The first stitch went into her face and she hissed hurt before Elaq spoke again. ‘Of all Pilos’s macaws, yours is the loyalty I would not doubt.’

‘Thank you, eagle. That means a lot,’ she said, and submitted to the needle.

‘Flight Ilandeh, if you’re well, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

The swelling across Ilandeh’s face was monstrous and she could barely see out of her left eye. Sleep had been elusive, images of Dakto spinning across the insides of her eyelids in stuttering counterpoint to the song, which itself juddered and veered in unexpected, irregular bursts.

The visitor was huge with muscle in the shoulders and arms, narrow in the waist and powerful in the thigh. A made warrior. Anxiety tickled the back of Ilandeh’s throat and she squinted at Elaq, who gave her a reassuring nod.

‘This is Chorus Leader Nara. He arrived at dawn; he’s been hiding since the … Well, I’ll let him tell you.’

‘Chorus Leader? Hiding?’ Ilandeh asked, her voice nasal from the blood and swelling clogging her nostrils.

‘What Eagle Elaq suspected is true, Eagle. The Singer massacred them all – every one of the Chorus, all the courtesans and children, the stewards, the councillors, the slaves. One giant … orgy of violence that broke something in his mind and broke the song. He killed everyone except Enet and me, held them helpless within the power of the song and slaughtered them.’

Ilandeh stared at him in silence, sickened. ‘Why not you?’ she managed in the end.

Nara lifted his tunic and pulled at bandages – the cut seamed him from below his left nipple all the way to the top of his right thigh. ‘I was very nearly dead. Enet wasn’t even there. Her slaves and guards tossed me out with the other corpses, too unnerved to check for life in any of us. Probably there were others who died in the gardens, taken by the holy Setatmeh. I managed to crawl away and find shelter, got myself stitched up. I’ve been hiding and recovering ever since. The High Feather has always put Empire above all else, so this seemed like the only place to come.’

‘Setatmeh preserve us,’ Ilandeh murmured. ‘Is there anything we can do to save the Singer – from her, from himself? Where has this bloodlust come from?’

‘From the Great Octave. That I can promise you is true. She has done this. She said we were wrong about the consequences of blooding the song.’ He laughed, a harsh bark of noise. ‘She might even have been right, if only she could have persuaded the holy lord to retain control of the desire. Instead, here we are.’

‘But why?’ Ilandeh asked, frustrated. ‘Is she trying to kill us all? Does she want the Empire to crumble and Ixachipan to be bereft of the world spirit’s song? Why is she doing this?’