TYRAK PROWLED THE CORRIDORS of his palace. He now commanded the largest Arrgodi standing army ever maintained, a force great enough to challenge most other kings, perhaps even great enough to challenge Jarsun himself. The past seven years had seen him grow from strength to strength. Today, even Jarsun’s emissaries dared not raise their eyes to look directly at him, and spoke only soft sweet assurances and words of agreement. He still fed the occasional messenger to the beasts in the back courtyard, just to make sure they stayed humble and polite. In his own kingdom, none dared even speak to him unless spoken to. He ruled with an iron hand. Absolute power. He had it, he enjoyed its fruits and spoils, and he would rule forever.
Perhaps the only thing that troubled him was the change in his physical form. Whereas at first the urrkh elements had showed themselves only in small ways or at certain times, with the human form dominating, now it was the other way around. He was almost all urrkh now, and only occasionally did he lapse back into human form. And even those times were not by choice; they happened involuntarily, and he was never quite sure what triggered or sustained them.
The only thing he could sometimes control was his size.
He had settled on a more or less permanent size of around one and a half times the size of a big human warrior, which made him about ten feet in height and as thick around the chest as a bull’s torso. From time to time, he would expand further, often without meaning to, but becoming smaller than this was nigh impossible. He tried at times, if only because a large size often made it awkward to move through doorways and ride elephants. Even though he had had the palace redesigned to accommodate his new size, if he grew several more yards in height as he often did, a twenty-foot-high doorway could still be too low to get through comfortably. And even elephants had a limit to how much they could carry.
It was as if, the more he used his urrkh abilities, the less human he became.
But this was not what troubled him now.
Kewri and Vasurava had succeeded in saving their seventh child.
He knew this with perfect certainty. He had just returned from visiting his brother-in-law and sister and he had heard their account of the unfortunate mishap. They had both been visibly distraught, and their performance was credible but he had smelled through it at once. There was an odor of truth about their claims, but underlying that was a whiff of something else, not quite a lie, but not the whole truth either. They had held something back.
He had demanded to see the remains and had been shown a mangled mess that was convincing enough. But he knew he had been deceived. The question was how. Nobody had entered or left their house. He had had the house watch tripled the past month itself, anticipating treachery as the crucial time approached. He had employed spies to infiltrate the community of daiimaas who assisted Kewri during pregnancy and deliveries.
The verdict was unanimous: somehow the child had been miscarried. He had even bitten off the head of one spy—a habit he had acquired over the past year or so and resorted to when one of his own people was being inefficient or obtuse. It always produced excellent results, though not from the person whose head he had bitten off, of course. The heads made for satisfying snacks as well; he enjoyed the crunch of the skulls and the tasty sweetmeats inside. But while that had elicited the proper reactions from the other spies, it hadn’t brought forth any further intelligence.
He could find no way to prove that the child had been born in Arrgodi, or any trace of it anywhere.
Yet he knew that somehow he had been deceived.
It is so, Prince Tyrak. You have indeed been deceived.
He turned to see the great sage Vessa standing in the corridor. The sage’s image looked solid and real enough, but when Tyrak tried passing a hand through it—he swung a fist with enough force to fell a horse—the hand passed through empty air, the image undisturbed.
“You,” he said. “It’s been a long time since you showed your bearded face. And I’m King Eternal now, not Prince.”
It was never my intention to become your friend or lifelong companion. And as for the title you bestow upon yourself, I may call a house built with uks dung a palace, as many do, but that would not make it so. So long as King Ugraksh lives, you shall always be Prince Tyrak. Or simply the Usurper, as you are better known amongst the people.
Tyrak snarled, expanding himself till his head touched the vaulted ceiling, his arms the walls of the four-yard-wide corridor. “Why don’t you appear before me in your flesh form, priest? Let us then see if you dare insult me.”
Vessa laughed shortly. I do not come here to bandy insults or threats with you, merely to warn you. The seventh child of Vasurava and Kewri has slipped through your grasp.
Tyrak swore and thumped the walls to either side with his fist. Plaster crumbled, and great cracks appeared in the walls, running up to the curved ceiling.
Vessa flinched, looking up as pieces of the ceiling clattered and fell around him in a shower of dust and debris, then seemed to recall he was in no danger.
Tyrak said, “I knew it! They deceived me somehow. But how?”
They have powerful allies. The stone gods themselves assist them. Stone Father Brak instructed Mother Goddess Jeel to spirit the child from Kewri’s womb to another location.
“Where?” Tyrak pounded the floor, sending a giant crack running all the way up the length of the corridor—between the great sage’s feet. Again, Vessa almost jumped but controlled himself. “Tell me where, and I will go and crush it like a grape in my fist.”
That was not made known to me.
“What do you mean, not made known? Who makes these things known to you?”
Vessa hesitated, glancing over his shoulder as if concerned that someone might overhear him. Tyrak frowned. There was nobody in sight the entire length of the corridor at this time of night. No matter what Tyrak did or what sounds came from his chambers, none of his people would dare intrude upon his privacy until called for, unless they wanted their heads bitten off.
He realized that Vessa was not looking back at this corridor in Tyrak’s palace. He was looking back at the place where his physical body was right now, in some distant location.
I do not have much time, son of Kensura. I urge you, listen to my words and heed them well. This may be your only chance of ensuring that the eighth child is never born in this lifetime.
Tyrak frowned. Did that mean the child could be born in some other lifetime? There was more to the matter than Vessa was saying to him; he had always sensed this. Now he knew it was so. “First tell me this—why do you help me?”
Vessa looked at him. What do you mean, Tyrak?
“It is a simple enough question. Why help me? I am . . .” He gestured at himself, not needing to describe his own appearance or nature. “I am what I am. Usually stone priests like yourself, especially great sages, would be training warriors to kill persons like me. Instead, you appear mysteriously from time to time and offer me advice and warnings that have helped me prosper and gain power. Why are you so benevolent to me? Have I done something to merit your protection and blessing?”
Vessa looked away, avoiding Tyrak’s eyes. What difference does it make? I am helping you, as you yourself admit, so take my advice and use it well. There is an old saying among cattle farmers, perhaps it even originated from the Mraashk: Do not look a gifted uks in the mouth to check its health, for that might insult the one who gifts it to you! It is advice you would do well to heed.
Tyrak nodded. “In that case, begone.”
Vessa blinked. What did you say?
Tyrak waved a hand dismissively. “Begone. Away. Leave us be.” He looked at the great sage insolently, grinning wide enough to display his inner set of teeth, the ones that clamped down to break down particularly hard items, such as skulls or human thighbones. “I do not trust intelligence provided for unknown motives by one who openly says he is not my friend.” He smiled slyly. “And who is a known associate of the stone gods, sworn enemies of all urrkh, of which race, in case you were not aware, I am a member.”
Vessa glared, angry now. Great sages were not accustomed to being told to get lost.
Tyrak turned his back on his visitor, stretched his arms, and yawned languorously. “Now, either tell me what I wish to know or turn into a cartwheel and roll away.”
Vessa sulked for a long moment. Tyrak finished stretching and yawning and started to walk away. He was amused when the sage called him back. Good. Now, he would get some real answers, and then he could figure out how to make sure that little slayer was never born.