The Pillars of Creation

Chapter 11

Oba hated it to end, but he knew it had to. He would have to get home. His mother would be angry if he stayed too long in town. Besides, he could wring no more enjoyment out of Lathea. She had given him all the satisfaction she was ever going to give him.

It had been fascinating, while it lasted. Boundlessly fascinating. And he had learned many new things. Animals simply did not provide the same kind of sensations as those he had gotten from Lathea. True, watching a person die was in many ways much like watching an animal die, but at the same time it was oh so very different. Oba had learned that.

Who knew what a rat was really thinking—or if rats could even think at all? But people could think. You could see their mind through their eyes, and you knew. To know they were thinking real people thoughts—not some chicken-rabbit-rat thoughts—behind those human eyes, behind that look that said it all, was intoxicating. Witnessing Lathea’s ordeal had been rapture. Especially as he waited for that singular inspirational instant of ultimate anguish when her soul fled her human form, and the Keeper of the Dead received her into his eternal realm.

Animals did give him a thrill, though, even if they lacked that human element. There was tremendous enjoyment to be had in nailing an animal to a fence, or a barn wall, and skinning them while they were still alive. But he didn’t think they had a soul. They just . . . died.

Lathea had died, too, but it had been a whole new experience.

Lathea had made him grin like he had never grinned before.

Oba unscrewed the top of the lamp, pulled out the woven wick, and dribbled lamp oil across the floor, over the broken pieces of the trestle table, around Lathea’s medicine cabinet lying facedown in the center of the room.

As much as he knew he would enjoy it, he couldn’t just leave her there to be discovered. There would be questions, if she was found like this. He glanced over at her. Especially if she was found like this.

That idea did hold a certain fascination. He would enjoy listening to all the hysterical talk. He would love to hear people tell him all the macabre details of the monstrous death Lathea had suffered. The very idea of a man who could have taken the powerful sorceress out in such a grisly fashion would cause a sensation. People would want to know who had done it. To some folk, he would be an avenging hero. People everywhere would be abuzz. As word spread about Lathea’s ordeal and gruesome end, the gossip would heat to a fever pitch. That would be fun.

As he emptied the last of the lamp oil, he saw his knife, where he’d left it, beside the overturned cabinet. He tossed the empty lamp on the heap of ruin and bent to retrieve his knife. It was a mess. Couldn’t have an omelet without breaking eggs, his mother always said. She said it a lot. In this case, Oba thought her tired old saw fit.

With one hand, he took Lathea’s favorite chair and tossed it into the center of the room, then began carefully cleaning his blade on the quilted throw from the chair. His knife was a valuable tool, and he kept it razor sharp. He was relieved to see the shine returning when the blood and slop was wiped off. He’d heard that magic could be troublesome in untold ways. Oba had briefly worried that the sorceress might be made up of some kind of dreadful acid sorceress—blood that once spilled would eat through steel.

He looked around. No, just regular blood. Lots of it.

Yes, the sensation this would create would be exciting.

But, he didn’t like the idea of soldiers coming around to ask questions. They were a suspicious lot, soldiers. They would poke their noses into it, sure as cows gave milk. They would spoil everything with their suspicion and questions. He didn’t think that soldiers appreciated omelets.

No, best if Lathea’s house burned down. That wouldn’t provide nearly the enjoyment that all the conversation and scandal would, but it also wouldn’t be so suspicious. People’s houses burned down all the time—especially in winter. Logs rolled out of fireplaces, spilling flaming coals; sparks shot into curtains and set homes ablaze; candles melted down and fell, catching things on fire. Happened all the time. Not really suspicious, a fire in the dead of winter. With all the lightning and sparks the sorceress sent flying willy-nilly, it was a wonder the place hadn’t already burned down. The woman was a menace.

Of course, someone might notice the blaze way down at the end of the road, but by then it would be too late. By then the fire would be too hot for anyone to be able to come near the place. Tomorrow, if no one found the place ablaze, there would be nothing but ashes.

He let out a sad sigh for the stillborn gossip, for what might have been, if not for the tragic fire that would be blamed for Lathea’s end.

Oba knew about fires. Over the years, several of his homes had burned down. Their animals had been burned alive. That was back when they had lived in other towns, before they moved to the place where they lived now.

Oba liked to watch a place burn, liked to hear the animals scream. He liked it when people came running, all in a panic. They always seemed puny in the face of what he created. People were afraid when there was a fire. The uproar caused by a burning building always swelled him with a sense of power.

Sometimes, as they yelled for more help, men would throw buckets of water on the fire or beat at the roaring flames with blankets, but that never stopped a fire Oba had started. He wasn’t slipshod. He always did good work. He knew what he was doing.

Finally finished cleaning and polishing his knife, he threw the bloody quilted throw on the oil-soaked wood beside the overturned cabinet.

What was left of Lathea was nailed to the back of the cabinet that lay facedown on the floor. She stared at the ceiling.

Oba grinned. Soon, there would be no ceiling for her to stare up at. His grin widened. And no eyes to stare with.

Oba saw a glint of light on the floor beside the cabinet. He bent and recovered the small object. It was a gold coin. Oba had never seen a gold mark before that night. It must have fallen from the pocket of Lathea’s dress, along with the others. He slipped the gold coin into his own pocket, where he’d put the rest he had collected from the floor. He’d also found a fat purse under her sleeping pallet.

Lathea had made him rich. Who knew that the sorceress had been so wealthy? Some of that money, earned by his mother from her spinning and used for his hated cures, had at last returned to Oba. Justice, finally done.

As Oba started for the fireplace, he heard the soft but unmistakable crunch of footsteps in the snow outside. He froze in midstride.

The footsteps were coming closer. They were approaching the door to Lathea’s house.

Who would be coming to Lathea’s place this late at night? That was just plain inconsiderate. Couldn’t they wait until morning for their cures? Couldn’t they let the poor woman get her rest? Some people only thought of themselves.

Oba snatched up the poker leaning against the fireplace and quickly spilled the burning oak logs out of the hearth and across the oil-soaked floor. The oil, the splintered wood, the bedsheets, and the quilted throw caught flame with a woosh. Dense white smoke swirled up around Lathea’s pyre.

Quick as a fox, Oba scurried out the hole that the troublesome sorceress had conveniently blown through the back wall when she had tried to kill him with her magic.

She didn’t know that he had become invincible.

Jennsen was pulled up short when Sebastian caught her by the arm. She turned to see his face in the dim light coming from the only window. That orange glow danced in his eyes. She knew immediately by his serious expression that she should remain silent.

Sebastian noiselessly drew his sword as he slipped past her on his way to the door. In that smooth, practiced movement, she saw a professional, a man familiar with such business.

He leaned to the side, trying for a look through the window without having to step into the deep snow below it. He turned back and whispered.

“Fire!”

Jennsen rushed to him. “Hurry. She might be asleep. We have to warn her.”

Sebastian considered for only an instant, then burst through the door. Jennsen was right on his heels. She had difficulty making sense of what she saw inside. The place was washed in whirling orange light that cast monstrous shadows up the walls. In that wavering light, everything seemed surreal, out of scale, and out of place.

When she spotted the debris in the center of the room, it became only too real. She saw a woman’s open hand sticking out beyond the top of what looked to be a tall wooden cabinet that had fallen. Jennsen drew a choking gasp of smoke and the smell of lamp oil. Thinking that maybe the cabinet had toppled and hurt the old sorceress, Jennsen rushed to help.

As she raced around the foot of the splintered chest, she caught the full view of what was left of Lathea.

The shock of it stiffened her. She couldn’t move, couldn’t blink her wide eyes. She gagged on the sickly stench of butchery and blood. As Jennsen stared, her anguished cry was lost in the leaping roar of flames and crackle of burning wood.

Sebastian briefly took in the remains of Lathea nailed to the back of the cabinet, only one detail of many as his gaze scanned the room. By his calculated movements, she surmised that he had seen such things enough that the human element no longer arrested his attention as it did hers.

Jennsen.

Jennsen’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her knife. She could feel the ornately worked ridges of metal pressing against her palm, the worked metal peaks and whorls that made up the letter “R.” As she gasped her breath past the nausea welling up inside, she pulled the blade free.

Surrender.

“They’ve been here,” she whispered. “The D’Haran soldiers have been here.”

What she detected in his eyes was more like surprise, or confusion, than anything else.

He frowned as he glanced around again. “Do you really think so?”

Jennsen.

She ignored the echo of the dead voice in her head and thought back to the man they had met out on the road after they had come to see the sorceress the first time. He was big, blond, and good-looking, like most D’Haran soldiers. She hadn’t thought at the time that he was a soldier. Could he have been one, though?

No, if anything, he had seemed more intimidated by them than they were of him. Soldiers didn’t behave the way that man had.

“Who else? We didn’t see all of them, before. It had to be the rest of the quad from back at my house. When we escaped out the back way, they must have somehow followed us.”

He was still peering about as the flames grew, now licking at the ceiling. “I guess you could be right.”

Surrender.

“Sebastian, we have to get out of here, now, or we’ll be next.” Jennsen clutched the cloak at his shoulder, pulling him away. “They may be near—right now.”

“But, how could they know?”

“Dear spirits, Lord Rahl is a wizard! How does he do anything he does? How did he find my house?”

Sebastian was still looking, prodding at the rubble with his sword. Jennsen tugged again at his cloak, urging him toward the open door.

“Your house . . .” he said, frowning. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

“We have to get out of here before they catch us!”

He nodded, reassuring her. “Where do you want to go?”

They both watched the dark doorway over their shoulders as well as the growing conflagration to their other side.

“We’ve no choice, now,” Jennsen said. “Lathea was our only hope to find an answer. We have to go to the People’s Palace, now. Find her sister, Althea. She’s the only one with any answers. She’s a sorceress, too, and the only one who can see the holes in the world—whatever that means.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

She thought about the voice. It sounded so cold and lifeless in her head. It had surprised her. She hadn’t heard it since her mother’s murder.

“What other choice do we have, now? If I’m ever to know why Lord Rahl wants to kill me, why he murdered my mother, why I’m hunted, and maybe how to escape his clutches for good, then I have to go find this woman, Althea. I have to!”

He hurried with her through the door and out into the bitter night. “We better go back and get our things together. We can get an early start.”

“With them this close, I fear to be trapped in the inn while we sleep. I have the money from my mother. You have what you took from the men. We can buy horses. We have to leave tonight and hope that no one saw us come here earlier, or again, now.”

Sebastian sheathed his sword. His breath streamed out into the night as he considered their options.

He glanced back through the door. “With the fire, at least there won’t be any evidence of what happened here. We have that much going for us. No one saw us come here earlier, so no one will have cause to ask us questions. No one will know we were here again. They won’t have any reason to tell soldiers about us.”

“As long as we get out of here before it’s discovered and everyone gets suspicious,” Jennsen said. “Before soldiers start asking about strangers in town.”

He took her arm. “All right. Let’s be quick, then.”