Pilos’s mouth turned down as he remembered how helpless he’d felt, here in the Melody’s own fortress in Tlalotlan, far from the Singer’s side and unable to aid him. He had tried to contact Enet through the song in the immediate aftermath, but her Listener had simply said there was no danger and that he was not to return to the Singing City. He had sent her frantic letters, asking what had happened, but she hadn’t bothered to reply.

Not for the first time, he wished for a Whisper in the great pyramid, one of his finest assassin-spies secluded among the administrators, Chorus and councillors, but only full-blood Pechaqueh could hold such positions, with a written lineage to prove their right to serve the Singer. Whispers were half-bloods, for no Pecha would risk their honour by undertaking the quiet, bloody work the Whispers were made for. In this, though their loyalty was without question, their credentials were lacking.

‘I’ll have Feather Atu draw up some recommendations for when you have finished with the Singer, High Feather,’ Ekon said, pulling Pilos back to the current crisis.

Yes. Concentrate on the Singer first. He didn’t have all the information, but he couldn’t wait for Ilandeh’s full report; the holy lord needed to know now, and perhaps Pilos might be able to ascertain the holy lord’s health for himself during their communion. Citla looked at him, magic in her eyes and veins and sweat already gathering on her shaven scalp. Pilos took a deep breath, took her hands, and allowed himself to be swept away.

At his request, Citla had bypassed the source’s Listener and attempted to contact the Singer himself. They did not slide into his mind as Ilandeh had into his; instead Citla held open a space in herself and let Pilos and the Singer fill it. The High Feather was dimly conscious of the Listener’s hands closing on his with bruising force when the holy lord entered her mind, his might and power overwhelming. He didn’t understand how Citla could bear it, how she could contain so much without losing herself entirely.

Pilos bobbed helplessly, feeling himself unravel into the Singer until somehow his Listener stopped it, containing him and keeping him separate. The Singer’s unspoken question – Why? – flooded through him and the High Feather poured out the sea of images and information received from Ilandeh. Words were almost impossible to form in the raw, unconfined presence of the Singer and the crackle of his magic, but Citla formed them for him, shaping his impressions and gifting them to Xac one at a time. A lifetime of training had prepared her for this, and Pilos could do nothing but trust her.