Taking a deep breath, she turned her mind back to the problem. Her books, so rare that she believed she had the only copies in existence, told a far different story to the accepted history of Pechacan. The song must never be blooded. A peaceful song leads to peaceful citizens; a violent song to violent citizens. Those imperatives had been repeated so often as she grew up that they beat in her blood much as the song did. And they were all lies.

But so are the books.

The Empire was only as strong as the song that united it, and Xac’s song was powerful indeed. Powerful before the blooding, but even more so afterwards. If only they could find some equilibrium; if only the holy lord himself could exercise restraint and control the song, keep his demands for offerings to the accepted limit.

Once a month for the holy Setatmeh; once every three months for the holy lord. If he had already had two, then should the next offering be three months from the first one, or from the second? Or should it be six months? The books were worse than useless.

This morning, the Singer had summoned her and once again told her to bring him something special. She had thus far managed to deflect him by bringing other treats – trinkets, food, jewellery. But he’d been asking for the last three days, and she wondered whether he might take matters into his own hands if she denied him much longer. There were more than enough warriors, courtesans, administrators, councillors, and slaves in the source for him to choose between, and none of them could even conceive of denying him – nor would they be able to withstand the song-magic when it roared and glowed within him. And if that happened, if he realised he no longer needed her to gift him this sensation and this strength, she would fail and all her plans would be dust.

Three months from the first, she decided, because she had to make a decision. She marked it on the calendar. She would have to ease him through the coming weeks, deflecting him with games and divinations and reports of the war. Pilos would be in Yalotlan within days and he’d station runners to return over the border to report through the song. Surely that would be enough stimulus for him?

Enet tipped the silver-white powder of her tonic into a cup and stirred it, ignoring the concern in her slave’s eyes as the woman paused her weaving to watch. She drank, ignoring too the grainy texture and the dusty, somehow dry taste. She was used to them both by now. She ran her tongue around her gums, teasing out the fine grains that crackled and grated between her teeth. Her mouth dried and she drank some more, ignoring the faint hurt in her chest and stomach. It was worth it, and what did a little discomfort matter, anyway?