The Neck, Xentiban, Empire of Songs
184th day of the Great Star at morning
Ilandeh was exhausted, but everything lifted – her mood, her fatigue, the constant anxiety of discovery and failure – when she crossed the border into Xentiban and heard the song once more.
She was back in the Empire. She was home. The commander of the Melody’s Whispers stood still, her arms out from her sides and fingers splayed, drinking in the song through her skin and ears and heart, breathing it deep into her lungs like the finest incense, like sunlight. The gaping wound inside began to close, the song’s every note a stitch that pulled her edges together until she was whole again. Scarred, but alive.
A whole year, give or take, she had been without this majesty, without this constant reminder of her orders. Of the trust that the High Feather had placed in her and in Dakto so very long before. Ilandeh sank onto her knees, the rich earth warm and wet and heavy, teeming with life. Tears splashed onto the ground, adding their load of moisture and precious salt. She stared at a busy, organised line of leaf-cutter ants marching back and forth before her and grinned. The song filled them and enhanced their purpose. They, too, worked for an empire and a high ruler, for glory and for peace.
Ilandeh stretched out her hand and let an ant climb over it and carry on its business. ‘Overcoming all obstacles,’ she whispered approvingly. ‘Go with the gods, little warrior.’ She sat back on her heels and a laugh of pure joy burst from her.
She was filthy and exhausted, hungry and desperately thirsty, but she could just see the trees thinning ahead, more sun filtering down through the canopy. A clearing. A pyramid. A Listener and eagles and warriors and home.
Grunting, Ilandeh climbed back to her feet and pushed on, weaving among untamed jungle until she reached a well-worn trail. She turned onto it with relief and checked the scarlet feather in her hair, restored after so very long to its proper place. It was ragged and dirty and bent, because it had been sewn into the seam of her tunic beneath her arm for a year and had been much abused, but it was there and it was hers. She was Flight Ilandeh, commander of the Whispers and the macaws of the Fourth Talon, and she said as much when two eagles emerged from the forest to confront her.
And then she was in the clearing and fresh tears pricked at her eyes as she looked upon the magnificence of the pyramid, gleaming red as fresh blood, carvings of holy Setatmeh and Singers and of the world spirit itself parading around its sides. ‘Praise the Singer,’ she breathed and the eagles escorting her were respectfully silent.
‘How long have you been out,’ one asked eventually.
‘A year.’ There were low murmurs of surprise and appreciation, and their regard filled her, mingling with the song until she was full. ‘Is the Listener available?’
One of the eagles chuckled. ‘I think for an assassin and spy of the High Feather himself, and one who’s been in the heart of the enemy for a year, he’ll make himself available.’
They left her at the base of the pyramid and she climbed the sacred steps and passed into the cool and the shade. The Whisper left sandals and weapons at the entrance, conscious of the grime, of her smell, in this holy place. The doorway was so low she was forced to kneel, to enter with her head bowed in humility and her neck exposed in supplication, as was right. She crawled down a short, black-painted passageway, the light from the chamber ahead growing and blinding her, and then slithered down onto the sunken floor, graceless and defenceless.
As was right.
The chamber was airy and wide, and if the outside had been majestic, the inside was the song made manifest. Each wall was a story painted by a master artist, a lesson, a revelation. The Listener who occupied the centre of the room, by contrast, was unreadable and barely there, so deeply connected with the song that Ilandeh didn’t know if he’d noticed her come in.
Light from four high apertures spilt down onto the elaborately dyed mats where he sat, and Ilandeh remained on her hands and knees to cross over to the appointed place opposite him. The song was stronger here, pure and clear and vibrating in her bones. She looked up and saw the base of the songstone cap itself above her head. If she stood and reached, she could touch it. The thought sent a shiver of awe down her back, and although her fingers twitched, she didn’t dare act on her desire.
‘Where do you wish to go?’ The Listener’s voice was melodious and contained the same rhythms as the song. Ilandeh jumped and looked closer; his eyes were open to slits, glittering with intelligence and magic. She cleared her throat; her own voice was scratchy with thirst and from disuse. She had made the journey from the Sky City in sixteen days, longer than she would have liked, but she’d been forced to creep past war parties and avoid unfinished pyramids in case slaves captured by the Tokob told of her passing. Now, she wanted nothing more than to drink a dozen gourds of water and then sleep for a week. She could not.
‘If it is possible, Listener, direct to High Feather Pilos. If not, then to his Listener, Citla, with my thanks.’
The light gleamed from the Listener’s shaved head. ‘It may be done,’ he said and held out his hands. Ilandeh placed hers in them and let herself be swept into the current of the song, the Listener’s skill and the burning of the incense and those black, black eyes taking her, swift and sure.
The Whisper’s spirit tugged from her flesh, a whipping flag trailing behind her, touching the raw magic of the song itself and she heard a whimper that she knew to be her own, but didn’t – couldn’t – look away. The Listener’s mind had claws in hers and led her forward, both with and against the current at once, across the sticks, across the jungle, into Pechacan and the Singing City and far beyond, to Pilos. To the fortress. To home.
Ilandeh felt the shock of connection, the confusion as the Listener contacted Pilos and he responded, and then he drew her into her High Feather’s mind, into a small, shuttered place of darkness and water, cut off from the rest of his thoughts and feelings. Protected. Private.
‘Flight Ilandeh?’
Ilandeh tumbled in the song and in their shared consciousness, striving to control her emotions – relief, delight, something akin to love – as his voice echoed all around her. ‘High Feather!’ Her inner voice was golden with relief, sparking within the liminal darkness.
‘You are early.’ His words entered blue with caution, tinging to red alarm. ‘What has happened?’
‘Three thousand Tokob and Yaloh have marched to southern Yalotlan to free slaves and destroy the pyramids before the peace-weaving is made official, in case part of the agreement is that the Empire keeps all land newly beneath the song.’
The space they were in blazed purple, iridescent as a hummingbird’s wing: rage. Ilandeh quailed before it. ‘Forgive me, High Feather,’ she began.
‘Could you have prevented it?’ he demanded, the purple fading, though not by much.
‘No, High Feather.’ She wanted to apologise again, but the truth was there was nothing she could have done to stop them. ‘Dakto has gone with one of the Paws. He will endeavour to contact a pod and spread word as well as he may without alerting the Tokob to his intentions. I had hoped you might have heard from or of him by now?’
‘We have not. I thank you for the advance warning. I will have to let the Singer know they are using the cover of the Wet.’ There was a pause. ‘It’s going to be Quitoban all over again,’ he said, almost to himself.
Ilandeh knew she flashed yellow with anxiety at his prediction, could do nothing about it. She wasn’t as skilled at concealing her emotions when communicating through the song. At least Yalotlan didn’t have sticks and sticks of swamp and tidal marshes to navigate, the way Quitoban had.
‘What else?’
The Whisper collected her thoughts. She’d been tired before the Listener had swept her out of her body; now she was nearing exhaustion and her emotions painted the darkness of the space they were in, the rich, living black of fear and the grey of grief streaking from her. ‘I … Their high elders are both dead, as is the elder of the Tokob ejab. I stayed as long as I could, but, High Feather, they were going to attempt to capture and torture a holy Setat. I could not let that happen, not when I have been witness to so much. I had to act, I could not …’ She trailed off at the remembered horror. Pilos had wanted her in the city for the duration, even up to their attack so that she might disrupt the defence if she could, but the sheer spirit-horror of listening to ejab discussing slaughtering her gods, over and over across a year, had shattered her.
‘I killed the leader of the frog-lickers and stole the list of … of things they were going to do to the god if they captured it. It will delay the attempt but no more, I fear.’
Pilos was silent, but the space around them pulsed a deep, angry purple again. Just once as he fought to control his emotions.
Ilandeh didn’t know if it was directed at her. ‘Forgive me,’ she whispered again.
‘You have done well,’ the High Feather said eventually. ‘Give the Listener a full and detailed report and have them transmit it to Citla. But first, your observations.’
Ilandeh pulsed gold with relief. ‘The city can be defended, but the walls are more to prevent line of sight for cats than any real barrier. We can be over them easily. Arrows and darts from above will be a danger. There is a rope bridge over the river below the city, but there are longer, slower routes past it that bypass the water. Those will be heavily guarded.’
She paused again; still no response. Pilos’s control now was total. ‘The Swift Water – the river – is populated with holy Setatmeh but the Tokob have a way to transport water through pipes uphill to the city. I have learnt the method, and I know too the ingredients and proportions of what they call the spirit-magic, which allows their god-killers to be deaf to the call of the holy Setatmeh. Also journey-magic, which is something their shamans use to commune with their ancestors or their goddess. They’ll be in my written report.’
Still Pilos was silent, but Ilandeh was used to that – had remembered that about him, now. Pilos sat and absorbed the information, and the quieter he was, the more people spoke, drawing out things they might have forgotten and that they now fumbled for to fill the silence.
‘I left them in as much chaos as I could. There are a few hundred Xentib living in the city who fled from us four sun-years ago. I spent time fostering discord with Yaloh refugees, so with luck that will have broken into outright hostility if they connect the deaths with my absence. Which shouldn’t be too difficult. And there is a cave, High Feather, high above the city. Tokob believe it is the womb of their goddess. It is not. It is songstone; the whole thing is veined with songstone. More than I’ve ever seen.’
The space flashed with intense colour then, green interest as bright as new leaves, before Pilos re-established his control. ‘Your work is exemplary, Flight,’ he told her and she knew she flushed pink with pleasure; couldn’t prevent it. ‘Your efforts, and Dakto’s, will be remembered and rewarded. For now, bask in the song so that it might cleanse you and finish your report as I instructed.’
‘As the High Feather commands.’
‘I will inform the Singer of your revelations. I expect we will be ordered to Yalotlan immediately. Wait at the Neck for me and rest. Acting Flight Sarn and some of your Whispers are in Xentiban; the eagles will know exactly where. Take back your command and make sure your authority is unquestioned by the time I arrive. Stay out of any fighting until I’ve spoken to you face to face.’
‘Of course, High Feather.’ Ilandeh hesitated, unsure, and he read it.
‘Speak. Quickly,’ he added, and she became aware of the strain in the Listener. Connecting the two of them through himself and through the song was draining.
‘My face is known among the Tokob, High Feather; when the fighting starts up again, I’ll be a target. We can … use that, probably. Their anger will draw them to me and we can set ambushes. But … as far as Dakto’s concerned, I’m still back in the Sky City. News is going to reach the war party he’s with eventually about what I did. He’s learning all he can of their plans and he intends to slip away with it, but if they find out before he can …’
‘I know, Flight,’ Pilos said, and he was now – deliberately – warmly soft brown with gentleness. ‘And yet you both accepted the risks. You’ve made it out, and you’ve brought far more knowledge than I ever expected, and I know it’s been just the two of you against them all for so long, but if Dakto is taken … well, his sacrifice will be remembered and his glory will be great.’
‘Yes, High Feather,’ Ilandeh said and did her best to keep her tone transparent, though that in itself would tell him much.
‘Rest now,’ he repeated.
‘Under the song,’ she said, but the Listener was already retreating and taking her with him. Ilandeh tried to cling to Pilos’s mind just a little longer, for the comfort, but he was gone and they were swirling back through the song, across the landscape so fast it made her dizzy, until they slipped back into their bodies. The Whisper’s spirit was still billowing in the song even as her consciousness returned to her flesh and she let out a frightened little squeak, but the Listener enveloped her once more and showed her the way.
She was slumped, heavy and full, as if her mind were a big meal weighing her down. The Listener was trying gently to extricate his hands from hers, but it took her several breaths before she could remember how to work her fingers. He was patient, though sweat ran through the lines of exhaustion carved upon his face. ‘Thank you,’ she gasped. ‘Thank you.’
The Listener drank deeply from the pitcher of water at his side and she watched his throat move, reminded of her own thirst, but he needed it far more than she. And then panic filled her; she did not have an offering for him. She had not brought anything – had been so desperate to impart her news that she had forgotten entirely. Except …
‘It is not much,’ she croaked, ‘but it is … I have had it a long time.’ A string of four jade beads, two either side of a small jet pendant fashioned like a tiny jaguar’s head. She pulled it over her head and placed it on the mats between them. It looked shabby there, travel-worn and old. ‘It was my mother’s,’ she added and distaste flickered across the Listener’s face, but he scooped it up and nodded at her. Her Xenti mother.
‘I will write the report for you to transmit to Listener Citla,’ she said, but already he was sinking back into the currents of the song. Ilandeh bowed again and crawled back out of the chamber and stood. Her neck felt bare and empty, but she relished it with a sudden, fierce intensity. She was only a half-blood, but she was loyal. The song was everything to her: it was music and fate and freedom; it was status and honour and respect. She could do nothing about her blood, other than be fiercely proud of her Pechaqueh ancestry and leave the rest behind. The necklace had been the last possession she had owned that was her mother’s and here, back beneath the song after so long, it was right that she gave it up.
I am Pecha in my heart and my spirit and my flesh. I am Pecha in every way that matters.
Not every way, and not in everyone’s eyes, but enough. It was enough. She was enough, and she refused to believe different. A little unsteady, Ilandeh made her way out of the pyramid and into the infrequent sun. The song cradled her, and in the distance she saw some of the Whispers who had been under her command before, coming to meet her.