‘Then we are not asking you to change your religion, are we? In time, I hope, you will come to understand the joy of gods living among you and will see our beliefs for what they are – the truth. But either way, the killing of the holy Setatmeh would be met with the direst of consequences.’ The Great Octave picked a piece of honeycomb from a bowl, popped it in her mouth and chewed; then she leant back on one elbow, licking the stickiness from her fingers. Her smile was warm and promising.

‘My answer is no. The answer of every Yalotl is no,’ Betsu said. ‘I will not have this fucking song defile the forests and homes of Yalotlan. I will not give you my children for one sun-year, let alone sixteen. It is an impossibility, and, worse, you know it is. Don’t you, you fucking snake? Don’t you?’

Pilos tensed, ready to fling himself on Enet and pull her away from the warrior who would gut her like a rabbit. His mouth opened to yell for Elaq, and it stayed open when Enet did … nothing.

‘If the Tokob hill, which I understand is also your goddess, is the birthplace of all creation,’ Enet said calmly, ‘then it must also be where the song came from. As such, it is no defilement to welcome it back to its place of origin, is it?’

There was a long silence in which Tayan begged Betsu with his eyes not to provoke their host further and Pilos was sorely tempted to join him in that plea. The Yalotl drained her honeypot and slammed the cup down again, barely avoiding striking the slave who leant forward to refill it.

‘I have spoken with the other shamans who keep our histories,’ Tayan said eventually, an edge of desperation clear in his tone. ‘The song was not birthed by Malel for the song is – forgive me for speaking so bluntly – unnatural. Beautiful, yes, and clearly powerful, but it is bad magic. It is a manifestation from one of the nine levels of the Underworld. The lords of death have deceived you.’

‘Please, honoured guests,’ Pilos said, his own calm beginning to fray, ‘do not insult the song. We have done you the courtesy of listening to your beliefs without demur. You shame yourselves by not doing the same.’

‘Forgive us,’ the shaman said, blushing, and he seemed to mean it. ‘You are quite correct. To us, it is beautiful the way the blinding tree is beautiful. The song signals the end of our way of life.’

‘But the start of a new, greater one,’ Pilos insisted. There was something, some connection. He could feel it. Perhaps they truly could weave a peace, he and this strange, intense shaman from Tokoban.