Pilos shut away the thought and filled his mind with awe and wonder. It wasn’t difficult, even when staring at the floor in front of him, the bright murals painted on the walls only visible from his peripheral vision. He’d be at leisure to examine them on the way out: the stories of war and glory and expansion, the legends of the earliest Singers, and everywhere, repeated, depictions of the holy Setatmeh and the world spirit itself. All of them painted by the best and most famous artists of Pechacan throughout the years and Star cycles since the discovery of the song-magic.

The song hummed and grew in volume and strength as they wove their way through the palace corridors. Choosers and courtesans, body slaves and the elite eagle warriors of the Singer’s Chorus all watching them pass with curiosity and not a little suspicion.

Eventually – and yet too soon – the smooth cool stone beneath their feet changed to thickly woven mats in azure blue and they paused until the council had entered and sat, then stepped into the Singer’s inner sanctum, the very source of the song itself. Atu’s breathing roughened just a little as he took in the huge oval room, the colonnaded wall opening onto vibrant gardens alive with finches and parrots and hummingbirds flitting among the palms and bamboo and small trees. Green life and incense mingled on the gentle breeze. The other walls were covered in murals even more exquisite than those of the corridors, including one that depicted the whole of the Ixachipan peninsula. There was space left to paint in Yalotlan and Tokoban when those lands and tribes were brought under the song. Pilos vowed to be the one to achieve that for the Singer’s glory. Atu had halted, overcome, and Pilos flicked his arm lightly with his fingers.

‘Spear of the Singer and High Feather Pilos, and Feather Atu, second in command of the Melody, request entrance to this council,’ Pilos said. The other councillors had already taken the cushions closest to the holy lord, leaving them on the outside of the circle. It didn’t matter; Pilos was Spear and his voice would still be heard. Should the Singer so wish it.

The song was a living thing here in the source, with weight and substance that sat not just on their skin but in their bones. The Singer’s will, inviolable anywhere in the Empire, was in this room as immovable as the pyramid itself. Everyone inside these walls could do nothing but obey the Singer and the dictates of his song.