Pilos dropped the letter again. ‘Shit.’ The Fifth were in Quitoban, and the Fifth were good. Experienced and steady – the very reason they’d been sent to calm a panicking populace.

‘Where is— Atu!’ he bellowed again.

I pray they remain safe from contagion, though if matters there get much worse, they are likely to be ordered to massacre anyone showing so much as a sweaty brow, and for what? Our shamans may have found a medicine, but they are not allowed to test their theories. No, the consensus is to lock them up and let them die. A pity and a waste.

The Singer is much distracted these days, High Feather. I’m sure you understand. Disappointing him would not be good for your health.

Under the song.

Your friend, councillor and retired Feather, Yana

Pilos puffed out his cheeks. That would explain the confidential nature of the letter then. Those were dangerous words no matter to who they were spoken. Yana was dancing with fire by even hinting that the approach in Quitoban was wrong. Again the old Feather was throwing his support behind Pilos instead of Enet. Were divisions in the council so great Yana was anticipating a coup, even all-out war? If it came to it, he’d take Yana’s support with gratitude, though he had no desire to squabble over a position at the Singer’s side. The holy lord would judge his service as he would – if Pilos was chosen to ascend with him, it would be because of his honour, not his political manoeuvring.

He snorted, knowing it was a naive and dangerous stance, but one he found it hard to change. As a warrior and then High Feather, politics had never been something he’d had to concern himself with: he was more used to being courted than courting others. It was different when he became Spear, with a voice that had real weight in council, but he’d always trusted his blunt honesty was enough to win him allies and reverse the way that Enet would poison the Singer’s heart against him every time he was away from the Singing City.

I should have done more when I was there.

Pilos blinked away the worry. It meant nothing when he had only twenty-five days to organise the Melody and get them ready to march.

Not enough time. And yet the Singer’s command.

‘Atu!’

TAYAN

Southern Yalotlan

190th day of the Great Star at morning

Fifteen days they’d travelled north, through farmland into forest, and only in the last few had the slave guards begun to answer his endless questions, more out of frustration than anything else, it seemed. As a peace-weaver, Tayan could be charmingly persuasive; as a shaman he was relentless. He’d known they’d give in sooner or later.