The Pillars of Creation

Chapter 56

WelI, wasn’t that just something.

Oba could hardly believe that he had dropped his money purse. He was always so careful. He huffed in exasperation. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. Either it was a scheming little cutpurse, or some thieving woman, always after his money. Was that all that the small-minded little people cared about? Money? After all his troubles, all the envious covetous conniving people trying to get at his hard-earned fortune, Oba had learned that a man of his standing had to always be careful. He could hardly believe that, this time, he had done it to himself.

He hurriedly checked his pockets, inside his shirt, down in his trousers. All his pouches full of his considerable wealth were there, right where they belonged. He supposed that the one out on the path might not be his, but what were the odds that someone else would drop a purse right there?

When he checked the top of his boots, he found that one of his money purses was missing. Fuming, Oba checked the leather thong he always kept tied around his ankle, and found it had come untied.

Someone had untied his money purse.

He peered out through the trees, watching the touching scene. His brother, Richard, and his precious wife turned to the man who had found the purse—Oba’s purse, full of his money.

“It was stolen by the man who I believe caused the death of my wife.” Oba heard the man exclaim.

Oba’s jaw dropped. It was the husband of the swamp-witch—the obnoxious selfish sorceress who wouldn’t answer Oba’s questions.

Oba knew better than to think that this could all be some comical coincidence. He just flat knew better.

“Don’t touch it!” Richard Rahl and the Mother Confessor yelled at the same time.

“Run!” the other woman yelled.

Oba watched them bolt like frightened deer. He realized that the voice was up to something. He knew that the voice used what belonged to people to reach out to them. Oba looked to each side, to the glowing yellow eyes watching with him, and grinned.

The very air shook as if the ground right there where the money purse hit had been struck by lightning. The hounds whined and backed away. Oba plugged each ear with a finger and squinted as he watched the violet concussion spread outward in a circle like the rings in a pond when he threw in a dead animal.

In a brutal instant, quicker than thought, the people were flattened as the ring of violet light raced outward faster than his eye could follow. Oba’s hair was blown back as the undulating circle swept past him. In its wake the ground was left covered with a still, cottony bed of eerie violet smoke.

Oba’s suspicions had been proven right; the voice was planning something grand. He wondered with delight what it could be.

The scene had gone still, but Oba watched for a time to be sure the four people wouldn’t get up. Only after he was confident that it was safe did he finally rise up from his secret watching place, the place where the voice had told him to wait.

The voice urged him on, now. The hounds stayed well behind, watching, as Oba hurried across the smoke-covered ground. It was the strangest smoke he had ever seen—a softly glowing bluish violet, but most odd of all, it didn’t swirl as Oba ran through it. His legs passed through the still vapor without causing it to stir, as if it were in another world altogether and he wasn’t there with it, but just walking in the same place in this world.

The four lay sprawled on the ground right where they had fallen. Oba cautiously leaned closer, while trying to stay at a safe distance, and found them all breathing, if slowly. Their eyes weren’t closed. He wondered if they could see him. When he waved his arms, none of the four reacted.

Oba bent over Richard Rahl, peering into his still face. He waved a hand low, right before his brother’s unblinking eyes. There was no response.

It was hard to see in the starlight, but Oba was sure he could make out in those eyes a bit of the fascinating family resemblance. It was a spooky feeling seeing a man who had a trace of similarity in his looks. Oba looked more like his mother, though. That would be just like her to want him to look more like her than his father. The woman was completely self-centered. She had tried to deny him his rightful place at every turn, even in his looks. The selfish bitch.

But Richard was the man cheating Oba from his rightful place, now, the place their father would have wanted Oba to have. After all, Oba and Darken Rahl shared special qualities that Oba was sure his brother didn’t have.

A check showed that the old husband of the swamp-witch was breathing, too. Oba recovered his money purse from nearby and shook it over the man’s staring eyes, but he, too, showed no response. Oba tied the purse back around his ankle, now that the voice was finished with it.

Oba wasn’t thrilled about the voice using his money for such tricks, but with all the voice had done for him, making him invincible and all, he guessed he couldn’t begrudge a favor now and again. As long as it didn’t became a habit.

The woman with them had a single long braid lying out across the grassy ground. She wore one of those strange rods on a chain around her wrist. He realized that she was a Mord-Sith. He squeezed her breasts. She didn’t react. He grinned as he lingered at doing it again. With her so willing, and all, he considered what else he might do. The idea was startlingly arousing.

Oba realized, then, there was someone handy who was even better than a Mord-Sith. He peered over at her. His brother’s wife, the woman they called the Mother Confessor, was lying there close by for the taking. What better justice than to have her?

Oba crawled over to her, his grin fading with awed reverence when he saw how beautiful she was. She lay on her back, one arm thrown out to the side, her fingers open and slack, as if pointing the way south. Her other arm lay casually across her stomach. Her eyes, too, stared up at nothing.

Oba carefully reached out and ran the back of a finger down her cheek. It was as soft as the silken petal of a rose. He pushed a long strand of hair back from her face to better see her features. Her lips were slightly parted.

Oba bent over her, putting his lips close to hers, running his hand up her body, feeling her luscious form. His hand glided up the mound of her breast. He fondled it gently in his big hand, just to show her that he could be gentle. He reached over and squeezed her other breast, but still she refused to acknowledge how excited she was by his gentle, tantalizing touch.

Quick as a fox, Oba blew in her parted mouth. She didn’t react at all. He suspected that she was playing a game with him, teasing him. The haughty bitch.

She was going nowhere, now. She could not run, now. The voice had apparently given him a gift. Oba threw his head back and laughed at the sky. As the hounds far back in the shadows watched, he howled his delight at the stars.

Smiling, Oba bent back over Lord Rahl’s wife, staring into her eyes. She was probably by now bored with her Lord Rahl husband, and was ready for an adventuresome romp. The more Oba thought about it, the more he realized that this woman should be his. She belonged to the Lord Rahl. By all rights, Oba should keep her as his wife when he became the new Lord Rahl.

And, he would be the Lord Rahl; the voice had told him that such things were within his reach.

Oba gazed at the sweep of her features, the curve of her body. He wanted his woman. He’d been doing favors for the voice, and hadn’t had time to be with a woman for ages. The voice had been prodding him ever onward at a breakneck pace. It was about time Oba had the pleasure of a woman. His hand roamed lightly over the Mother Confessor’s body as he contemplated the satisfaction to come.

But he didn’t like the others watching him. They all refused to close their eyes and give him and the lady some privacy. Busybodies—all of them. Oba grinned. He supposed it might be a thrill to have her husband watch his wife’s new master. The grin faded. What business was it of Richard’s if she wanted a new man—a better man?

Oba bent over his brother and pushed his eyelids closed. He did the same for the old man. He paused, deciding to let the other woman watch. It would undoubtedly arouse her to see Oba in action. Such arousal was a small favor, but Oba was inclined to do such favors for attractive women.

Trembling with anticipation, knowing he could grant her the thrill he knew she craved, Oba bent to rip open the Mother Confessor’s clothes. Before his fingers could touch her, a violent flash of violet light threw him back. Oba sat up, stunned, confused, pressing his hands to the nerveshredding agony shrieking through his head. The voice was crushing his mind with punishing pain.

Oba shoved at the ground with his feet, backing away from the Mother Confessor, and at last the pain eased. He sagged, panting with exhaustion after the brief bout. He felt downhearted that the voice would punish him so, dejected that the voice would be so cruel as to deny him so simple a pleasure, and after all the good things he had done.

The voice changed, then, cooing to him, whispering about the important calling it had for him—important works that only Oba was qualified to do. Through his melancholy, Oba listened.

Oba was important, or the voice would not rely on him. Who else but Oba could accomplish such things as the voice asked of him? Who else could the voice depend on to set things right?

Now, in the silence of the still night, the voice made clear what it was Oba was to do. If he did as he was asked, then there would be rewards. Oba grinned at the pledges. First, he had to do the favor; then the Mother Confessor would be his. That wasn’t so hard. Once she was his, he could do with her whatever he wanted, with the voice’s blessing, and no one would interfere. Pictures of it—along with the smells, the feel, the cries of her pleasure—came into his mind, and he nearly fainted with the promise of such rapture. Oba could wait for an encounter such as this would be.

He glanced over at the Mord-Sith. She could provide him some entertainment in the meantime. A man such as he, a man of action, great intellect, and heavy responsibilities, had to have a release of his pent-up tensions. Such diversions were a necessary outlet for a man of Oba’s importance.

He bent over the Mord-Sith, grinning into her open eyes. She was to be honored to be the first to have him. The Mother Confessor would have to wait her turn. He reached out to pull off her clothes.

Oba’s head suddenly flared with howling, blinding agony. He pressed his hands to his ears until it stopped—after he agreed.

The voice was right. Of course it was; he could see that, now. Only when Richard Rahl was dead could Oba take his rightful place. That made sense. It would be best to do things right. In fact, it would be wrong to bring pleasure to these women before he had done what needed doing.

What had he been thinking? They didn’t deserve him, yet. They should first see him as the important man he was shortly to become, and then they would have to beg to have him. They didn’t deserve him until they begged.

He had to be quick. The voice said they would wake soon—that Lord Rahl would soon figure out how to break the spell of sleep.

Oba pulled his knife and crawled to his brother. Lord Rahl was still staring dumbly at the stars.

“Who’s the big oaf, now?” he asked his brother.

Lord Rahl had no answer. Oba put the knife to Richard’s throat, but the voice warned him back, and filled his mind instead with what he must do. He had to do it right. He had to hurry. There was no time for such common retribution. There were much better ways to do such things—ways that would punish the man for all the years he had kept Oba from his rightful place. Yes, that was what Richard Rahl needed: proper punishment.

Oba put his knife away and ran back over the nearby hill as fast as his legs would carry him. When he returned with his horse, the four were still lying there in the blue fog, staring up at the stars.

Oba did as the voice asked, and scooped up the Mother Confessor in his arms. She had now been promised to him. He would have her when the voice was done borrowing her. Oba could wait. The voice had promised him delights that Oba would never have dreamed up on his own. This was turning out to be a very beneficial partnership. For the paltry work involved, and the small delay, Oba would have everything that rightfully belonged to him: the rule of D’Hara and the woman who would be his queen.

Queen. Oba puzzled at that as he heaved her body over the back of the saddle. Queen. If she was a queen, then he would have to be a king. He supposed that would be better than “Lord” Rahl. King Oba Rahl. Yes, that made better sense. He worked quickly to lash her down.

Before he mounted up, Oba peered down at his brother. He couldn’t kill him. Not yet. The voice had plans. If Oba was anything, he had always been accommodating; he would oblige the voice. He put a foot in the stirrup. The voice tickled at him. He turned back, looking.

He wondered . . .

He cautiously returned to Richard’s side. Carefully, Oba reached out and experimentally touched the sword. The voice murmured indulgently.

A king should have a proper sword. Oba grinned. He deserved a small reward for all his hard work.

He pulled the baldric off over Richard Rahl’s head. He lifted the scabbard close, inspecting his gleaming new sword. The wire-wound hilt had a word woven into each side.

“TRUTH”

Well, wasn’t that just something.

He lifted the baldric over his head and placed the scabbard at his hip. He patted his new wife’s bottom before he mounted up. From the saddle, Oba grinned out at the night. He circled his horse around until the voice pointed him in the right direction.

Hurry hurry, before Lord Rahl woke. Hurry hurry, before he could be caught. Hurry hurry, away with his new bride.

He thumped his heels to the horse’s ribs and off they charged. The hounds bounded out of the woods, a king’s faithful escort.