ENET

The source, Singing City, Pechacan, Empire of Songs

173rd day of the Great Star at morning

Enet rattled the carved jade and bone dice in the cup. She knelt opposite the Singer, carefully adorned for maximum effect – meaning, on this occasion, without the Great Octave’s headdress. Better not to remind him of her status lest it be taken from her.

Eleven days since she had suffered the disgrace of being cast out of the council meeting. It was the longest they’d been separated since she’d become his courtesan, let alone Spear or Great Octave. Two missteps in the last few months. Enet rattled the dice again. She could not afford a third. She would not survive a third. And so she would act.

She had been pleased to see the monkey in its cage when she entered, that despite her disgrace he had kept it, a reminder of her and their son both.

Enet’s mouth softened at the thought of him, her beautiful, dutiful, quick-witted Pikte. The best parts of both his parents, and song-born, too. He was special to the Singer, and Enet used that to remind the holy lord that she, too, was important to him. Vital. He needed her if he was to complete the conquest of Ixachipan and wake the world spirit. He just needed reminding of that. Of what she could offer; what only Enet could bring him. And one sure way to do that was with the dice.

Xac’s own divinations were by the stars and the histories and through the holy Setatmeh themselves, and were usually focused on the fate of the Empire of Songs and the path to the waking of the world spirit. Enet’s divinations were smaller but no less crucial to the holy lord’s great destiny, and of all the councillors and shamans who served him, hers were the tellings he trusted the most.

Enet breathed on the dice and cast them and together they watched them bounce and stutter across the mat and then stop. The mat was an exquisite work of art, painted with the four cardinal directions and the centre of the world, the centre of magic and power and life-giving water. The fountain and the firmament laid out in vibrant inks between them.

Across the face of the mat the jade and bone dice skipped and rolled, their images and their positions telling the present and the future. Xac’s future. The Empire’s future. Enet’s future. The black cat, a Setat, a shard of obsidian, a jade amulet, a liana-wrapped tree. And, rolling to a stop off the edge of the mat, the storm.

Enet let the images and their positions float across her consciousness, breathing deep, palms on her thighs. The Singer was silent opposite her. ‘Black cat, water god, obsidian, jade, wrapped tree. Storms from afar.’ She met his eyes. ‘There is untruth in your council.’ She pointed to the die nearest the world centre. ‘You, of course, are the holy Setat, and the black cat crouches behind you, waiting to pounce. You cannot see it, facing forward towards your Empire, but it is there. Biding its time. Patient.’

The Singer’s gaze was fixed on the dice, his fists tightly clenched. She had no idea whether this prophecy would match his own; all she could do was tell him what she saw.

‘The Empire is the wrapped tree.’ He looked up sharply at that. ‘While you have cut many of the vines strangling it, others still remain. Perhaps they are external – the Yaloh and Tokob that Pilos has not yet dealt with – or even internal. A stifling of your glory, and by extension, of the Empire’s glory. A … smothering of your divinity.’

The Singer grunted and leant a little closer, his eyes tracking from the black cat to the holy Setat to the tree. ‘And these others?’ He stabbed out a blunt finger, nearly but not quite touching the dice.

‘The shard of obsidian may be a weapon, holy lord.’

‘Lying between me and my Empire? Assassination?’

‘Not necessarily. Perhaps a weapon that you can reach out and take for yourself. Perhaps something of value, but see how its colour matches that of the cat that threatens you? A weapon against those who would do you harm. Or a prize won from those who would seek to hurt you.’

‘What else?’

‘The jade amulet. See its shape, pointed at the top? Like a hill. Perhaps the Tokob lands. It may be that they hold greater significance than we had thought.’

Xac sat back with a growl. ‘Than we had thought? We?’

Enet swallowed and concentrated on maintaining a neutral expression. ‘You, holy lord.’ The monkey began screeching and throwing itself around its cage, perhaps in response to the sudden weight in the room, like a storm’s approach. Enet didn’t miss the flinch and sudden anger that crossed the Singer’s face.

‘Are you Spear or are you Singer?’ he growled.

The hairs stood up on Enet’s arms. ‘Merely your humble Spear, holy lord.’

Xac leant forward and cupped a hand around his ear. ‘What? Speak up when you address me.’

‘I am merely your Spear,’ she repeated a little louder. Adoration. Awe. Love.

‘And how many more years do you have to serve?’

She started – he wouldn’t dare. The election of a Spear was endorsed by the holy Setatmeh themselves, was pronounced at the first sighting of the Great Star at morning after its grand absence. Spears served for a Star cycle, no less. To cut short such an appointment was a disgrace that could not be borne.

‘I have five sun-years left as Spear, holy lord.’

He stared at her until she looked down again, and then carried on staring; she could feel it. Almost a physical weight. The monkey screeched again. When the Singer spoke, his voice had harmonics that made her stomach flutter. ‘What else?’

‘The storm sits far from the universe,’ she said after a while, pointing. ‘Some upset in the world of the gods or among the lords of the Underworld. Perhaps something invades the world spirit’s dreams. The Tokob god-killers, perhaps. I have been asking the shaman at my estate about it and—’

The song, low and soothing before, clanged out of harmony, reminiscent more of the grunts and screams of battle than the sure and smooth praising of power. Enet felt it spike her blood and set her heart racing. Sweat popped out on her brow. Here, in the source itself, the song’s power was undeniable, its emotion a storm inside her skin. Everyone in the pyramid would feel the same storm and know the Singer was displeased with the prophecy – and with her. The third misstep?

Enet shuffled backwards on her knees and pressed her forehead to the ground, careful not to touch the painted world.

Outside the pyramid, the song’s changes and effects would be less noticeable, but they would be there. Enet’s chest heaved. The monkey flung itself at the bars of its cage again and the Singer suddenly swept up the dice cup and hurled it across the source. It bounced off the bamboo bars and the little animal went berserk, racing around the cage and screaming. Enet didn’t move, filling her mind and spirit with devotion and reverence.

Singer Xac was reaching the fullness of his power and she could feel it swelling the source and the song alike. If Enet didn’t consolidate her own power before he began to wane, all her plans would come to naught. And they were such plans. Such plans.

He may not wane. It may be that he is still strong when the time comes to wake the world spirit. It may be he who walks Ixachipan at its side for eternity.

And so it should be. Enet filled her mind with love for her lord.

He snapped his fingers and she sat back up, ready to continue with the reading, but the Singer’s eyes roamed the sanctuary, the suite of twenty-seven rooms within the great pyramid that collectively made up his home and the source. His skin was flushed red with blood and tinted gold with magic; Enet caught her breath when she looked at him, a small, involuntary murmur of appreciation slipping from her. He flexed the muscles in his arms, head cocked to listen to the corresponding flex of the song, and grinned, but the triumph lasted only a heartbeat, before being replaced with weary bitterness, almost resignation.

‘I never realised the thrill of opulence would fade,’ he said, as if to himself. ‘I never realised how the power and the divinity are so inextricably bound up with the responsibility and the sacrifice.’ He swept an arm out to encompass the room. ‘Sculpted gardens, a tamed stream and offering pool, wide verandas with views over the city, and the platform at the summit beneath the songstone: the heart of my power. All colourful and pristine, populated with only the most beautiful slaves, courtesans and sculpture. The finest musicians and actors, jewellers and dressers. The most talented potters and artists to paint their wares. Everything so … Fucking. Perfect. It makes me sick.’

Enet flinched. The song tore at her with teeth and claws, made nausea surge at the base of her throat and heat build between her legs. Beneath the anger sat Xac’s lust – for life and death and cock and cunt and everything in between – desires impossible for any in his presence to ignore.

It was the official reason, the most obvious reason, why Singer Het had failed so soon – she’d been a child at the mercy of feelings she had neither name for nor familiarity with. They’d frightened her and then they’d consumed her. Children should not be Singers; they had not the experience to control the changes. Even Xac had struggled to contain his impulses in the first years of his divinity.

The Singer rubbed a hand across his face, weariness souring his lovely, song-brightened features. His lips peeled back from his teeth and Enet squirmed where she sat, wanting him and him knowing it. His denial of her desire bringing him more pleasure than acceptance would. A dark pleasure, a spiteful pleasure, and that too entered the song. All through the source, harsh words would be spoken, parents might pinch their children just to make them cry, secrets would be spilt and arguments started. Chorus warriors practising their weapons might spill blood in earnest.

‘These rooms and gardens, maybe the slave quarters if I wander down there: they’re all I will ever know,’ Xac continued, surprising her again. She’d expected angry sex or dismissal, not confession. ‘All the years I had before my selection and what did I do with them? Nothing. Barely travelled, never visited the untamed jungle or saw the dead plains. Never fought a battle. Never took a life except when making an offering. And I don’t take them even then.

‘This is it. This is the rest of my life within these walls and gardens. This sacred prison. The Tokob murder my divine kin and I sit here unable to help them.’

Enet swept up the dice and moved them and the world mat to the side, then shuffled forward on her knees until they touched Xac’s. She put her hands on his face, unable to be away from him any longer. ‘But you are the Singer,’ she said with ragged passion. ‘You are glory incarnate.’

‘I am a prisoner in a luxurious cage. And I am sick of fucking luxury.’ He slapped her hands down. ‘I am sick of beauty and hymns of praise. I am sick of pretty slaves and pretty courtesans and pretty food. You, Enet – I am thoroughly fucking sick of you.’

But despite his words she could feel his desire pressing against her like a hurricane. She flipped up his kilt and hers, swung a leg across his hips and lowered herself down, driving a long groan from both their throats. His fingers would leave bruises in her flanks.

‘You know when I feel most alive? When I watch the holy Setatmeh accept their offerings,’ he gasped. ‘Not even this compares.’

Enet grabbed fistfuls of his hair and pulled hard; she darted her head forward and bit his shoulder. It wasn’t enough; she could tell by his face that all these sensations were no longer enough. Still, he didn’t stop her as she rose and fell in his lap, squeezing and rocking, long, painted fingernails scoring his flesh. He shuddered once, twice, and then stiffened with a roar part release, part frustration. She wasn’t there yet, though she was so close it was enough to make her want to scream her own frustration, but she didn’t protest when he shoved her off. The sex, the divination, the discussions of the war – none of it had soothed him. She knew what might, if she dared. If Enet had the courage to take the next step on the path of destiny.

She could still taste the residue of the tonic she’d drunk before coming here, the tonic that had set her on a trail she couldn’t now turn back from. She was already on that path. Committed. She ran her tongue over her gums and let that taste strengthen her, the flicker of magic in her mouth and belly.

‘I want to experience something … anything,’ he panted, reaching for honeypot and throwing it back in one gulp. ‘I want more. I need more.’

And I live to serve you, great Singer. ‘Then, holy lord, I have a gift for you,’ she said, fighting against the throbbing, sullen ache of unfulfilled desire at her core. She bowed shallowly and then stood and crossed to the bamboo cage. She opened the lid and gently picked up the little creature. It struggled and bit the meat of her thumb, but she took it back and placed it in his lap. Reflexively, the Singer grabbed it before it could run off.

‘Something else I’m sick of,’ he roared. ‘It does nothing but screech and throw its shit at me.’

Enet nodded. ‘Then kill it,’ she said over its noise. Xac paused and looked at her, and the Chorus warrior at the far wall stiffened, his gaze snapping to them. He made no move to interfere, as she had known he would not. His loyalty belonged to her. Still, her words were more than dangerous – they were sacrilege.

‘It’s just an animal. Kill it and we can eat it later. You said you’d never killed anything. You haven’t experienced the taking of life and perhaps you should. Perhaps when the Melody returns to Yalotlan after the Wet, that newfound experience will weave through the song and strengthen our warriors. Your experiences are what shape the song, after all. Your knowledge; your magic.’

She leant closer and sucked at the bleeding bite on her hand. A little obvious, perhaps, but, judging by the way Xac’s throat moved convulsively as he watched her, effective. She swallowed blood. ‘Feel,’ she whispered. ‘Feel something new, my love, and weave it into a song that will last forever.’

The Singer lifted the squirming monkey in one hand and squeezed, tentative at first until it squeaked, and then his face turned ugly and the song jumped and he squeezed again, hard and furious and delighted, until its frightened squealing was lost beneath the cracking of its bones. Enet watched, dizzy and wondering at her own audacity as the tiny death rumbled through the song, swelling it with sudden power, and Xac’s skin flushed golden-red again. It was proof. It was what she needed and now that she had seen it, taking the next step was easier.

‘That was not the gift, holy lord,’ she said in a smoky voice as the Singer examined the little corpse. He glanced up, his brow furrowing as the body flopped in his grip. ‘The true gift is not another monkey. It is not pretty or musical. It is dangerous, Singer.’

The song will change if he accepts this, change maybe forever, and my future will be secured. Or my death.

No. It is worth the risk. We are too close to the wakening. It has to be now.

‘May I send for it?’ Enet asked. When he didn’t answer, she rose from the mats and straightened her kilt as she strode to the courtesans’ entrance, then signalled for her guards to bring it in. She took the cloth-wrapped package one profferred her, hummingbirds taking flight in her belly.

Enet hurried back to Xac’s side, noting the wary confusion in his face as they brought in the hooded, bound figure and kicked it to its knees. She flicked fingers in dismissal of her guards and let the Chorus warrior take over, standing above the prisoner with his club ready.

‘Great Singer,’ Enet said and pulled off the kneeling figure’s hood. ‘This is Betsu, a Yaloh spy and a warrior who insulted your name and our Empire. She came here under guise of being a peace-weaver, and then she fled my house in the night and was spotted trying to rouse slaves in the flesh markets to rebellion. I have kept her secure – and she has been brought here in secret.’

Enet watched for the Singer’s reaction as she unwrapped the cloth from the bundle. ‘Great Singer, divine god, I offer you the stone knife.’

The Singer stared at the weapon lying between them, the ritual blade of rare pale quartz knapped to a wicked sharpness, the handle carved from the leg bone of a jaguar. Unique and beautiful and full of magic. Forbidden, ancient magic not used in centuries. The gold in his skin pulsed and flowed as if reaching towards it, urging him to take it up, to wield it on flesh and bone.

Enet’s mouth was dry as the Singer didn’t move. ‘Prisoner, lower your eyes. You have no permission to look upon the holy lord, our living god, our great Singer,’ she snapped. Her voice bounced from the plastered walls to mingle with the choir of children singing somewhere out of sight, the trickle of water, and the chirr of cicadas from the gardens. Beneath them all clanged the song and Betsu’s ragged breathing. The Singer’s own breathing wasn’t much better; his nostrils flared like an exhausted deer’s as he dragged in air, not quite believing what was happening.

‘You shouldn’t have fucking brought me here then, should you, if you didn’t want me to look? Get your stinking hands off me!’ the Yalotl shouted as the Chorus shoved her head down onto the mat and held it there. ‘Not that he’s anything to look at. Hands are soft – has he ever tilled a field or held a weapon?’ The words were muffled but loud enough to reach Enet’s ears. And the Singer’s.

‘What is this?’ Xac whispered, his eyes as round as those of a holy Setat. ‘Is this a joke – or am I the joke here?’ The danger in his voice made Enet’s bladder tighten.

She ran her palm up his arm, across the thick shoulder and down his back. ‘No, holy lord. You want sensation. You want experience. You want to kill, and more than just monkeys.’ He twitched at that and Betsu began to struggle.

‘It is forbidden,’ the Singer said, his words slow and unsure.

They all knew why it was forbidden. The Singer must be surrounded with beauty and strength at all times. The Singer must not be upset or experience strong emotion of a negative nature. The Singer must not be exposed to horrors or criticised or angered. And the Singer must never, ever revel in death, lest it seep into the song and corrupt the millions of spirits bound up in its glory. A strong song meant strong people. A bloody song, though … or at least, that was what the legends said. Enet’s research indicated otherwise and here, now, with her influence and status hanging by the thread of the Singer’s changeable whims, she had no choice but to accelerate her plans.

She lowered her voice to a purr. ‘This woman is no one. She is … invisible. Expendable. Sensation, great Singer: that is my gift to you.’

‘Return to your place.’ The Singer’s voice was a throaty growl.

The Chorus warrior hesitated. ‘It is my duty to protect you.’

‘Do not disobey the Singer,’ Enet snapped, trembling with adrenaline and triumph and not a little terror. There’s no going back. Am I really doing this? Are we doing this?

The warrior hesitated again, testing the very bounds of duty and obedience despite his loyalty to Enet, and then he let go of Betsu’s neck and took a single pace backwards. The Yalotl came up faster than a striking snake, got her feet under her and was halfway to standing when his club smashed into her shoulder and drove her back onto her knees. Enet squeaked at the sudden movement, but the sound was lost under the Yaloh bellow of hurt.

A moment later the Singer’s fist buried itself in Betsu’s gut. She folded over and Xac hit her again, hammering into her cheekbone, snapping her head to one side.

‘Who is your god?’ Enet shouted when the warrior instinctively stepped back in, panic flushing his features at the breach not just of tradition and protocol but of ritual. The Singer must never be exposed to violence. The song must not be blooded. The single most inviolable rule – and the one that Enet was deliberately breaking.

Because it is wrong.

Her question brought the Chorus stumbling to a halt, obedience warring with duty, and in that moment, it happened.

The song brayed. Raw power crackled from Xac, lifting the hairs on Enet’s arms and neck, a frisson of energy and need and dominance tingling from scalp to soles. She shuddered and rocked under its intensity, and then Xac was on Betsu, straddling her waist, fists driving into her head and neck and chest, bellowing with joy, swelling with the thrill of the song, his body expanding, muscles engorged and golden beneath glistening skin until he glowed.

The knife was next to them, within reach of the peace-weaver – if she could free her hands. Another thrill shivered through Enet and she shifted on her knees, facing the Singer, avid, living his joy through the song, buffeted by the storm of his emotions.

The Yalotl was on her back, helpless to avoid the beating, her head snapping one way and then the other. Whatever she was shouting was garbled, lost amid the punches raining on her jaw and mouth until they faded into grunts. Blood and a tooth splattered from her mouth and across Enet’s tunic, up in a line of dots across her throat. Xac paused, staring intently at the blood on her skin, and then he leant forward and licked it from her neck.

The source was swimming with power, so thick Enet couldn’t help but breathe it in like pollen, like sunlight, until it filled her with radiance and need and she found the abandoned knife and shoved it into the Singer’s hand. The Chorus dropped his club and fell to his knees at her side, his hands clenching and unclenching with brimming, uncontrolled need as they watched Xac work, song-driven lust and bloodlust filling them both.

Enet watched her holy lord, her great Singer, her lover, as he peeled the Yaloh face off with the knife and wove her screams into the song until it roared and beat at them, beat inside them until they were all three growling like animals and everything was edged in golden radiance, in power.

Xac pulled Betsu’s face, still blood-warm, over his own and showed it to her. She screamed louder, somehow still fighting, but the Singer was invincible in his magic now and he lifted her in one hand and dragged her, clawing at his arm, to the offering pool.

A Setat rose with a need greater even than the Singer’s. Its song filled the source, filled them with such yearning, such inescapable delight amid the carnage and the power that Enet orgasmed as Betsu, faceless and yet somehow, she knew, smiling, freed herself from the Singer’s grip and walked into the water, arms out to receive the Setatmeh claw-tipped embrace.

They watched the waters turn pink and the Singer threw the woman’s face into the pool and then he returned at a run and fell on Enet like an eagle, his lust swallowing her whole.

And the song roared on.