Tayan hadn’t been sure what to expect – would the song change again, become more powerful, or purer, or have more meaning for him? Would it sweep him up so that he was lost in its promise? They crossed the border marked not with a pyramid but a tall, carved finger of rock, an ancient marker that had once formed a symbolic barrier between two lands and two tribes. The warriors escorting them passed it without a flicker of hesitation, but just as when they had finally come under the song, Tayan and Betsu paused and slowed their steps. The shaman held his breath as he walked through the shadow of the stone.

Nothing.

Sighing and slightly embarrassed, he hurried after the others. The jungle disappeared a little more each day they walked, becoming tamer, shrinking into strips and wedges of trees and shrubs and tumbling vines only a few sticks across between wide tracts of brown and green farmland. Huts were gathered at each end and entire families toiled between the small shoots of beans and maize. Only the bamboo and water vine and wide-leaved plants were allowed to grow wild and lush to provide Pechaqueh and their slaves a safe water supply.

Children ran, arms flapping to scare away the birds pecking at the crops. It took Tayan a couple of days to realise why it made him uncomfortable. Tokob children did the same thing, but they laughed and squealed and chased each other as they did so. Here it was silent, without joy. They were too young to learn such lessons, but the wide leather collars on the children’s necks were eloquent teachers.

Over everything loomed the pyramids, more and more of them, some old and crumbling, liana-covered, others newer and shining in the sun, their paint vibrant, the murals almost alive.

The sky was too open for Tayan’s liking, despite the fact he lived on the sparsely treed slopes of Malel. He was used to the confines of the Sky City, the comforting press of building and plaza and steep, walled streets. This was different, an artificial emptiness, and every horizon was bounded with smoke from burning jungle, acrid, the taste of ash and defeat ever on his lips.

The trail they followed was wide enough for ten people to walk abreast and made of finely carved blocks of limestone and sandstone. ‘This is how they move their warriors so fast,’ Betsu hissed, gesturing at the trail. ‘This is how they conquer so easily, by moving thousands at once to the edge of the territory and then invading in huge numbers, unstoppable. This is what they’re doing to us. The resources to quarry so much stone …’ She paused, both wondering and worried. ‘Are their numbers as vast as the stars at night?’