From his position in the crowd, Horn Lance watched in horror as the kukul was carried up the great staircase to the Morning Star’s palace. The totem stood out, its bright colors radiant in the sunlight. The old lop-jawed warrior carrying it seemed wary, trying to hold the serpent carving with its bobbing feathers as far from his body as he could.
Smart man.
Behind him a litter bore Night Shadow Star. Then came another bearing an old woman followed by a dog. Blue Heron and the limping Red Wing climbed next, followed by a detachment of warriors and a collection of nobles.
They’re taking their trophy to the Morning Star.
The impact of that hit him—the spiritual equivalent to a hard fist driven into his wind.
A swimming sensation left him half-staggered as the crowd pressed and surged around him. Did his barbaric countrymen understand the import of what they were doing? The kukul was everything: world, Power, status, and glory. The visual presence of the Spirit World in this profane existence.
The history books of the Maya were filled with stories of warrior kings losing their standards. How the legendary ruler of Copan, Ahau Eighteen Rabbit, lost his standard and was captured and sacrificed by Ahau Cauac Sky of Quirigua. As was Palenque’s ahau, Kan Xul, when he was captured and sacrificed by his rival at Tonina, or when Tikal’s Ah Cacau raided Calakmul and captured its ruler Jaguar Paw. The stories were the same whether told of Copan, Yaxchilan, Uaxactun, or even Tikal’s ruler Double Bird capturing Caracol’s Lord Water. In all cases, once the standard had been seized, the defeated ahau simply laid down his arms and surrendered to the inevitable.
I am watching that now. The slave has taken the kukul. He now wields that great Power. We are done. Finished.
He pressed a hand to his stomach, appalled at the gutted emptiness inside.
No sense in trying to rescue Oxlajun Chul Balam. He’d have already given up, surrendered to the only path left him by the War Serpent’s desertion.
Horn Lance turned, walking aimlessly through the festive crowd. He hated them. Hated them all.
They would be searching for him now. If Blue Heron found him first, he’d hang in a square—and these self-same barbaric fools would strip the skin from his body, slice bits of bleeding muscle from his bones, and thrust fiery torches between his legs to sear his penis and testicles into charred soot.
How then, ch’ak payal, are you going to hurt them in return?