High Elder Vaqix knelt on a woven mat before a beaten copper bowl from which incense rose and curled and twisted and was pulled away through fissures in the ceiling. He prayed in an ancient language that Ilandeh understood only imperfectly – a word here or there that was almost known to her, a phrase that hinted at meaning but then concealed it, taunting her with almost-understanding where she stood in the mouth to the cave the Tokob called the womb.

The rhythms and cadences of his prayer were familiar, tantalising, tickling at her memory. But most importantly, the chant echoed and built and reverberated, introducing harmonics that hadn’t been in his voice, as if the cave itself sang the other half of the prayer back at him.

The womb, sacred to the Tokob, was alive with magic. The torchlight glittered from a multitude of tiny crystals embedded in the rock walls, and from the hundreds of jade and obsidian and wood and bone ornaments placed on shelves carved into the rock. Lumps of gold, polished stones, and gleaming wood decorated every surface, reflecting the light even further. Bunches of feathers hung twisting on thin cords from the roof, stirred by tiny zephyrs too faint for Ilandeh to feel. Malel’s breath. Beyond the kneeling high elder, at the opposite end of the small cave, the floor dropped away, and there glittered the still surface of the pool the ejab had made. This was where they’d bring it, if they caught it.

‘High Elder?’

Vaqix’s chant ended in a yelp of surprise and the old man spun on his knees to the entrance where Ilandeh stood. He gaped. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded after an incredulous pause. ‘The womb is not for foreigners, unbelievers. This place is forbidden to you! None but Tokob may set foot in here.’ His outrage made the words and his thin cheeks alike quiver, though his eyes were black as jet above the wicked hook of his nose. ‘Get. Out. Now.’

‘It is made of songstone, isn’t it?’ Ilandeh asked, stepping up into the cave and staring around. Small deposits of it were everywhere, but she pointed to a particularly thick seam in the far wall, as wide as the span of both her arms outstretched. ‘There. Songstone. Do you know how valuable it is?’

‘Songstone?’ he repeated dumbly, scrambling to his feet so quickly the incense plume sputtered and billowed with his movement. ‘This is our holiest place. It is Malel who gives strength to our prayers, the ancestors who—’

Ilandeh bit her lip. ‘Oh, High Elder, you are so wrong. Songstone is holy, yes, but it does not speak in the tongue of your goddess or ancestors. It is its own thing, carrying its own sanctity and that of the world spirit. I fear you have been misled. I fear your whole society is built on a lie.’