She was back in the Empire. She was home. The commander of the Melody’s Whispers stood still, her arms out from her sides and fingers splayed, drinking in the song through her skin and ears and heart, breathing it deep into her lungs like the finest incense, like sunlight. The gaping wound inside began to close, the song’s every note a stitch that pulled her edges together until she was whole again. Scarred, but alive.

A whole year, give or take, she had been without this majesty, without this constant reminder of her orders. Of the trust that the High Feather had placed in her and in Dakto so very long before. Ilandeh sank onto her knees, the rich earth warm and wet and heavy, teeming with life. Tears splashed onto the ground, adding their load of moisture and precious salt. She stared at a busy, organised line of leaf-cutter ants marching back and forth before her and grinned. The song filled them and enhanced their purpose. They, too, worked for an empire and a high ruler, for glory and for peace.

Ilandeh stretched out her hand and let an ant climb over it and carry on its business. ‘Overcoming all obstacles,’ she whispered approvingly. ‘Go with the gods, little warrior.’ She sat back on her heels and a laugh of pure joy burst from her.

She was filthy and exhausted, hungry and desperately thirsty, but she could just see the trees thinning ahead, more sun filtering down through the canopy. A clearing. A pyramid. A Listener and eagles and warriors and home.

Grunting, Ilandeh climbed back to her feet and pushed on, weaving among untamed jungle until she reached a well-worn trail. She turned onto it with relief and checked the scarlet feather in her hair, restored after so very long to its proper place. It was ragged and dirty and bent, because it had been sewn into the seam of her tunic beneath her arm for a year and had been much abused, but it was there and it was hers. She was Flight Ilandeh, commander of the Whispers and the macaws of the Fourth Talon, and she said as much when two eagles emerged from the forest to confront her.

And then she was in the clearing and fresh tears pricked at her eyes as she looked upon the magnificence of the pyramid, gleaming red as fresh blood, carvings of holy Setatmeh and Singers and of the world spirit itself parading around its sides. ‘Praise the Singer,’ she breathed and the eagles escorting her were respectfully silent.

‘How long have you been out,’ one asked eventually.

‘A year.’ There were low murmurs of surprise and appreciation, and their regard filled her, mingling with the song until she was full. ‘Is the Listener available?’