It was everywhere. The song’s sharp edge cutting at the people within it, making them sharp in turn. Quick to anger; quick to hurt. And Enet needed to ease the Singer through almost two more months before he could be allowed to blood the song again. Her heart almost quailed at the thought, and so she unstoppered the gourd and drank more of her tonic, for luck. For courage. For magic.

They reached the great pyramid and Enet hurried up the long, steep stairs and swept in, removing her sandals and letting a slave wash her feet before continuing on into the source and the holy lord’s presence.

The Singer lounged among the mats and pillows, appearing at ease, but she could see the glitter of his eyes, the eagerness. The hunger. And here in the source, the song was sharp enough to make her bleed.

‘What have you brought me?’ he demanded before she’d even made her prostration. ‘Where is it? Tell me.’

Enet sat back. ‘Spiced monkey, holy lord. Your favourite.’ She gestured and her slave put the platter down next to her and then hurried to her usual place at the wall.

The Singer’s face was blank. ‘Spiced monkey?’ he asked in dangerously soft tones.

‘Yes, great Singer.’ She picked up a piece in her fingers and shuffled across the mats towards him, lips parted as she offered it, everything about her appearance, attire, even her scent, calculated to arouse. Once she had taken the edge off, they could discuss the songstone in Tokoban. She proffered the meat and he knocked her hand away, not hard, but not casually either.

Enet’s mouth was dry. ‘No monkey?’ she asked playfully. ‘Very well, then how may I please the holy lord?’ She knelt up so she was taller than him and began fiddling with the ties of her kilt, one eyebrow raised.

The Singer looked away from her. ‘By bringing me another,’ he growled. The song responded, too, not lustful at her antics but a rumbling threat. ‘Now.’

‘I … It is not the appointed time. It must be only on the third—’

‘Get me something.’

Enet paused again, her kilt loose now. ‘Let me please you, my love,’ she whispered. ‘I wish to feel your might inside me. We can talk afterwards.’

The Singer shoved her backwards into the pillows and she landed with a grunt. Finally. He straddled her and leant down into her face.

‘Get me something or take its place,’ he breathed and the smile died on her lips. ‘Am I entirely understood?’

Enet reached up to hold his shoulders in clammy hands. ‘Holy lord, your will is divine,’ she managed. ‘But it is too soon. It must be carefully managed, great Singer, so carefully, or there will be unintended consequences, for you and for the Empire.’

He reared back and pulled the stone knife from the waistband of his kilt.