Pillars of Creation

by Terry Goodkind

  The razor-sharp blade, with Oba's powerful muscles pushing it, suddenly popped through the thick scales under the jaw. Oba watched, fascinated, as blood ran down his fist. The snake went wild with fear and pain. Any thoughts of conquest were long forgotten. Now, it wanted desperately to get away. The animal put all its considerable strength to that effort alone.

  But Oba was strong. Nothing ever escaped him.

  Straining with the effort, he dragged the twisting, turning, writhing body up onto higher, drier ground. He grunted as he lifted the heavy beast. Holding it aloft, screaming with fury, Oba ran forward. With a mighty lunge, he drove his knife into a tree, pinning the snake there with the blade through its lower jaw and roof of its mouth, like a long, third fang.

  The snake's yellow eyes watched, helpless, as Oba drew another knife from his boot. He wanted to see the life go out of those wicked yellow eyes as they watched him.

  Oba made a slit in the pale underbody, in the fold between rows of scales. Not a long slit. Not a slit that would kill. Just a slit big enough for his hand.

  Oba grinned. "Are you ready?" he asked the thing. It watched, unable to do anything else.

  Oba pushed his sleeve up his arm as far as he could, then wormed his hand in through the slit. It was a tight fit, but he wriggled his hand, then his wrist, then his arm into the living body, farther and farther as the snake whipped side to side, not just in its futile effort to escape, but now in agony. With a knee, Oba pinned the body to the trunk of the tree and with a foot held down the thrashing tail.

  For Oba, the world seemed to vanish around him as he felt what it was like to be a snake. He imagined he was becoming the animal, in its living body, feeling its skin around his own as he pushed his arm in. He felt its warm wet insides compressed around his flesh. He slithered his hand in deeper. He had to stand closer, so that he could get his arm down in farther, until his eyes were only inches from the snake's.

  Looking into those eyes, he was wildly exhilarated at seeing not just brutal pain, but the most marvelous terror.

  Oba felt his destination pulsing through the slippery viscera. Then, he found it-the living heart. It beat furiously in his hand, throbbing and jumping. As they gazed deeply into each other's eyes, Oba squeezed with his powerful fingers. In a thick, warm, wet gush, the heart burst. The snake thrashed with the sudden, wild strength of death. But as Oba held the quivering burst heart, each of the snake's movements became progressively more labored, more sluggish, until with one last rolling flip of its tail, it went still.

  The whole time, Oba stared into the yellow eyes, until he knew they were dead. It wasn't the same as watching a person die, because it lacked that singular connection of human identity-there were no complex human thoughts with which he could relate-but it was still thrilling to see death enter the living.

  He was liking the swamp better all the time.

  Victorious and blood-soaked, Oba squatted at the water's edge, washing himself and his knives clean. The entire encounter had been unexpected, rousing, and satisfying, although he had to admit that it was nowhere near as exciting with a snake as it was with a woman. With a woman, there was the thrill of sex added in to the experience, the thrill of

  having more than his hand inside her as death entered her, too, to share her body with him.

  There could be no greater intimacy than that. It was sacred.

  The dark water was turned red by the time Oba had finished. The color made him think of Jennsen's red hair.

  As he straightened, he checked to make sure he had all his belongings and hadn't lost anything in the struggle. He patted his pocket for the reassuring presence of his hard-eamed wealth.

  His money purse wasn't there.

  In cold panic, he thrust his hand in his pocket, but the purse was gone. He realized that he had to have lost it in the water while struggling with the snake. He kept the purse on the end of a thong he tied to a belt loop so as to be sure it was safe and couldn't be accidentally lost. He didn't see how it was possible, but the knot in the leather thong must have come loose in the struggle.

  He turned a scowl on the dead thing slumped in a heap at the base of the tree. In a screaming rage, Oba lifted the snake by the throat and pounded the lifeless head against the tree until the scales started sloughing off.

  Panting and drained from the effort, Oba finally halted. He let the bloody mass slip to the ground. Despondent, he decided he would have to dive back into the water and search for his missing money. Before he did, he made one last despairing check of his pocket. Looking closer, he saw, then, that leather thong he kept tied to his belt loop was still there. It hadn't come undone, after all. He pulled the short length of leather out in his fingers.

  It had been cut.

  Oba turned, looking back the way he had come. Clovis.

  Clovis was always pushing up close, yammering away, like a pesky fly buzzing around him. When Oba had bought the horses, Clovis had seen the money purse.

  With a growl, Oba glared back through the swamp. A light rain had begun to fall, making but a whisper against the living canopy of leaves. The drops felt cool on his heated face.

  He would kill the little thief. Slowly.

  Clovis would no doubt feign innocence. He would beg to be searched to prove he didn't have the missing money purse. Oba figured the man would likely have buried the money somewhere, intending to come back later and retrieve it.

  Oba would make him confess. There was no doubt in his mind about that. Clovis thought he was clever, but he had not met the likes of Oba Rahl before.

  Striking out back though the swamp to wring the hawker's neck, Oba didn't get far before he stopped. No. It had taken him a good long time to get this far. He had to be close to Althea's by now. He couldn't let his anger rule him. He had to think. He was smart. Smarter than his mother, smarter than Lathea the sorceress, and smarter than a scrawny little thief. He would act out of deliberate intent, not out of blind anger.

  He could deal with Clovis when he was finished with Althea.

  In a dark mood, Oba started out again toward the sorceress.

  CHAPTER 37

  Wching from a distance through the slow fall of rain, Oba didn't see anyone outside the cedar log house that lay beyond the tangled undergrowth and trees. There had been tracks-the boot prints of a manaround the shore of a small lake. The tracks weren't fresh, but they had led Oba up a path to the house. Smoke from the chimney curled lazily in the stagnant humid air.

  The house up ahead, almost hidden under trailers of moss and vines, had to be the home of the sorceress. No one else would be fool enough to live in such a miserable place.

  Oba crept lightly on the balls of his feet, up the back steps, up onto the narrow porch. Around in front, columns made of thick logs supported a low, overhanging roof. Out beyond the wide front steps lay a broad path-no doubt the way visitors timidly approached the sorceress for a telling.

  In the grip of rage, and well beyond any pretense of being polite enough to knock, Oba threw open the door. A small fire burned in the hearth. With only the fire and two little windows, the place was rather dimly lit. The walls were covered with fussy carvings, mostly of animals, some plain, some painted, and some gilded. It was hardly the way Oba chose to carve animals. The furnishings were better than any he had ever grown up with, but not nearly as nice as he had become accustomed to.

  Near the hearth, a woman with big dark eyes sat in an elaborately carved chair-the finest of the furnishings-like a queen on her throne, quietly watching him over the rim of a cup as she sipped. Even though her long golden hair was different and she didn't have that hauntingly austere cast to her face, Oba still recognized her features. Looking into those eyes, there could be no doubt. It was Lathea's sister.

  Eyes. That was something on one of the mental lists he kept.

  "I am Althea," she said, taking a cup away from her lips. Her voice wasn't at all like her sister's. It conveyed a sense of authority, as did Lathea's voice, yet it didn't ha
ve the haughty ring that went with it. She didn't rise. "I'm afraid you've arrived much sooner than I expected."

  Seeking to quickly nullify any potential threat, Oba ignored her and hurried to the rooms at the rear, checking first the room where he saw a workbench. Clovis had told him that Althea had a husband, Friedrich, and, of course, there had been a man's boot prints outside. Chisels, knives, and mallets were laid out in an orderly fashion. Each could be a deadly weapon in the right hands. The place had the tidy look of work put up for a time.

  "My husband is gone to the palace," she called from her chair by the fire. "We're alone."

  He checked for himself anyway, looking in the bedroom, and found it empty. She was telling the truth. But for the rain on the roof, the place was quiet. The two of them were indeed alone.

  Finally confident that they would not be disturbed, he returned to the main room. Without a smile, without a frown, without worry, she watched him coming toward her. Oba thought that if she had any brains, she should at least be worried. If anything, she looked resigned, or maybe sleepy. A swamp, with its heavy humid air, could certainly make a person drowsy.

  Not far from her chair, on the floor off to the side, rested a square board with an elaborate gilded symbol on it. It reminded him of something on one of his lists of things. A pile of small, smooth, dark stones sat to the side on the board. A large red and gold pillow lay near her feet.

  Oba paused, suddenly realizing the connection between one of the things on his lists and the gilded symbol on the board. The symbol reminded him of the dried base of a mountain fever rose-one of the herbs Lathea used to put in his cures. Most of Lathea's herbs were already ground up, but that one never was. She would crush a single one of the dried flowers only just before she added it to his cure. Such an ominous

  conjunction could only be a warning sign of danger. He had been right; this sorceress was the threat he had been concerned she might be.

  Fists flexing at his side, Oba towered over the woman as he glared down at her.

  "Dear spirits," she whispered to herself, "I thought that I would never again have to stare up into those eyes."

  "What eyes?"

  "Darken Rahl's eyes," she said. Her voice carried a thread of some distant quality, maybe regret, maybe hopelessness, maybe even terror.

  "Darken Rahl's eyes." A grin stole onto Oba's face. "That's very generous of you to mention."

  Not a trace of a smile visited her. "It was not a compliment."

  Oba's smile curdled.

  He was only mildly surprised that she knew he was the Darken Rahl's son. She was a sorceress, after all. She was also Lathea's sister. Who knew what that troublesome woman might have tattled from her eternal place in the world of the dead.

  "You're the one who killed Lathea."

  Her words were not so much question as condemnation. While Oba felt confident, because he was invincible, he remained wary. Though he had feared the sorceress Lathea his whole life, she had in the end turned out to be less formidable than he had reckoned.

  But Lathea was not the equal of this woman, not by any means.

  Rather than answer her accusation, Oba asked a question of his own.

  "What's a hole in the world?"

  She smiled a private smile, then held a hand out. "Won't you sit and have some tea with me?"

  Oba guessed that he had the time. He would have his way with this woman-he was sure of that. There was no rush to be done with it. In a way he regretted having rushed right into it with Lathea, before he'd thought to get answers to everything, first. Done was done, he always said.

  Althea, though, would answer all his questions. He would take his time and be sure if it. She would teach him many new things before they were finished. Such long-anticipated gratification should be savored, not rushed. He cautiously sank into the chair. A pot sat on the simple little table between the two chairs, but there was no second cup.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," she said when she noticed his eyes searching and

  realized the omission. "Please go to the cupboard over there and get a cup?"

  "You're the hostess of this tea party, why don't you go get it for me?"

  The woman's slender fingers traced the spiral curves at the ends of the chair's arms. "I'm afraid that I'm a cripple. I can't walk. I'm only able to drag my useless legs around the house and do a few simple things for myself. "

  Oba stared at her, not knowing if he believed her. She was sweating profusely-a sure sign of something. She was sure to be terrified in the presence of the man powerful enough to do away with her sorceress sister. Maybe she was trying to distract him, hoping to make a run for it as soon as he turned his back.

  Althea took her skirt between forefingers and thumbs and lifted the hem in a dainty manner, allowing him to see her knees and a little higher. He leaned over for a look. Her legs were mangled and withered. They looked like they had died ages ago and not been buried. Oba found the sight fascinating.

  Althea lifted an eyebrow. "Crippled, as I said."

  "How ?11

  "Your father's work."

  Well, wasn't that just something.

  For the first time, Oba felt a very tangible connection to his father.

  He had had a difficult and trying morning and was entitled to a leisurely cup of tea. In fact, he found the notion provocative. What he had in mind for her would be thirsty work. Oba crossed the room and retrieved the biggest cup from among the collection he found on a shelf. When he set the cup down, she poured it full of a dark thick tea.

  "Special tea," she explained when she noticed the frown on his face. "It can be terribly uncomfortable here in the swamp, what with the heat and humidity. This helps clear the head, too, after the onus of a morning's difficult tasks. Among other things, it will sweat the weariness from tired muscles-such as from a long walk."

  His head was pounding after his tough morning. Although his clothes were finally dry after his swim, and the blood had all been washed off, he wondered if she could somehow sense the difficult time he'd had. There was no telling what this woman could do, but he wasn't worried. He was invincible, as Lathea's end had proved.

  "Your tea will help all that?"

  "Oh yes. It's a very powerful tonic. It will cure many problems. You'll see for yourself."

  Oba saw that she was drinking the same thick tea. She was sweating, sure, so he figured she was right about that. She downed the rest of her cupful and poured herself another.

  She held her cup up in toast. "To sweet life, while we have it."

  Oba thought it an odd toast. It sounded almost as if she was admitting that she knew she was about to die.

  "To life," Oba said, lifting his cup to tap against hers. "While we have it."

  Oba took a gulp of the dark tea. He grimaced at recognizing the taste. It was what the symbol on the board represented-the mountain fever rose. He had learned to identify the bitter taste from the times when Lathea crushed one and added it to his cure.

  "Drink up," his companion said. Her breathing seemed labored. She took a few long swallows. "As I said, it will solve a lot of problems." She drained the rest in her cup.

  He knew that Lathea, despite her mean streak, sometimes mixed up cures to help sick people. While he'd waited on her to make cures for him and his mother, he had seen her crush up a mountain fever rose in many a concoction she mixed for others. Now, Althea was downing it by the cupful, so she obviously had faith in the distasteful herb, too. Such heavy humidity always gave Oba a headache. Despite the bitter taste, he took another sip, hoping it would help his sore muscles in addition to clearing his head.

  "I have some questions."

  "You mentioned that," Althea said, peering at him from over the rim of her cup. "And you expect me to provide answers."

  "That's right."

  Oba took another swallow of the heavy tea. He grimaced again. He didn't know why the woman called it "tea." There was no "tea" about it. It was just ground dried mountain fever rose in a little hot w
ater. Her dark-eyed gaze followed as he set the big cup on the table.

  The wind had picked up, beating the rain in against the window. Oba guessed he'd made it to her house just in time. Foul swamp. He turned his attention back to the sorceress.

  "I want to know what a hole in the world is. Your sister said that you could see holes in the world."

  "Did she now? I don't know why she would say such a thing."

  "Oh, I had to convince her," Oba said. "Am I going to have to convince you, too?"

  He hoped so. He tingled with the anticipation of getting to the bladework. But he was in no rush. He had time. He enjoyed playing games with the living. It helped him understand how they thought, so that when the time came and he looked into their eyes, he was better able to imagine what they were thinking as death hovered close.

  Althea tilted her head in gesture to the table between them. "The tea won't help if you don't have enough. Drink up."

  Oba waved off her concern and leaned closer on an elbow. "I've traveled a long way. Answer my question."

  Althea finally looked away from his glare and used her arms to lower her weight from her chair down onto the floor. It was quite a struggle. Oba didn't offer to help. It fascinated him to watch people struggle. The sorceress pulled herself to the red and gold pillow, dragging her useless legs behind. She worked herself into a sitting position and folded her dead legs up before herself. It was difficult, but she managed with precise and efficient moves that looked well practiced.

  All the effort puzzled him. "Why don't you use your magic?"

  She peered up at him with those big dark eyes so filled with silent condemnation. "Your father did the same to my magic as he did to my legs. "

  Oba was stunned. He wondered if his father had been invincible, too. Perhaps Oba had always been meant to be his father's true heir. Perhaps fate had finally stepped in and rescued Oba for better things.