They were Chitenecah, supposedly the most loyal of the Pechaqueh subjects because they had been part of the Empire the longest. They had been born slaves, which didn’t sit quite right with everything Enet had told him, but Tayan had expected no less. Secrets and lies and half-truths were her armour, and she wore them well.

Like the male estate slave in Enet’s house, these men had more freedom to act and speak than Tayan would have expected. Though still property, they were fiercely loyal to Enet, and within that framework of obedience and at the mercy of her whims and tempers, they had carved for themselves a life that was bearable. They bore weapons and wore finely woven, though undyed, maguey, as well as jewellery, to reflect Enet’s wealth and status rather than their own. Two were married, a third had children, and all were vehement in their love of the Empire. Enet trusted them, and their pride in that fact was conspicuous.

She had told Tayan that when he returned he, too, would be enslaved, and he remembered the estate slave with his quiet competence and respectful familiarity, how the Great Octave trusted him and had even listened to his opinions on occasion. Tayan could picture himself alongside him, advising, scribing and researching. A far better fate than to become another of the empty-eyed, exhausted creatures toiling in the fields. He knew it was the song inviting him to choose the manner of his servitude, but once the seed was planted, it grew sturdy and fast.

All those thoughts came to a crashing halt when they crossed into Yalotlan and, a day’s march later, the song ended. It was as if a threatening lightning storm suddenly retreated, lifting pressure from Tayan’s skin and skull. His head filled with a high, protracted whine that was almost painful, and then his ears popped one after the other. He winced and shook his head as the hairs stood up on his arms and the back of his neck.

‘We’ll go no further. We have done as the high one commanded, but we’ll set no foot into this cursed place,’ one of the guards said. They were huddled together, fearful, back within the invisible border of the song’s magic. ‘It is death.’

‘Wait, please. At least leave me a weapon and a gourd for water. I’ll die out here,’ Tayan begged. His pack was empty of all but his paint and journey-magic and the shawl Enet had given him; the guards kept all food and water to themselves to make it less likely he’d attempt to escape.

They were already backing away as they conferred, but when they were only a blur in his vision, one bent to the ground and perhaps placed something there. And, as easily as that, they were gone.