The source, Singing City, Pechacan, Empire of Songs

194th day of the Great Star at morning

Everything she’d read indicated the song would only need blooding very infrequently, anywhere from once a year to every few months, only collapsing into discordance when another offering was needed to strengthen it.

Between offerings, the song would roar triumphant, filling its people with might and determination. It would strengthen the Melody marching to war; it would increase the loyalty of the slaves and the reverence they held for every Pecha. The song would increase crop yields and prevent blight and disease. The blooded song would make the Empire invincible and with that might Enet could hasten the waking of the world spirit. All the books said it.

The books were full of shit.

A mere three weeks since the Singer had blooded the song and already it was growing dissonant. Hungry.

Perhaps it was only the Singer’s anger. The news from the north was uncomfortable – despite the reinforcements Pilos had authorised from Xentiban, the Empire continued to lose territory and building materials and slaves in Yalotlan. The Singer was keeping as close an eye on the calendar as she was, keen to see whether the Tokob peace-weaver’s guarantee of surrender would prove true. Enet knew it would not.

She hadn’t let Tayan leave because she’d believed his little story. She’d sent him away because he’d asked her to confide in him – and the temptation had nearly overwhelmed her. To confess everything she’d done, everything she was working towards, to this pretty enemy shaman. An unburdening she could not possibly afford, but that she craved nonetheless.

The High Feather promised the Melody would be ready to set out by the date the Singer had divined as auspicious, but until then, they were being beaten, and the holy lord was ill pleased. He twitched and half turned towards her as they walked in the gardens on the pyramid, and Enet projected thoughts of humility and love, clearing her mind of all else.

It wasn’t enough. Xac roared at the choir standing in the opening to the source. They stuttered into shocked silence, and then fled. Enet knelt among the flowers and put her forehead in the dirt. Singer Xac did not want beauty; he did not want charm or clever excuses. He wanted blood and death and retribution. He wanted to take up club and spear and go to war himself, spilling his own divine blood. Dying to save the holy Setatmeh, the living past, was a price he would pay without thought and his intentions rose like steam from his skin.

But he couldn’t. All he had was his song – and it was not enough. Unless it was blooded again.