My warriors will bring me the god-killers and I will craft their screams into the song and they will echo for eternity through its power, dead and never dying. Their blood will make my song invincible. The world spirit will know my glory.

My song is war.

My song is blood.

And I am the song.

ILANDEH

The Neck, Xentiban, Empire of Songs

226th day of the Great Star at morning

The Melody was here. Pilos was here and Ilandeh’s heart leapt.

The ten, hundred-strong local pods Pilos had sent in to Yalotlan in response to her communication through the song had already pushed forward, retaking land and destroying the war parties who had thought to take the Empire by surprise. They couldn’t go too far in without reinforcements, but they’d managed to protect a string of pyramids from destruction.

Ilandeh stroked the single scarlet tail feather of a macaw that hung in her hair and then rubbed her thumb over the small tattoo of a chulul gracing the inside of her wrist. The symbol of a Whisper, elite among the macaws, and subtle enough not to be remarked upon. She’d missed the scarlet almost as much as the song. Neither could ease her nerves, however, as Pilos strode through the rain to the open-sided shelter she’d had built to receive him.

Ilandeh touched belly and throat and then knelt to bow. ‘Under the song, High Feather. Praise the holy Setatmeh you are well.’

‘Under the song, Flight, and you are welcome in it after such a long absence. Sit comfortably, please. We will rest here for two hours and then push on – the Singer is even keener than I to have this matter closed. The Third, Sixth and Seventh Talons will push into eastern Yalotlan under Atu’s command. First, Second and Fourth are going straight through to Tokoban. If we can take their mountain, we cut off retreat for the Yaloh and close in from both sides.’

The Singer is even keener than I … He must mean the strange dissonances in the song she had heard, the ones that made the Listener in the nearby pyramid scream and weep. The ones that made every warrior there, whatever their rank or status, cringe. An anomaly. An abomination to the glory.

‘We attack hard and without mercy,’ Pilos continued and Ilandeh blinked and focused. ‘The Singer wants ejab captives particularly and an inventory of the Tokob songstone – he cares little for the rest of them.’ Pilos sat cross-legged on the mats. ‘Your report on the city’s defences can wait until the Feathers are gathered. For now, tell me of the ejab and their spirit-magic.’