Epilogue

The chief of eunuchs scuttled into Melíksi's chamber, flanked by a dozen prognosticators and numerologists, all crawling forward on their hands and knees. Hollowed out of the stump of Kalparaana, the chamber was lit only by holes bored through the massive tree’s outer bark. In the center, she lounged in a cleft of the still-living heartwood.

“What news?” She intoned, voice flat behind her porcelain mask.

Terrified, the chief of eunuchs attempted to answer. By the time he had stammered, “Glorious mother,” she was already standing beside him, her flowing white robes dripping with the crimson sap that oozed from the wounded tree. He fell silent as she kneeled beside him.

“Ah. This was always a possible outcome,” she said. “Our work here remains unchanged.” She brought out the stone flake she wore around her neck. “But now, we mourn.”

The chief and his companions did the same. As each of them dragged the flakes along their palms, they shrieked as loud as possible, smearing their heads and bodies with blood, braying until their breath gave out and they had to start again.

All that is sung can be un-sung.

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