Something had happened. When the song had veered so wildly out of control, when it had reverberated with fury and lust and a dark, red-edged cruelty that had made his pulse thunder in his ears, something had changed for Enet, too. While she had remained frustratingly vague on the magic that powered the song, he knew enough to recognise that something momentous had occurred. He’d witnessed the hunched shoulders and lowered voices of the slaves, the hurried, anxious whispers as they went about their tasks. He’d seen the ones in the gardens staring at the estate wall as if they could see through it all the way to the pyramid and within, to learn the cause of this change. And what it meant for them.

Perhaps it was the sound of the Singer’s decision to go to war. Perhaps Tayan’s ruse had failed. Enet had assured him that she would tell the Singer and the council that the Tokob and Yaloh had agreed to surrender to preserve their lives, but maybe she hadn’t, or he hadn’t believed her. Maybe what Tayan was hearing now was the call to war, summoning the Melody from their massive fortress somewhere to the south.

Betsu will warn them. They’ll be ready.

But the song didn’t just sound different. It felt different. It was similar to those times he used old journey-magic ingredients whose potency was diminished – he still journeyed, though with difficulty, but when he came back he felt … grubby. On the inside. As if he needed to shuck his skin, turn it inside out, and scrub it clean.

And none of that explained the fear the Great Octave was struggling to hide.

The shaman had become so used to the song in the last weeks that he didn’t think of it any more. The change had reminded him and now it was as it had been those first days inside the Empire: he couldn’t ignore it. It was in everything, flavouring his food and colouring the things he looked at. Affecting his mood. Because this song was victorious; it was triumphant; and it was vicious. It made Tayan want to be vicious. Earlier, he’d even insulted a slave who hadn’t made his cornbread with enough chillies.

As if I’m a fucking Pecha. The shame of it – and the insidious, creeping fear of it – filled him. This is what the song does. I feel what it feels, what it tells me to feel. And it is telling me that I am better than these slaves.

And I am not. But he didn’t like how long it had taken him to remember to add that qualification. He clutched at the yellow marriage cord around his neck, running his fingers over the familiar knots and tiny charms to ground himself. It didn’t help; was he becoming like them?