: an abalone shell, a brick of copal, a small wooden box, and, next to it, his new acquisition. “It is very important. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Lord.”
“Not by anyone,” Balam insisted. “The other lords, my mother, and certainly not my damnable cousin.”