It grated at Pilos’s nerves, provoking rather than soothing, clawing instead of cradling. It scratched around inside his head and made him short-tempered, aggressive. And not just him. Bickering and insubordination was rife among the Melody – his exhausted, once-proud Melody, who had fought a brutal, merciless war to fulfil the Singer’s will and had then had to march back here not in triumph but in haste to … what? Save the Singer? How exactly did Pilos plan on doing that? Would he besiege the source, perhaps, and demand Enet’s head on a stick? Would he lock the Singer away to break him of this terrible addiction, now whispered about quite openly on the streets of the Singing City? Whispered about, but accepted, it seemed. Because although it was broken and although it was almost painful, the new song was in its way strong. It screeched of Pechaqueh supremacy; it wailed of the Empire’s might; it whispered of vengeance and violence and greed. And, as ever, the Empire’s citizens could do no more than respond.

Pilos didn’t know what he could do other than be here, as his Singer’s loyal follower and worshipful disciple. For the Empire that he loved above all else, he would do whatever was necessary. He just didn’t know what that was. Yet.

Everyone who had been in the source that day was dead, Councillor Yana included. Enet had avoided the catastrophe, of course, and Pilos knew from the list of new councillors that at least a third of them were her creatures. He suspected the rest would be too – or soon enough. That the Singer had allowed this, allowed Enet to order and appoint his council for him, spoke volumes about how far he was lost in the grip of whatever blood-madness had him.

The mood of the Melody soured as they made their way to the great plaza before the palace, anticipating the joy and adulation of the city and receiving indifference instead. Indifference despite the conquest of two tribes and hundreds of sticks of land through the worst Wet of the last Star cycle, despite the thousands of slaves, despite the confirmation of a rich vein of songstone within the Tokob hills that would see old pyramids restored and new ones built, the song heard in new jungle and new ears …

The sickened song.

Hello, Pilos.

Pilos halted mid-step, Feathers Detta and Calan stopping as well. Detta signalled for the Melody to pass them by and assemble in the plaza for the Singer or council to review them. ‘High Feather?’

You’re back. And you’re thinking … so many things.

‘Enet?’ Pilos’s voice was hoarse to his own ears. ‘How?’

How can I reach you through the song? Think a little and I’m sure you’ll work it out.