‘Fuck,’ Betsu breathed and Tayan’s hand spasmed on hers, clenching hard. What was this? Was the Great Octave sacrificing herself as well? The song seemed to swell in his veins, to caress his heart, whispering its greatness and its glory to his body, not his mind.

The Drowned who had … spoken, glided closer to the pair and made another noise, almost a chirp this time. But Tayan felt this one, in balls and bones. An imperative. Give. It was then and only then that the slave began to struggle. She let out a single high-pitched scream and turned for the shore.

It was too late. The Drowned rose up, as tall as Enet, who flinched despite herself. It wrapped a long-taloned hand around the slave’s screaming face and pulled her against its chest. It did this without looking; it was looking at Enet. It chirped again, the same imperative, and Tayan could have sworn it was amused.

The Great Octave’s chest heaved and she stumbled in the water, half a step towards it, and then stopped. Cords stood out in her neck. ‘Holy god,’ she croaked. ‘Ask and we shall answer.’

The Drowned paused, considering her as the slave continued to struggle, pushing against its slick grey-green skin. Blood was sheeting down her face from the claws in her cheek. Considering whether to take Enet instead. Then it wrenched the slave’s head back and tore out her throat with its teeth, blood spraying high into the evening and splattering into the Great Octave’s face. It arced backwards into the water, taking the dying woman with it, throwing up a great splash of blood and river-water that drenched Enet.

The Great Octave put her hands on her knees, her belly undulating as she sucked in air. Three great breaths, and she straightened again. ‘Holy Setatmeh, gods of rivers and of rain, of crops and of life, we honour you. Go in peace under the song. Until we meet again.’ Her voice was high and girlish, thick with the aftermath of terror.

‘Go in peace under the song. Until we meet again.’ The people surrounding the peace-weavers chanted the words, and Enet walked out of the river slowly. Her face was speckled with blood, her tunic and kilt plastered to her skin with water. Up and down the Blessed Water, Drowned took slaves, one after the other, their screams ringing thin and piteous with distance, with hopelessness. With the betrayal of those who had been promised peace and wealth and stability within the Empire of Songs.

The same peace and wealth and stability Enet had offered Tokob and Yaloh.

Betsu’s grip on Tayan’s hand tightened and he jerked convulsively and faced her, almost dizzy with adrenaline and conflicting emotions. ‘We run,’ she breathed. ‘There is no reasoning with such madness. Tonight, Tayan, when they sleep. We fucking run.’