‘Under the song,’ she said, but the Listener was already retreating and taking her with him. Ilandeh tried to cling to Pilos’s mind just a little longer, for the comfort, but he was gone and they were swirling back through the song, across the landscape so fast it made her dizzy, until they slipped back into their bodies. The Whisper’s spirit was still billowing in the song even as her consciousness returned to her flesh and she let out a frightened little squeak, but the Listener enveloped her once more and showed her the way.

She was slumped, heavy and full, as if her mind were a big meal weighing her down. The Listener was trying gently to extricate his hands from hers, but it took her several breaths before she could remember how to work her fingers. He was patient, though sweat ran through the lines of exhaustion carved upon his face. ‘Thank you,’ she gasped. ‘Thank you.’

The Listener drank deeply from the pitcher of water at his side and she watched his throat move, reminded of her own thirst, but he needed it far more than she. And then panic filled her; she did not have an offering for him. She had not brought anything – had been so desperate to impart her news that she had forgotten entirely. Except …

‘It is not much,’ she croaked, ‘but it is … I have had it a long time.’ A string of four jade beads, two either side of a small jet pendant fashioned like a tiny jaguar’s head. She pulled it over her head and placed it on the mats between them. It looked shabby there, travel-worn and old. ‘It was my mother’s,’ she added and distaste flickered across the Listener’s face, but he scooped it up and nodded at her. Her Xenti mother.

‘I will write the report for you to transmit to Listener Citla,’ she said, but already he was sinking back into the currents of the song. Ilandeh bowed again and crawled back out of the chamber and stood. Her neck felt bare and empty, but she relished it with a sudden, fierce intensity. She was only a half-blood, but she was loyal. The song was everything to her: it was music and fate and freedom; it was status and honour and respect. She could do nothing about her blood, other than be fiercely proud of her Pechaqueh ancestry and leave the rest behind. The necklace had been the last possession she had owned that was her mother’s and here, back beneath the song after so long, it was right that she gave it up.

I am Pecha in my heart and my spirit and my flesh. I am Pecha in every way that matters.