The song deepened into a mourning dirge, a weight in the hearts and spirits of all who heard it. It spoke of formless, nameless catastrophe and the dread it instilled might feed rebellion among the slaves, spark unrest among the rival families vying to be the next to put forward a candidate for Singer, take the spines from the warriors marching to Yalotlan. The strength she had given it – had given the Singer – was already fading.

It should not be like this. Not this soon.

‘Holy lord, the song …’ Enet began, speaking to the flowers beneath her face. ‘It will worry your people.’

Xac stamped through the garden until he loomed over her like a storm front. ‘Let it. Let them know my fury. I am their Singer and they will rage when I tell them to fucking rage. Mourn when I tell them to mourn.’ He bent and latched a big hand around Enet’s slender throat, dragging her up onto her toes.

‘You wove your stories about enemies in the council, about how Pilos could not be trusted. You warned me to beware Yana.’ He shook her so hard she had to cling to his arm to stay upright, her teeth clicking together. ‘Yet you did not see how the peace-weavers distracted you while they planned to capture one of my kin for torture! Blinded by your own ambition.’

‘Holy lord,’ she tried.

‘What have you done for me that was not also for yourself?’ he mused. ‘You tell me to beware Pilos when he is the only one of my Spears to do my bidding for my glory, not his own.’

He hurled Enet through the colonnade into the source. The air in the room flexed, the walls seeming to contract in and then bow back out, struggling to contain his power. The song’s tone changed again, a warning and a promise, and both were full of blood.

He wanted. The songstone wanted.

The pale, crystal-flecked stone was the truth and foundation of all life, the very stuff of creation put in the earth by the world spirit. And the Singers were its children, its protectors and the living manifestation of divinity to which all aspired. To sing with the voice of songstone was to sing with the voices of the gods. To be gods.

And yet our gods can die. Plans can be laid to capture and torture them. Tokob can march down to their fucking river and kill them. Their magic is powerful. Perhaps even enough to rival the Singer’s.