The Blood of the Sacred Well

Humid air rises from the mouth of the Sacred Cenote, thick with the scent of green algae and burning copal resin. Sixty feet below the broken limestone rim, the subterranean waters lie still as hammered bronze. You stand on the slick stone steps beside K'inich, whose carved jade nose ornament catches the harsh afternoon sun. Since your wooden ship splintered on the Yucatán reefs months ago, the young priest of Chaac has vouched for you and Svyatoslava, swearing to the city elders that the two pale strangers from across the sea carry no taint. Beneath your sweat-stained linen tunic, the heavy iron amulet of Perun presses against your ribs. Its crevices remain crusted with the dried blood of the Christian monk you cut down on the banks of the Dnieper during Prince Volodymyr's purge. Down in the sinkhole, the water shifts without wind. A ring of pale bubbles breaks the surface, followed by the low, rhythmic clicking of unseen teeth echoing off the damp limestone walls. B'alam steps between the carved stone serpents at the altar's edge, his thin frame draped in a patterned cotton mantle and his long white hair clacking with wooden beads. He ignores K'inich's respectful bow and fixes h…