At the top of the plaza, above the steps where the musicians knelt, on a platform open to sky and wind and rain and sun, the shamans roared and whirled in a complex dance around the prisoner. Lilla’s heart ached; Tayan should have been up there. The dance grew faster, the leaps of the shamans more exuberant, their roars now interspersed with wails and whoops and Lilla felt it, felt the gathering magic, felt the closeness and tension, a blanket of power sitting heavy across the Sky City.

And then, at some unseen, unknown signal, the shamans fell still and the music halted. Between one beat and the next, one breath and the next, silence.

‘Malel, mother, goddess of all the world, hear our prayer.’ Vaqix’s voice, normally so reedy, throbbed with power and control. He had stood immobile next to the kneeling prisoner throughout the commencement of the ritual, but now all of its magic was gathered in him.

‘Snake-sister, Jaguar-brother, hear us. Spirits of before, spirits of now, spirits yet to walk the world, hear us. Ancestors, hear us. We do not call to you all through some petty need; we call to you from danger and dire terror. We call to you, O Malel, O Snake and Jaguar, O spirits, O ancestors! We call to you for our very lives and our very way of life.

‘And so that you might hear, and so that you might listen, and so that you might intervene, we offer you a life. One life for thousands, O Malel, that you extend your protection over Tokob and Yaloh. That you purge the threat from our borders. That you grant us life in which to honour you, O Malel.’

Aez, the Axib Coyote of the Empire’s Melody, had been washed and dressed in a long, belted tunic, blackened with charcoal. His fine hair had been shaved at both sides and the remainder braided. Vaqix and the Yaloh high elder, Zasso, pulled him to his feet. He didn’t resist: to fight a sacred, ritual death would be to condemn his spirit to the Underworld.

The two shamans cut the seams beneath Aez’s arms and lifted the tunic from him. His face and body were covered with thick, alternating stripes of chalk and charcoal. Even from this distance, Lilla could see his chest heaving, though he worked hard to keep his expression neutral.

‘Thank you,’ Lilla whispered, as did thousands of others, a susurration of noise lifting from the plaza. ‘Thank you for the honour of your life.’