The Stone Knife

by Anna Stephens

  Lock had said be fast, but now that the fear was gone, or at least banked down, Xessa took her time. Like the whistles, the pretended incomprehension, the drumming, this too was a test to see what she could get away with, and what they would punish. Lock came back and beckoned, but there was no real anger in his face at the delay. He was a strange one, much like Pilos himself, who had such a tight grip on his anger she wasn’t sure he even felt the emotion.

  Xessa slipped into the new clothes – they’d even provided a length of material as a breast binding – ignored the sandals and approached the exit, clapping her hands so she didn’t surprise a warrior and take a spear in the gut.

  Lock examined her, frowned at her bare feet, shrugged and beckoned, and the small procession returned through the gardens, past the prison to the large house with two floors and a small pyramid perched at the centre of its roof. The High Feather’s house. The jaguar’s den.

  They sat her at a low table opposite Pilos. A warrior stood either side of her and Lock sat next to his master. It was a lot of protection between Pilos and one little, unarmed, hopeless eja. It made Xessa feel better. Stronger. More in control. Paper and charcoal sat before her on the table, and one of the warriors twitched as she reached for it. She’d need to move slowly to avoid getting stabbed by mistake.

  ‘Where are my people?’ she wrote and held it up.

  ‘High Feather Pilos is not here to answer your questions,’ Lock began. ‘You answer his. You are his property – and you are lucky to be so. After your actions in the source—’

  ‘Enough, Elaq,’ Pilos said, ‘and I am just an eagle these days. High Feather no longer. And what happened in the source is of no concern to the eja.’

  ‘It is of great concern,’ she wrote. ‘You are my enemies and you left my kin there to die.’

  ‘Stop,’ Lock – Elaq – said, waving his hands. ‘Your behaviour in the source has stripped the High Fe— has stripped Eagle Pilos of his status and his roles within both the Melody and the government of the Empire. You will help him reclaim some of that lost status by being one of the attractions in his fighting pit. You will entertain the nobility of the Singing City.’

  Xessa shook her head.

  ‘You will do this,’ Elaq said, his face twisting with anger. The change was sudden after his actions in the bathing room, as if he regretted being gentle with her. Pilos was calm, watching her.

  Xessa shook her head and then wrote: ‘I am eja. I fight Drowned. I kill Drowned. Not people.’

  ‘You fought and killed warriors of the Melody,’ Pilos said. ‘Badly, it is true, but still. Now you will fight for my pleasure and that of the nobles and perhaps even the Singer himself in time.’

  Xessa slashed her finger in front of her face in vehement refusal.

  ‘Kill some of her people, High Feather. Every time she refuses to fight, kill one,’ Elaq said, facing her so she was sure to understand. A wave of heat washed through Xessa and she twitched; hands clamped down on her shoulders, holding her still.

  ‘It is wasteful,’ Pilos said, ‘but I see no other option. Bring one in.’

  Warriors wrestled a figure in through an archway. Tiamoko. Brave, beautiful Tiamoko, more boy than man despite the death he wore in his eyes, who had fought with such courage and honour. Who had helped Lutek bring Tayan back to her, however briefly. They forced him to his knees at the end of the table. He was battered and exhausted, filthy. The brightness of those eyes was gone, their calm, patient lethality dulled. The health had faded from beneath his skin, but he knew her. And he knew she held his life in her hands.

  The warriors holding him forced one of his arms flat on the table and one of them raised a hatchet, watching Pilos for the order.

  Pilos watched her. ‘We will start with his hands.’

  Tiamoko watched her. The warriors restraining her watched her; she could feel it. Xessa wanted to scream. She wanted to snatch up a weapon and kill them all, rail against her captivity and that of her people. She wanted to make them see they were wrong, that their lives, their city, their whole Empire was a lie, a deceit built on suffering.

  She did none of those things, because she understood some of how they’d become so powerful. They threatened the people you loved and then they stripped away what made you who you were. They turned you into an animal and then slowly they built you back up in their own image, until their beliefs were yours. And one day, if you were very obedient and very lucky, they’d free you and the first thing you’d do would be to buy slaves of your own. And so it went, rolling endlessly like the cycle of the seasons, like the rise and fall of the Great Star at morning and the Great Star at evening. Until you wanted to be Pecha by name the way you were in your heart and you abandoned the traditions of your people and came to hate the hiss of blood in your veins.

  They were all waiting for her answer. Xessa raised her hands, and then stopped, picking up the charcoal instead. ‘I will fight,’ she wrote shakily, and the words on the paper writhed and mocked her, taking on a malevolent life that wormed inside her and made her their slave. Their property. Their entertainment. ‘And I wish to claim my family.’

  Elaq spoke to the warriors and they dragged Tiamoko away before either Toko could sign anything. Tears blurred Xessa’s vision and her breathing was ragged.

  ‘Write their names and descriptions down,’ Elaq told her and she did so. Toxte. Tayan. Lilla. Tiamoko. Lutek. At the bottom, she added a question: What happened to my dog?

  Elaq took the paper and read it, nodded. He pointed something out to Pilos, who shook his head and gestured. Xessa was lifted to her feet. Elaq led them out of the room and through cool corridors painted with lush murals and back out into the heat of the gardens and along the path to the high gate.

  They left the estate, merging into the crowds on a wide limestone road and then veering off between tall buildings that grew shorter and shabbier the further they walked. Xessa craned her neck to take in the sights, memorising their route. Three or four sticks, about an hour’s walk, and the smells of war began to tickle at her nostrils – blood, sweat, shit, fear. The eja faltered and the warriors closed in around her, hustling her along.

  They reached a tall, unplastered building with no windows and the smell of battle became stronger, overpowering. Xessa gagged and put her hand over her nose. Around and down they moved: a slope carved into the earth that led beneath the building and into gloom. A bamboo gate across the passageway, the tops of the poles sharpened into spear tips to prevent anyone climbing in – or out.

  ‘Special one from the High Feather – Eagle Pilos – himself,’ Elaq said and Xessa noted how he positioned himself so she could see his mouth. ‘She’s a fighter but to be trained in Melody style. Some important people want to watch her, so make sure she’s good. And she’s deaf.’

  The scarred woman he was talking to cocked her head at Xessa. ‘Can’t fight when you’re deaf.’

  ‘This one can,’ Elaq said. ‘As long as she can see your lips, she understands. Won’t respond to anything else.’ The woman turned away and fiddled with the gate – it swung back and she stepped through, beckoning. Xessa looked at Elaq. ‘Pay attention. Fight well. Make your owner proud.’

  Xessa wanted to spit in his face. She wanted to tear it off with her teeth and fingernails. Instead she carved her own into a mask and put her back to him, and strode through the gate into darkness. They wanted to take her and sharpen her and hone her until she could kill all she came across. Until she was lethal and unsurpassed.

  In the gloom, Xessa smiled like a lord of the Underworld. Like a fucking Drowned, all teeth and malice and hunger. They wanted to make her a weapon? Then that’s exactly what she’d become.

  EPILOGUE

  The source, Singing City, Pechacan, Empire of Songs

  I am the Great Octave, Chosen of Xac. I am the future and the future song. I am the Empire that will be.

  I will be. The song, the Singer, the hope of all faithful. Through me will the world spirit awake
n. Through me will Ixachipan be free of strife and hunger and disease. Through me will power and wealth and beauty be manifest.

  I am the glory of the Pechaqueh restored. I am the glory of power reborn.

  I am Enet and I am – I will be – the song.

  And my song is good.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  So, 2020, eh? Bit of a year. And with that in mind, first and deepest heartfelt thanks go to the medical community the world over, and to all those who work behind the scenes to co-ordinate the global and governmental responses to the pandemic.

  Songs of the Drowned is a project that started life as a rambling, slightly tipsy pitch to my husband in a quiet little pub in London in 2018. His enthusiastic response gave me the courage to work up a proper, this time sober, pitch to send off to my agent, and from there, well, it snowballed.

  As always, I tried to jam in as many of my favourite things as possible, and as always, my agent, beta readers and editors forced me to relax my death grip and cut out the bits that didn’t serve the story. So, thanks, in turn, to Harry Illingworth of DHH Literary Agency, for the endless encouragement and insightful commentary; to Mike Brooks and Stewart Hotston for extraordinary beta reading and to Sam Hawke, who helped me rework the opening chapters (also, they all write awesome books you should definitely read); and to Jack Renninson and Natasha Bardon at HarperVoyager for taking on another series and doing such an amazing job at teasing out what exactly I was trying to say with this book.

  Thanks to Richenda Todd, copy editor extraordinaire, who deserves all the cake for doing such an incredible job under very tight time constraints and saving me from terrible calendrical errors on three separate occasions – including pointing out that I’d miscalculated a historical reference by more than 1,200 years …

  And thanks to Stephen Mulcahey and Nicolette Caven for the beautiful and evocative cover and map, which really tie the book together and bring it to life.

  Thanks also to all the staff and alumni at Writing the Other; you’re doing great work and helping to deliver authentic and realistic diverse worlds and characters through your lectures and courses.

  Special thanks to David Bowles – lecturer, translator, author and historian – who helped me ground my fantasy world in reality and add depth and truth to my characters. It was a privilege to work with and learn from you.

  As always, to the Five – JP, Kareem, Laura, Mike, Sadir – for just being awesome and always supportive, even if we can’t meet up right now. And to the rogues’ gallery of everyone I’ve played RPGs with this year – you’ve been a source of endless fun and supreme frustration. My DM skills are not the best, but, to be fair, look who it is I’m working with. I love you all.

  And to the authors of the Bunker – it’s a privilege to know you and share the worries and weirdnesses of this very peculiar industry with you. A special thankyou to the ANZ contingent, who first brought up the subject of writing your id, which has had a profound effect on how I approach my work now. Honestly, it’s a game-changer and I can’t thank you enough.

  And, of course, my family and friends, for your endless love and support, and Mark, for giving me space and time when I need it, and distractions when I need those. There’s no way I’d be able to do this without you. I’m the luckiest idiot ever. I love you.

  Black Lives Matter.

  By Anna Stephens

  Godblind

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  Bloodchild

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