‘Now then, where were we?’ Enet continued as another slave, a girl this time, knelt next to her. Enet’s caresses of this one were more overt, challenge heating her gaze more than desire. ‘The Singer has decreed that Yalotlan and Tokoban will become part of the Empire, and so they shall. You would both do well to agree now to lay down your weapons and be brought under the song.’

‘You speak as if your Singer already rules us,’ Betsu said hotly. ‘He doesn’t.’

‘We all do the Singer’s will, you included, though you know it not,’ Enet snapped, her temper shortening as fast as Betsu’s.

‘We go around in circles,’ Tayan said, clearly trying for diplomacy, though his tone was defeated. He looked at Betsu with sudden wariness. ‘What proposal would you make to see the war ended?’ His hand shot out impressively fast for a non-warrior and clamped down on Betsu’s arm, his fingers digging into the corded muscle. ‘Peace, Betsu. I am just asking.’

Enet raised her eyebrows but she answered readily enough. Pilos affected nonchalance, but he was curious what concessions she would make – without first consulting the Singer or council or, indeed, the High Feather whose warriors would oversee the transition of power and people.

‘The song will be heard in every part of your lands. Our pyramids will ascend the Tokob sacred hill and nestle deep in Yaloh jungle. You could potentially remain in your lands, though Pechaqueh overseers would be in charge.’ Tayan and Betsu exchanged an excited glance even as Pilos felt a slow heat of anger begin to kindle in his belly. What was this? Remain in their lands?

‘You will tithe half your crops each year; this is standard. Your children will be fostered in Pechaqueh cities for two Star cycles. The most apt will join the Melody as dog warriors.’

Pilos shifted as the anger burst into flame.

‘You will give us full access to your songstone mines. And, of course, you will cease killing the holy Setatmeh.’

Pilos’s anger settled. The terms were impossible and Enet knew it. That was why she’d offered them. She watched the peace-weavers with the calm, unblinking serenity of a snake.

‘We cannot give you an immediate answer,’ the shaman said, his voice strangled. Hollow. ‘We need time to discuss it. The issue of the Drown— of the holy Setatmeh in particular. You would have us worship these creatures who kill us? You would ask us to change our religion to suit you?’

Enet opened her hands. ‘Of course not. Your religion is your religion, though I had not realised god-murder was part of your worship.’ She put her head on one side, quizzical.

‘It is not,’ Tayan said heavily. ‘It is a means of surviv—’