Pillars of Creation

by Terry Goodkind

  As he was devoting his attention to trying to get her bottom off, her teeth seized his other forearm. The shock of pain stiffened him. Instead of pulling back, he rammed the arm in her teeth at her, smacking the back of her head against the stone. The second whack against the stone floor took a lot of the fight out of her and he was able to free his arm.

  Oba didn't want her unconscious. He wanted her awake. He watched

  her eyes as he rolled on top of her, forcing his knee between her thighs, and was pleased to see by the way she gritted her teeth, the way her eyes tracked his, that she was indeed aware of him.

  Cognition was integral to the experience. It was important that she be aware of what was happening to her, of the transformations that would take place in her living body. Aware of death staWing near, waiting, watching. It was essential to Oba that he see all her primal emotions and sensations through her expressive eyes.

  He licked the side of her neck, back behind her ear where the fine little

  hairs felt soft on his tongue. His teeth raked their way back down. Her neck tasted delightful. He knew she liked the feel of his lips and teeth on her, but she had to fight to keep up the pretense, lest he think her promiscuous. It was all part of her game. By the way she struggled, though, he knew how much she itched for him. As he nuzzled her neck, he worked with his other hand to unbuckle his trousers.

  "You've always wanted it like this," he whispered hoarsely, nearly delirious with his lust for her.

  "Yes," she answered, breathlessly. "Yes, you understand."

  This was new. He had never been with a woman before who was comfortable enough with her own needs to admit them aloud-except through the show of moans and cries. Oba realized that she must be frantic with desire to cast off pretense and confess her true feelings. It drove him crazy with hunger for her.

  "Please," she panted against the shoulder he had pressed to her jaw, holding her head against the floor, "let me help you."

  This was definitely new. "Help me?"

  "Yes," she confided urgently up toward his ear. "Let me help you unfasten your trousers so that you'll be free to touch me where I need it most."

  Oba was eager to oblige her brazen desires. Leaving her to the treasured task of opening his trousers left him free to grope her. She was a delightful creature-a fitting mate to a man like him, a Rahl, almost a prince. He had never had such a wonderfully unexpected and intimate experience. Apparently, knowing that he was royalty drove women delirious with uncontrollable yearnings.

  Oba grinned at her shameless need while her covetous fingers fumbled at unbuttoning his trousers. He shifted his weight to give her a little room for her work as he leisurely explored her feminine secrets.

  "Please," she breathed in his ear again as she finally got his trousers undone, "let me hold you down there? Please?"

  She was so hot for him that she had completely abandoned her dignity. He had to admit, though, that it didn't put him off. Biting her neck, he grunted his permission for her to go ahead.

  Oba lifted his hips so she could get at the objects of her lewd desire. He moaned with pleasure as she stretched her lithe body to reach down under him. He felt her long cool fingers gathering up his most private parts into her lovely hand.

  Driven by his unrestrained passion for her, Oba bit into her sumptuous

  neck again. She moaned with the feel of his teeth as she urgently collected his sac together in her greedy hand. He would reward her with the slowest death he could give her.

  She suddenly wrenched her handful around with such abrupt violence that as Oba jerked up, he went blind with the shock.

  The lightning jolt of pain was so acute that he couldn't draw a breath. While he was momentarily immobilized by the trauma, she lunged lower and seized him in a more tenacious grip. Without pause, she mercilessly wrung him even more forcibly the second time. His eyes bulged as he convulsed but once, tenting over her, the spasm fixing his muscles into stiff, stark rigidity. His thinking scrambled. He couldn't hear, see, breathe, or even cry out. He was paralyzed, ironbound in pure agony.

  Everything was one long, fiery-sharp, twisting pang. It went on without end. His mouth rounded, trying to scream, but no sound came out. It seemed forever before blurred vision started to return, along with jumbled sounds that filled his ringing ears.

  The room suddenly spun wildly. Tumbling across the stone floor, Oba realized he had been kicked in his side hard enough to drive the remaining wind from him. It was a complete mystery to him. He slammed into the wall and flopped to a stop. He had to pull hard several times before he could draw a breath. The pain lancing his side felt like a cow had kicked him, but it was nothing compared to the searing inferno in his groin.

  Then Oba saw the guard. The man had come back. That was who had kicked him in the side. Him, not her. She was still sprawled on the floor, her lovely flesh exposed in a teasing manner.

  The guard had a sword to hand. He went to one knee near the woman, checking her with quick glances.

  "Mistress Nyda! Mistress Nyda, are you all right?"

  She groaned as she tottered haltingly to her hands and knees while the man, in a crouch, feet spread, watched Oba. He looked like he feared to help her, to even look at her, but he didn't look to fear Oba. Oba lay back against the wall, gathering his wits as he watched the two of them.

  She didn't try to cover her hips, her exposed breasts. Oba knew that she was still game for him, but with the guard there, she couldn't show her feelings. She must be insane with lust for him to have provoked him so by what she had done.

  Oba pushed himself up a bit, getting his wind back, as the feeling began returning to his tingling extremities. He watched the womanMistress Nyda, the guard had called her-staggering to her feet.

  Oba lay still, listening to the voice whispering to him, as he watched sweat run across her skin. She was divine. He still had much to learn from a woman like this. There were pleasures untold yet to come.

  Still recovering his strength, Oba rose up, leaning against the wall, watching as she provocatively used the back of one hand to wipe blood from her mouth. With her other hand, she tugged at her leather outfit, trying to cover herself. She was dazed, no doubt by her heady brush with lust, and was unable to get her trembling hands to work right. Having trouble balancing, she staggered sideways a couple of steps. It appeared as if it was all she could do to stand. Oba was surprised that her bones weren't broken, considering their brief but vigorous love tussle. There would be time for that.

  Blood trickled from the love bites on her neck. He noticed that her blond hair was matted with blood from when he had banged her head against the stone floor. Oba reminded himself to be mindful of his strength, lest he end it prematurely. That had happened before. He had to be careful; women were delicate.

  Oba, still panting to catch his breath, still hobbled by the throbbing ache between his legs, fixed his gaze on the guard. The man had remarkable control to stand there so confidently, considering that he was in the presence of a Rahl.

  Their gazes met. The man took a step forward.

  The eyes of the voice opened to look at him, too.

  The man froze.

  Oba grinned.

  "Mistress Nyda," the guard whispered, his eyes staring, fixed on Oba, "I think you'd better get out of here."

  She frowned at him as she tried to pull her leather up over her shapely hips. She was still having trouble balancing, and trying to tug her outfit back into place wasn't helping.

  "We don't want her to leave," Oba said.

  The guard's wide eyes stared.

  "We don't want her to leave," Oba said again, in unison with the voice. "We can both enjoy her."

  "We don't want her to leave . . ." the guard repeated.

  Pausing in her attempt to cover herself, Mistress Nyda looked from the guard to Oba.

  "Bring her to me," Oba commanded, amazed at what the voice could

  think of, and delighted by the very notion. "Bring her over here, and
we will both have her."

  The woman, still unsteady, followed Oba's gaze to the guard. When she saw his face, she tried to snatch her dangling red rod. The guard seized her wrist, preventing her from getting at it. His other hand swept around her waist. She fought him, but he was a big man, and she was already woozy.

  Oba grinned as he watched the guard dragging the struggling Nyda closer. The man's fingers roamed over her exposed flesh as Oba's had done.

  "She feels delightful, don't you think?" Oba asked.

  The guard smiled and nodded as he wrestled the woman toward the back of the prison cell where Oba and the voice waited.

  When they were close enough, Oba reached for her. It was time he finished what he had started. Finished it good.

  She seized the guard's clothes in her fists for support. With stunning speed, her whole body twisted in midair. From nowhere, for just an instant, Oba saw the bottom of the heel of her boot flying at his face like a bolt of lightning. Before he could react, the world went black amid a stunning crash of pain.

  CHAPTER 43

  Oba opened his eyes to darkness. He was lying on his back, on a stone floor. His face throbbed in pain. He drew his knees up and comforted his aching groin.

  That vixen, Nyda, had proven as troublesome as any woman he had ever known. It seemed like he was always being tormented by troublesome women. They were all jealous of him, of his importance. They were all trying to keep him down.

  Oba was getting weary of waking up in cold dark places, too. He had hated the way, throughout his life, he was always waking up in some confined place. They were always hot or cold. No place he had ever been locked in was ever comfortable.

  He wondered if his lunatic mother, or the troublesome sorceress, Lathea, or her swamp-witch sister had something to do with this. They were selfish, and certain to be bent on revenge. This had all the markings of a vindictive act by that pompous trio.

  But they were dead. Oba wasn't entirely certain that death protected him from those three harpies. They were devious in life; death wasn't likely to have reformed them.

  The more he thought about it, though, he had to admit that this was most likely entirely the doing of that vixen in red leather, Nyda. She had cleverly pretended to be dizzy and disoriented until the guard had brought

  her close enough to strike, and then she had kicked him. She was something. It was hard to hold a grudge against a woman who wanted him so badly. The thought of not having Oba exclusively probably drove her to it. She wanted to be alone with him. He supposed he couldn't blame her.

  Now that he had publicly acknowledged his royal standing, Oba had to recognize that there would be women of such intense passions who would want what he had to offer. He had to be prepared to live up to the demands of being a true Rahl.

  Groaning in pain, Oba rolled over. With the aid of his hands, pushing first against the floor and then a wall, he was finally able to lever himself upright. His own discomfort would only heighten the pleasures of the eventual conquest of his concubine. He had learned that somewhere. Maybe the voice had told him.

  He saw a small slit of light, much smaller than the opening in the door in the last place, but it at least helped him get his bearings. Feeling along the cold stone walls, he began to take stock of the room. Almost immediately he came to a comer. He moved his hand sideways from the comer, along the rough stone of the wall, and was alarmed when he shortly come to another comer. With increasing urgency, he traced the walls and was horrified to discover how tiny the room was. He must have been lying comer to comer, for it wasn't large enough for him to lie down any other way.

  The suffocating terror of such a small place welled up, threatening to smother him. He couldn't get his breath. He pressed a hand to his throat, trying mightily to pull a breath. He was certain he would go mad being confined in such a small pen.

  Maybe it wasn't Nyda, after all. This did have all the marks of his insidious mother's doing. Perhaps she had been watching from the world of the dead, gleefully conniving, plotting how she could harass him. The troublesome sorceress had probably helped her. The swamp-witch had no doubt butted in to offer her assistance. Together, the three women had managed to reach out from the world of the dead and help the vixen Nyda lock him back in a tiny place.

  He raced around the cramped little room, feeling the walls, terrified that they were shrinking in toward him. He was too big to be in such a small room where he couldn't even breathe. Fearing he might use up all the air in the room and then slowly suffocate, Oba threw himself against the door and pressed his face up against the opening, trying to suck in the outside air.

  Weeping with self-pity, Oba wanted nothing so much at that moment as to bash his lunatic mother's head in all over again.

  After a time, he listened to the voice counseling him, reassuring him, calming him, and began gathering his wits. He was smart. He had triumphed over all those who had conspired against him, despite how evil they were. He would get out. He would. He had to pull himself together and act up to his station in life.

  He was Oba Rahl. He was invincible.

  Oba put his eyes up to the slit to peer out, but he could see little more than another dim space beyond. He wondered if maybe he was in a box inside a box, and for a time he pounded at the door, screaming and crying at the terror of such a sinister torture.

  How could they be so cruel? He was a Rahl. How could they do this to an important person? Why would they treat him this way? First, they locked him up as a common criminal, in with the scum of humanity, for doing the right thing and dispensing justice to rid the land of a lawless thief, and now this wicked persecution.

  Oba concentrated, putting his mind to something else. He remembered then the look on Nyda's face when she had first gazed into his eyes. She had recognized him for who he was. Nyda had known the truth, that he was the son of Darken Rahl, just by looking into his eyes. Small wonder she had wanted him so badly. He was important. Selfish people were like that; they wanted to be near those who were great, and then they wanted to keep them down. She was jealous. That was why he was locked up-petty jealousy. It was as simple as that.

  Oba pondered that look in Nyda's eyes when she had first seen him. The look of recognition on her face had sparked memories that enabled him to put odd bits together. He mulled over the new thing he had learned.

  Jennsen was his sister. They were both holes in the world.

  It was too bad she was kin; she was seductively beautiful. He thought her ringlets of red hair were quite bewitching even if he worried that they might signify some magical ability. Oba sighed as he pictured her in his mind. He was too principled to consider her as a lover. They shared the same father, after all. Despite her ravishing looks and the way thinking of her made his groin wake, if painfully, his integrity wouldn't allow such a breach of decency. He was Oba Rahl, not some rutting animal.

  Darken Rahl had fathered her, too. That was a wonder. Oba wasn't sure what he thought about that. They shared a bond. The two of them stood against a world of jealous people who wanted to keep them from great-

  ness. Lord Rahl sent quads to hunt her, so she would have no loyalty there. Oba wondered if it could be that she might be a valuable ally.

  On the other hand, he recalled the anxiety in her eyes when she looked at him. Maybe she recognized in his eyes who he was-that he, too, was the son of Darken Rahl, like she was. Maybe she already had plans of her own that didn't include him. Maybe she was upset that he existed. Maybe she, too, would be an adversary, intent on having it all for herself.

  Lord Rahl-their own brother-wanted to keep them down because they were both important, that much seemed likely. Lord Rahl didn't want to share all the riches that rightfully belonged to Jennsen and Oba. Oba wondered if Jennsen would be as selfish. After all, such selfish tendencies seemed to run in the family. How Oba had avoided that wicked aspect of heritage was a wonder.

  Oba felt his pockets, recalling as he did so that he had done the same thing when he had been
in the other room with the criminals, but his pockets were empty. Lord Rahl's people had stripped him of his wealth before locking him away. They had probably taken it for themselves. The world was full of thieves, all after Oba's hard-eamed wealth.

  Oba paced, as best he could in such a confined place, trying not to think of how small it was. All the while he listened to the voice advising him. The more he listened, the more things made sense to him. More and more items on the mental lists he kept began falling into place. The grand tapestry of lies and deception that had so afflicted him knitted itself together into a broader picture. And, solutions began to solidify.

  His mother had known all along, of course, how important Oba really was. She had wanted to keep him down from the first. She had locked him in his pen because she was jealous of him. She was jealous of her own little boy. She was a sick woman.

  Lathea had known, too, and had conspired with his mother to poison him. Neither had the bold nerve to simply do away with him. They weren't that kind. They both hated him for his greatness, and enjoyed making him suffer, so their plan from the first appeared to have been to poison him slowly. They called it a "cure" so as to soothe their guilty consciences.

  All along, his mother wore him down with menial chores, treated him with contempt, heaped endless scorn on him, and then sent him to Lathea to retrieve his own poison. Loving son that he was, he had gone along with their devious plans, trusting in their words, their instructions, never suspecting that his mother's love was a cruel lie, or that they might have a secret plan.

  The bitches. The conniving bitches. They had both gotten what they deserved.

  And now Lord Rahl was trying to hide him, to deny to the world that he existed. Oba paced, thinking it through. There was too much he still didn't know.

  After a time, he calmed and did as the voice told him; he went to the door and put his mouth near the opening. He was, after all, invincible.