The Singer’s gaze was fixed on the dice, his fists tightly clenched. She had no idea whether this prophecy would match his own; all she could do was tell him what she saw.

‘The Empire is the wrapped tree.’ He looked up sharply at that. ‘While you have cut many of the vines strangling it, others still remain. Perhaps they are external – the Yaloh and Tokob that Pilos has not yet dealt with – or even internal. A stifling of your glory, and by extension, of the Empire’s glory. A … smothering of your divinity.’

The Singer grunted and leant a little closer, his eyes tracking from the black cat to the holy Setat to the tree. ‘And these others?’ He stabbed out a blunt finger, nearly but not quite touching the dice.

‘The shard of obsidian may be a weapon, holy lord.’

‘Lying between me and my Empire? Assassination?’

‘Not necessarily. Perhaps a weapon that you can reach out and take for yourself. Perhaps something of value, but see how its colour matches that of the cat that threatens you? A weapon against those who would do you harm. Or a prize won from those who would seek to hurt you.’

‘What else?’

‘The jade amulet. See its shape, pointed at the top? Like a hill. Perhaps the Tokob lands. It may be that they hold greater significance than we had thought.’

Xac sat back with a growl. ‘Than we had thought? We?’

Enet swallowed and concentrated on maintaining a neutral expression. ‘You, holy lord.’ The monkey began screeching and throwing itself around its cage, perhaps in response to the sudden weight in the room, like a storm’s approach. Enet didn’t miss the flinch and sudden anger that crossed the Singer’s face.

‘Are you Spear or are you Singer?’ he growled.

The hairs stood up on Enet’s arms. ‘Merely your humble Spear, holy lord.’

Xac leant forward and cupped a hand around his ear. ‘What? Speak up when you address me.’

‘I am merely your Spear,’ she repeated a little louder. Adoration. Awe. Love.

‘And how many more years do you have to serve?’

She started – he wouldn’t dare. The election of a Spear was endorsed by the holy Setatmeh themselves, was pronounced at the first sighting of the Great Star at morning after its grand absence. Spears served for a Star cycle, no less. To cut short such an appointment was a disgrace that could not be borne.

‘I have five sun-years left as Spear, holy lord.’

He stared at her until she looked down again, and then carried on staring; she could feel it. Almost a physical weight. The monkey screeched again. When the Singer spoke, his voice had harmonics that made her stomach flutter. ‘What else?’