The fact he had become so convinced it wasn’t a threat. An image of Tayan’s own hands on its leg, fixing its bones the way Toxte had done. How many days ago had he done that? Had he done it at all? Xessa rubbing her brow, confused: I’d swear I saw it standing in front of you, but my head was pounding. I must have imagined it.

They’d done everything it wanted short of freeing it.

The other end of the tunnel glowed brighter, a red blooming of light. Whoever was there had lit a torch. Was advancing. They could stay in the tunnel and be captured, or go into the womb and hope the sight of the Drowned would distract the Pechaqueh enough for Quin to kill them. And then they’d have to run, no matter what. But that was for after. That was for if there was an after.

Tayan tugged on Quin’s arm and moved, slowly, on hands and toes, fumbling across the narrow tunnel into the blackness of the womb.

Gentle splashing, the humming louder in here. Louder and changing, slowly, from hum to song, and Tayan was standing, blinking into the blackness, shuffling forwards until cold water seeped over his sandals. He could hear Quin’s harsh breath, tiny whimpers, Zal’s growl increasing in the back of her throat.

Alarmed voices from behind and the faintest tinge of orange light that gave shape and form and substance to the blackness. And there it was, the holy Setat, the rope and collar torn from its neck, standing before them and singing.

A sudden cacophony of barking, deafening in the small space, echoing and re-echoing from the songstone, enough to break the grip of the song, at least a little. Quin gripped Tayan’s shirt and threw him back against the cave wall so hard his skull bounced off it and lights exploded in his eyes. Dazed, he sank to the floor, blood a hot trickle down the back of his neck.

The torch was blinding and dancing all over the place as the Pecha lunging into the womb swung it, trying to see everything at once.

Glints of orange and gold reflecting from the crystals in the walls and the polished gems and stones lining the shelves. Twin flames reflected in the holy Setatmeh black eyes as it sank onto its haunches, limbs spidering around it, head swaying on its long neck. Zal, at the edge of the water and barking; Quin, lunging at and stabbing the warrior in the leg with a shout.

The holy Setat leaping forward and clamping its claws around the dog’s skull and wrenching it off her body with a single tearing twist. Quin screaming, the wounded warrior screaming, the last of the dog’s barks echoing, the holy Setat singing.