Chapters (66)
- Cover
- THE STONE KNIFE
- Dedication
- Map
- THE SINGER
- XESSA
- LILLA
- TAYAN
- ENET
- THE SINGER
- XESSA
- TAYAN
- PILOS
- LILLA
- TAYAN
- ENET
- THE SINGER
- TAYAN
- XESSA
- PILOS
- TAYAN
- PILOS
- LILLA
- XESSA
- ILANDEH
- ENET
- THE SINGER
- TAYAN
- XESSA
- LILLA
- XESSA
- ILANDEH
- PILOS
- TAYAN
- ENET
- THE SINGER
- LILLA
- PILOS
- TAYAN
- LILLA
- ENET
- THE SINGER
- ILANDEH
- PILOS
- XESSA
- ENET
- THE SINGER
- PILOS
- LILLA
- XESSA
- ILANDEH
- TAYAN
- ENET
- THE SINGER
- XESSA
- PILOS
- XESSA
- PILOS
- ILANDEH
- PILOS
- TAYAN
- XESSA
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- By Anna Stephens
- About the Publisher
By now, it seemed that the entire council and most of the nobles were aware of the blooding – or that the Singer’s indulgences had gone wrong, at least. Some of his favourites had quietly disappeared from the source, likely fearing that they would be the next to leave a bloody stain on the mats. Those who remained redoubled their efforts to ingratiate themselves, hinting at the blooding and making approving noises. So far, none had attempted to procure an offering themselves, and Enet worked hard to ensure that one of the Chorus loyal to her was on duty whenever she couldn’t be there. She couldn’t afford for anyone else to start supplying the Singer with this particular experience.
Not that anyone would be able to harm Enet now, no matter their suspicions. Not Yana or the remaining favourites, not even Pilos when he slunk back from war like the blood-clotted dog he was. No one. Curving up the column of Enet’s throat was a tattoo of a dark feather. The mark of a Chosen. Chosen of the Singer. Chosen to ascend with him – or even, perhaps, to succeed him. Singer Enet.
Xac had taken very little convincing in the end. He had seen the exquisite twin slaves she’d found for him and begged for them. Actually begged her, panting like a dog in heat and the song building in waves all around. Enet had cooed and flattered and placed the tattoo equipment into his hands. The Singer had complied without even a murmur. Quickly, while the slaves knelt at the edge of the mats with their eyes cast down in respect, he had dipped the thorn into the ink and given her the mark. And she had given him the twins.
Enet had inspected it in a piece of polished gold later that night when the Singer slept in his bloodstained glory – and then she’d summoned her own tattooist and had the design tidied up around the edges, so that none might mistake it.
Nothing could take this away from her now: Enet was Chosen, elite even among Pechaqueh nobility, as far above them as the sun was above the earth. The future was bright – incandescent – with possibility.