Four hours had passed, and Cody had not stopped singing—over and over again—adding hums, rises and falls in the melody, to the point where everyone around him had grown to hate the song. The great King Checo had worked his way through several dishes while chatting with his most trusted men, and every time Cody lost the rhythm, one of the guards would smack him on the head to knock him back into tune.

  At last, the great king sucked the grease from his fingers after the final plate, leaned back in the massive chair set before the long wooden table outside his quarters, and let out a long, thunderous belch, signaling the end of the meal.

  Only then was Cody granted the glorious silence that allowed everyone’s ears to rest.

  “Well… well,” the king said under the expectant gaze of the crowd. “You have fulfilled your part.”

  Cody smiled weakly, exhausted, and Yax gave him a couple of encouraging pats on the back.

  “May I speak now, Your Majesty?” Cody asked.

  All eyes turned to the king. Kenda watched the maroon monarch closely. He began picking food from his teeth with his tongue, then took a long pull of agave from his goblet.

  “One trial remains.”

  A murmur rippled through the gathering. Cody frowned, a hollow opening in his chest. Yax stiffened as well. Both looked toward Kenda, who answered with a severe expression that clearly said: I warned you.

  The king drank again and leaned back, resting his hands on his enormous belly.

  “You will fight with cutlasses, one against the other… until one of you dies. The survivor may speak with me.”

  The two boys stared at each other. The murmur grew louder, though no one seemed truly surprised.

  “Your Majesty… that cannot be,” Yax began, while Cody slowly shook his head.

  “SILENCE!” the king thundered. “It is my executive order. If you refuse, I will have you beheaded. Your flesh will be served at the next banquet, and your skulls impaled at the entrance to frighten the Spaniards. The choice is yours.”

  All eyes settled on the boys. Some whispered; others merely shrugged.

  Kenda stepped forward and bowed.

  “Baay…” she said softly. “Allow me to speak.”

  The king motioned her closer. She whispered in his ear while he nodded again and again. Then he summoned his secretary, Dorcas, and began deliberating, listening to the opinions of several men—his wives among them.

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  “What’s happening?” Cody asked, bewildered.

  “They’re discussing how to make your duel… less bloody,” a maroon muttered behind him.

  “Honestly, Yax… is this really what we were looking for?” Cody said.

  “At this point,” Yax replied, “I don’t even know where we are anymore.”

  After nearly an hour, the king raised his hand for silence.

  “My daughter Kenda has pleaded on your behalf,” he announced. The boys turned to her; she was still watching the monarch. “I have spoken with my warriors, my wives, my elders… they have urged me to be magnanimous.”

  Cody and Yax smiled, relief shining in their eyes.

  “The duel will be fought with… sticks,” the king declared. “Even so, the survivor will be the one allowed to present his case. Let the gods decide your fate.”

  The boys stood dumbstruck. Around them, shouts and ululations erupted. The table was dragged away, and the king—still seated in his ornate chair—was moved aside to clear the fighting space.

  Kenda approached carrying two long sticks and handed them over.

  “We thought he might forgive us,” Cody whispered.

  She sighed.

  “I warned you. Good luck.”

  They took their positions, facing one another a few paces apart. Cody drew a deep breath and raised his guard. At the king’s signal, the duel began.

  The sticks flashed through the air. Yax defended himself with agility, but Cody was more skilled, and as the fight wore on, he began to control the rhythm. He struck the Maya boy several times, though Yax stubbornly refused to yield.

  At last, Cody spotted an opening, feinted, and disarmed Yax, sending him sprawling to the ground.

  “Enough!” the king commanded.

  Cody turned toward him and raised the stick like a sword, just as he had imagined countless times in the novels he’d read. The crowd murmured and applauded.

  “You have been brave,” the king said. “You have technique—no doubt learned from pirates. I commend you. I grant you the privilege.”

  Cody bowed.

  “Now… finish him,” the king ordered.

  “Finish… him?”

  The king nodded.

  “That is correct. Kill him. Strike his head until he dies. You must comply.”

  Cody looked at Yax, lying on the ground, frightened and gasping. Then he raised his eyes to the king.

  “I order you to kill him,” the monarch insisted. “It is an order.”

  Cody took a deep breath and dropped the stick onto the ground.

  “No.”

  A murmur swept through the crowd. Kenda could not help but smile.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said no,” Cody replied. “If gaining your help means killing someone, I’d rather leave. We came here believing that, as fugitives from an oppressive empire, we would find solidarity… but instead we found a tyrant no different from the king of Spain. Or England, for that matter—except mine spreads oppression through a parliament.”

  Shock rippled through the gathering. Kenda kept smiling as the king flushed with rage. She stepped closer and whispered something to him once more.

  Then Yax seized one of the sticks and charged at Cody. He struck his legs, knocking him to the ground, and began attacking wildly as Cody rolled away, shouting:

  “What’s wrong with you? Damn it—stop!”

  “No! I won’t stop until I can speak to the king!” Yax shouted. “I want to save my people—with you or without you!”

  Cody scrambled, grabbed the other stick, and began defending himself.

  “Stop… you know you can’t beat me,” he warned.

  But Yax kept coming, fueled by rage, while the crowd cheered and jeered. Kenda sighed and folded her arms, watching the two boys tear into each other without restraint.

  An old woman began to sing:

  “Two dead boys

  got up and began to fight…

  one tripped,

  the other killed him,

  but then he stood again

  and carried on…”

  Kenda approached her.

  “Aunt Helena… could you please be quiet?” she asked, never taking her eyes off the two adolescents as they continued fighting—clambering onto tables, striking with savage determination—while the sun began its slow descent toward afternoon.