THE EOCH STOOD BEFORE Tyrak’s throne.
This was a very different sabha hall from the one Ugraksh had presided over. A very different throne as well. This was part of the New Palace that Tyrak had redesigned to suit his purpose, part of the New Arrgodi. It was a new world after all, reborn in his image to serve his needs and intents, and altering its appearance was important to him. He had never liked the gaily colored pageantry of the Arrgodi, the attempt to mirror all the emotions and shades of life in garments, accoutrements, art, décor, architecture, and everything else that was manmade. What about death? Was not death a part of life? Was it not out of his own death that Tyrak had been reborn? One age must die in order for the next to begin, as the day died every sunset to give way to the night, as one lifetime ended in order for the soul to transmigrate to the next. Death was an essential part of the cycle of existence. And what was the color of death? White, of course. The absence of color. Not black, or even grey, for somber though they were, they were nevertheless part of the color palette. White was what you got when you did not have color at all. Utter blankness. Emptiness. Void. A blank scroll upon which one could write anything one desired, remake the world in one’s own image if one wished, create new worlds, erase old ones.
And so he had had everything painted white. The walls, floor, ceiling, even the tapestries on the wall had been painted over with lime; the statuary, the houses of the city, and everything else that had been colored was made white. He introduced a compulsory dress code for all citizens, and of course, that was white as well. Nobody was permitted to sport so much as a dot of color anywhere upon their person. Tyrak himself permitted only fair-skinned beautiful people within the royal precincts, which was also the only part of the city where women were permitted—encouraged, even—to move freely, dressed as they pleased, even underdressed if they so desired or, rather, if he so desired. White was right. White was might. White was wonderful. This was Tyrak’s world. A white world.
The eoch was dressed in black.
It offended Tyrak.
He thought of having the eoch stripped, then flayed, then fed to his pets. He had a courtyard filled with wild beasts at the back of his palace. Anyone who displeased him he had thrown off a balcony into that courtyard, to be eaten by the beasts. They rarely went hungry. Only this morning he had been compelled to have a serving boy thrown into the courtyard for . . . for? Well, he couldn’t recall exactly why he had had the boy thrown down, but it must have been for good reason. And even if he hadn’t had a reason, he was King Eternal; he could do as he pleased.
He had had men and women thrown down for far lesser reasons than not wearing white.
Like this eoch.
The fellow was tall, strongly built, like all Jarsun’s Eoch Assassins. That was the result of the special diet and exercise regime that Jarsun kept them on, apart from the fact that he recruited only the tallest, biggest specimens. He was dusty from the long journey, and clearly exhausted. But he stood straight, eyes steady and unwavering, waiting for Tyrak’s answer to his message.
Tyrak had forgotten what the message had been.
“What was it that Jarsun said?” he asked, irritated that he should have to ask again. Clearly, the courier had not delivered his message with sufficient clarity the first time, or Tyrak would not have forgotten it so easily. Incompetence was such a disease these days.
“My lord,” the eoch said, bowing his head again as he repeated his missive. “My lord Jarsun inquires after your well-being and asks if you require his assistance in governing your kingdom.”
Tyrak frowned. “Assistance?”
The courier dipped his bald head again. A shiny spot beamed through the layer of road dust; that must have been where the man touched his head with his folded hands while bowing in the Krushan fashion. “Military aid, financial aid, or anything your lordship desires, my master will provide.”
Tyrak waved away the offer with a sneer of contempt. “I require no aid or assistance. This is my kingdom; I am quite capable of ruling it myself. Besides, your lord might not have heard, but of late, I have discovered my true nature. I am reborn.”
The eoch bowed again before speaking. “My lord is aware of this. He says to congratulate you upon your rebirth and to wish you much success in fulfilling all your ambitions.”
Tyrak nodded. “Good, good. Now, is that all Jarsun sent you to say? Because if it is, I have other matters to attend—”
“There is one last thing, my lord Tyrak.” The eoch sounded almost apologetic.
Tyrak looked imperiously down his nose at the man. Something wormlike and slimy emerged from his right nostril, coming in his field of vision. He ignored it. After a moment, it dropped off and fell with a small plop to the floor, where it began squirming its way across the polished floor, leaving a trail of slime. “Well?”
“My lord says to take the prophecy seriously.”
Tyrak raised his eyebrows. “Prophecy?”
“The prophecy of the eighth child.”
“Ah. My sister’s eighth child. Yes I am aware of that prophecy. After all, it was delivered to me by the great sage Vessa. I would hardly forget it.” But inwardly he was thinking, The eighth child? Vessa mentioned only the seed of her womb, a male child. Did he mention if it would be the first, second, or another number? I don’t think so. How does Jarsun know more than I do?
“Of course, my lord. Emperor Jarsun merely wishes to ensure that you realize the—”
“Did you say emperor?”
The eoch bowed. “Aye, your majesty. My master is now the declared God-Emperor of Arthaloka, with his capital at Morgolia. The New Morgolia, that is.”
“Yes, I know about the New Morgolia. I saw the city while it was being built. But God-Emperor of Arthaloka?”
The eoch simply bowed in response.
Tyrak thought about that for a moment. God-Emperor of Arthaloka. What did that make him? A mere king? Why couldn’t he be an emperor of Arthaloka too? All he had to do was go forth and conquer the rest of the world. It would not be difficult at all, not now with his New Army and his newfound powers. But that would mean leaving Arrgodi, leaving the Mraashk too. And the Mraashk were itching to rise up against him, the fools. He could not afford to leave Arrgodi just yet. Also, Jarsun had now declared himself God-Emperor. He would not like it if Tyrak did so as well. There could hardly be two emperors! Tyrak would have to fight Jarsun in order to claim sole emperorship. He did not wish to do that. Jarsun was like a father to him. Also, he was the only person Tyrak considered more fearsome than himself.
“What were you saying?” Again he had lost the thread of the courier’s missive.
“The eighth child, my lord. It will be your undoing. You must ensure that it is never permitted to be born.”
Tyrak nodded, distracted by thoughts of empire and emperorship. “Yes, yes. I have already seen to that.”
The eoch persisted: “My lord Jarsun urges you to slay both the woman and her husband immediately. It is the only way to be sure.”
Tyrak looked at the eoch coldly. He felt more wormlike things wriggling down his nose. He felt other things squirming and crawling and creeping about his body as well. Getting upset did that to him, it fed his parasites, making them increase in number. The eoch had finally succeeded in upsetting him by daring to tell him what to do, rather than simply delivering his message and keeping quiet as he ought to have done.
He started to give the order for the eoch to be thrown to the beasts, then paused. This was not one of his lackeys or servants, or even a citizen of Arrgodi. This was one of Jarsun’s personal guard. The elite of the elite within the Eoch Assassins. Jarsun’s most trusted inner circle. He might not look kindly upon Tyrak having the man fed to wild pets.
Then again, Jarsun had declared himself God-Emperor of Arthaloka. While Tyrak was still just king of Arrgodi, at best king of the Arrgodi and Mraashk nations.
He gave the order for the eoch to be fed to his pets. He ignored the man’s shocked admonitions as he was dragged away, as well as his threat that Jarsun would not be pleased. So what? If Jarsun did not like Tyrak’s treatment of his courier, he could come himself and sort it out. He might be God-Emperor of Arthaloka, but here in Arrgodi, Tyrak was King Eternal!
He plucked a particularly troublesome parasite from his nostril, stared it in honest curiosity, then crushed it between his thumb and sixth finger—the new finger which he had recently grown between his thumb and forefinger. White slime dripped from his hand. He wiped it off on the armrest of his throne just as a soldier came in to inform him that Chief Vasurava was here to see him, at Tyrak’s own request.