One of the eagles chuckled. ‘I think for an assassin and spy of the High Feather himself, and one who’s been in the heart of the enemy for a year, he’ll make himself available.’

They left her at the base of the pyramid and she climbed the sacred steps and passed into the cool and the shade. The Whisper left sandals and weapons at the entrance, conscious of the grime, of her smell, in this holy place. The doorway was so low she was forced to kneel, to enter with her head bowed in humility and her neck exposed in supplication, as was right. She crawled down a short, black-painted passageway, the light from the chamber ahead growing and blinding her, and then slithered down onto the sunken floor, graceless and defenceless.

As was right.

The chamber was airy and wide, and if the outside had been majestic, the inside was the song made manifest. Each wall was a story painted by a master artist, a lesson, a revelation. The Listener who occupied the centre of the room, by contrast, was unreadable and barely there, so deeply connected with the song that Ilandeh didn’t know if he’d noticed her come in.

Light from four high apertures spilt down onto the elaborately dyed mats where he sat, and Ilandeh remained on her hands and knees to cross over to the appointed place opposite him. The song was stronger here, pure and clear and vibrating in her bones. She looked up and saw the base of the songstone cap itself above her head. If she stood and reached, she could touch it. The thought sent a shiver of awe down her back, and although her fingers twitched, she didn’t dare act on her desire.

‘Where do you wish to go?’ The Listener’s voice was melodious and contained the same rhythms as the song. Ilandeh jumped and looked closer; his eyes were open to slits, glittering with intelligence and magic. She cleared her throat; her own voice was scratchy with thirst and from disuse. She had made the journey from the Sky City in sixteen days, longer than she would have liked, but she’d been forced to creep past war parties and avoid unfinished pyramids in case slaves captured by the Tokob told of her passing. Now, she wanted nothing more than to drink a dozen gourds of water and then sleep for a week. She could not.

‘If it is possible, Listener, direct to High Feather Pilos. If not, then to his Listener, Citla, with my thanks.’

The light gleamed from the Listener’s shaved head. ‘It may be done,’ he said and held out his hands. Ilandeh placed hers in them and let herself be swept into the current of the song, the Listener’s skill and the burning of the incense and those black, black eyes taking her, swift and sure.