‘I am Ilandeh,’ Ilandeh said again and saw how it angered him, ‘and that is all you need to know. For the last time: your answer, High Elder. Cease the slaughter of the gods and recall the warriors from Yalotlan. Your choice will impact all your people. Your children. Think carefully.’

His answer was violence. He took her by surprise, throwing the dart underarm so Ilandeh almost missed the cast. She spun away and heard the faint clatter as it hit the wall behind her and then leapt forward, stabbing the old man up under the ribs, pivoting past him – a flailing arm catching her across the cheek and making her eyes water – and a second strike, down behind his collarbone into his chest.

He was dead on his feet, the songstone reverberating with the spilling of blood in wild echoes unformed and uncontrolled by the will of a Singer, when Ilandeh stepped up close behind him. ‘You disappoint me, High Elder, but know this: for every holy Setat your fucking ejab have murdered, I will take vengeance in blood from your people. Under the song.’

She wiped the knife on his tunic and sheathed it, touched her belly and throat and inclined her head towards the songstone, then walked back out of the womb and along the low passage leading out onto the hillside. She didn’t look back at the sound of Vaqix collapsing. The night’s storm had broken by the time she exited the womb and the darkness was heavy with rain, slicking back her hair and washing away the sweat of confrontation. She stepped over the corpse of Vaqix’s guard – shouldn’t have left him to stand outside alone in the dark, blinded by torchlight – and hurried downhill.

She still had much to do.

‘May I ask how the day went?’

Eja Elder Tika blinked as Ilandeh sat next to her on the waist-high wall marking safe distance from the Swift Water. ‘We are ready for the attempt,’ she said, her voice loud – the spirit-magic was within her, muffling her ears.

‘And was it wise for you to take the spirit-magic today if you must take it again tomorrow?’ Ilandeh asked, watching Tika’s dog sniff around among the shrubs and rows of medicinal plants below.

Tika ran her fingers down the four pale lines of scar on her throat. Ilandeh knew they’d been dealt by a holy Setat – one that Tika had gone on to slaughter, even injured as she was. She kept her shoulders relaxed and breathed through the horror and the rage and visceral, aching need to spit this woman on her own fucking spear.

‘Why are you so interested?’

‘What do you think they are?’

‘Animals,’ Tika said, shrugging. ‘Vicious beasts.’

‘The Pechaqueh say they are gods,’ Ilandeh said softly.