A GENTLE BREEZE ROSE from the Jeel and blew through the city. It stirred the senses of even the most miserable souls in Arrgodi, awakening them to a tingling sense of expectation, of something about to happen. Rivers that had grown murky, sluggish, or parched began to flow with their full strength, their waters clear as crystal, sweet and fresh as if drawn directly from a glacier. Ponds that had dried up or turned to scum-covered mosquito breeding nests became clear and were filled with lotuses. Trees whose branches had withered straightened their bent boughs, turned slowly green again from the roots up to the highest leaf. Bees began to buzz and make honey, sweeter and thicker than ever before. Sacred fires burned on, even without fuel, as astonished brahmins exclaimed, each wanting to take credit for the miracle. The minds of penitents were at ease; hermits felt they had achieved the goal for which they had spent decades meditating. Chanteuses found themselves singing songs they had never heard before, and never knew they knew. Every sign, every omen, every portent, was auspicious.
In his palace, Tyrak had been gnawing on the thighbone of an uks while he listened to the tally of a new land tax he had imposed upon the Arrgodi and Mraashk nations. He was already enraged by the low count and the excuse given, that more and more Arrgodi were choosing to migrate to other lands rather than continue to live under his reign. He ordered all those found leaving their homes to be killed on the spot. But it occurred to him that if he killed everyone who could afford to pay the tax, then who would be left? Only those who could not afford it.
That was when he smelled the breeze blowing into the chamber, and smelled as well the secret message it carried. He rose from his throne and threw it across the sabha hall, breaking the great door of the assembly chamber. He threw back his head and bellowed in rage.
Somehow, despite all his efforts, the day he had feared had come to pass. The eighth child had been born. It was impossible—Vasurava and Kewri had been apart all this while, and Kewri had displayed no signs of pregnancy—but somehow the impossible had been accomplished.
He strode from the assembly hall, bellowing orders as he went. Bane and Uaraj scurried after him, trying to keep pace. Tyrak had expanded to thrice his normal size, and as he went, he banged his fists against walls, knocking out chunks of stone and brickwork, and slammed his shoulders into pillars, cracking them in two and endangering the ceilings they held up, shattering statuary, and generally demolishing his own palace without knowing or caring.
He emerged from the palace and bellowed for his mount. A very frightened mahout bowed low and tried to find a way to tell him that he had killed his war elephant during his last ride by losing his temper and expanding himself so suddenly that the beast was pressed to pulp beneath him. No mount, elephant or steed, could bear him.
Bane and Uaraj stood at a safe distance and attempted to pass on or execute Tyrak’s orders. From what they could follow, he wished to mobilize the entire army!
At that moment, the breeze changed.
Tyrak froze.
Suddenly, he went limp, his urrkh features settling, blazing red eyes rolling up in his head, and he fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Or a small mountain of bricks, because his body crushed the poor mahout, who was still bowing before him, as well as several other soldiers who were nearby.
Bane and Uaraj stared at this extraordinary sight.
“The king has fainted?” Uaraj said, barely able to believe the words himself, although he could clearly see Tyrak lying prone, arms flung out, drool dribbling from his parted lips. Something insectile with a thousand tiny hairy legs emerged from Tyrak’s mouth.
Bane was about to respond to Uaraj when suddenly his eyes rolled up and he collapsed as well. Uaraj followed. So did the soldiers standing or running around the courtyard of the palace. Within the palace, every single person did the same.
Across the city, everyone fell unconscious where they stood, or sat, or rode. People, animals, birds, insects, every living creature.
Because of the curfew, most citizens were safe in their homes at the time, and fell asleep in their chairs or beds. Tyrak’s soldiers, enforcing the curfew, patrolling, or engaged in other soldierly duties, were less fortunate. Some fell into horse troughs, others into cesspits; hundreds fell off their horses or elephants and broke their arms or legs or necks. Many died in bizarre accidents, like the captain of a company of soldiers who was about to set fire to a farmhouse because the owner had refused to supply free milk and butter to his soldiers. The captain had taken a burning brand from one of his soldiers, wanting to set fire to the house himself as the farmer and his distraught family watched and wept. The wind changed, and he fell off his horse, onto the burning brand. As he slept, the flames consumed his unconscious body, immolating him on the spot.
But most of the population was merely lulled into a sweet loss of consciousness.
Arrgodi slept.