Terry Goodkind - The Pillars of Creation

He thought that Lathea was even more surprised about it than he. Her mouth hung open in astonishment. Her wide eyes stared.

All his life he had feared this scarecrow.

Lathea quickly recovered, and again her face twisted with effort as she drew her hands up. This time an eerie blue hiss of light formed. The air smelled like burning hair. Lathea turned her palms up, sending forth her deadly magic, sending him death. Power no person could withstand shrieked toward him.

The blue light scorched the walls behind, but again he felt nothing. Oba grinned.

Again, Lathea wheeled her arms, but this time she also whispered a chant of clipped words he could not understand—rattling off a menace of magic. A column of light bloomed, undulating in the air before him, a viper of extraordinary might. Beyond doubt, it was meant to kill, Oba lifted his hands to feel the snaking rope of crackling death she had spawned. He ran his fingers through it, but could feel nothing. It was like looking at something in a different world. There, but not.

It was as if he were . . . invincible.

With a howl of outrage, her hands came up again.

Quick as thought, Oba seized her by the throat.

“Oba!” she screeched. “Oba, no! Please!”

This was new. He had never before heard Lathea say please.

With her neck in his meaty grip, he dragged her across the table toward him. Bottles scattered, tumbling to the floor. Some thudded and rolled, some broke like eggs.

Oba closed a fist on Lathea’s stringy hair. She clawed at him, desperately calling upon her talents. She spoke words that had to be a mystical entreaty to magic, to her gift, to her sorceress power. While he didn’t recognize the words, he understood their lethal intent.

Oba had surrendered, though, and he had become invincible.

He had watched her unleash her rage; now he unleashed his.

He slammed her up against her cabinet. Her mouth grew wide with a silent scream.

“Why did you want Mama to get rid of me?”

Her eyes, big and round, were fixed on the object of her terror: Oba. All his life, she had delighted in terrifying others. Now all that terror had returned to haunt her.

“Why did you want Mama to get rid of me?”

A series of small panting cries were her only answer.

“Why! Why!”

Oba ripped her dress from her body. Coins spilled from the pocket, raining across the floor.

“Why!

He clutched the white shift she wore underneath the dress.

“Why!

She tried to hold the shift to herself, but he stripped it away, sending her tumbling across the floor, bony arms and legs sprawling. Her wasted breasts hung like shriveled udders. This powerful sorceress was now naked before him, and she was nothing.

Her cries, full and round, came to life at last. Teeth gritted, he snatched her by the hair and hauled her to her feet. Oba rammed her against the cabinet. Wood splintered. Bottles cascaded out. He seized a bottle as it rolled out and broke it against the cabinet.

“Why, Lathea?” He brought the neck of a broken bottle up against her body. “Why!” She shrieked all the louder. He twisted it against her soft middle. “Why?”

“Please . . . A dear Creator . . . please, no.”

“Why, Lathea?”

“Because,” she wailed, “you are the bastard son of that monster, Darken Rahl.”

Oba hesitated. This was stunning news—if it was true.

“Mama was forced. She told me so. She said it was some man she didn’t know who fathered me.”

“Oh, she knew him she did. She worked at the palace when she was younger. Your mother had big breasts and bigger ideas, back then. Poorly conceived ideas. She wasn’t smart enough to realize that she was no more than a night’s diversion for a man with a limitless supply of women—those eager, like her, and those not.”

This was definitely something new. Darken Rahl had been the most powerful man in the world. Could that noble Rahl blood flow in his veins? The heady implications made his head swim.

If the sorceress was telling the truth.

“My mother would have stayed there at the People’s Palace if she carried Darken Rahl’s son.”

“You aren’t his gifted heir.”

“But still, if I was his son—”

Despite her pain, she managed to give him that smile that said he was but dirt to her. “You are not gifted. Your kind were vermin to him. He ruthlessly exterminated all he discovered. He would have tortured you and your mother to death if he knew of you. Once she learned this, your mother fled.”

Oba was overwhelmed with new things. They were beginning to become a jumble in his mind.

He pulled the sorceress close. “Darken Rahl was a powerful wizard. If what you say is true, he would have hunted us.” He slammed her against the cabinet again. “He would have hunted me!” He shook her to elicit an answer. “He would have!”

“He did, but he could not see the holes in the world.”

Her eyes were rolling. Her frail body was no match for Oba’s strength. Blood ran from her right ear.

“What?” Oba reasoned that Lathea was babbling nonsense now.

“Only Althea can . . .”

She had ceased to make sense. He wondered how much of what she had said was true.

Her head lolled to the side. “I should have . . . saved us all . . . when I had the chance. Althea was wrong . . .”

He shook her, trying to get her to say more. Red froth bubbled from her nose. Despite his yelling, his demanding, his shaking her, no more words came. He held her close, his heavy, hot breath lifting thin strands of her hair as he glared into her aimless eyes.

He had learned all he would from her.

He remembered all the burning powder he’d had to drink, the potions she had mixed for him, the days he’d spent in the pen. He remembered all the times he’d vomited his guts out and it still wouldn’t stop burning his insides.

Oba growled as he lifted the bony woman. With a roar of anger he slammed her against the wall. Her cries were fuel for the tire of his vengeance. He reveled in her helpless agony.

He smashed her down against the heavy trestle table, breaking it, and breaking her. With each crash, she became more limp, bloody, incoherent.

But Oba had only just begun to rage at her.

Jennsen didn’t want to go back to the inn, but it was dark and cold and she didn’t know what else to do. It was disheartening that Lathea wouldn’t answer their questions. Jennsen had pinned her hopes on the woman’s help.

“What shall we do tomorrow?” Sebastian asked.

“Tomorrow?”

“Well, do you still want me to help you leave D’Hara, as you and your mother asked of me?”

She hadn’t really thought it out. In view of what little Lathea had told her, Jennsen wasn’t sure what to do. She stared absently out into the empty night as they trudged across the crusted snow.

“If we went to the People’s Palace, I would have some answers,” she said, thinking out loud. “And, hopefully, Althea’s help.”

Going to the People’s Palace was by far the most dangerous alternative. But no matter where she ran, where she hid, Lord Rahl’s magic would haunt her. Althea might be able to help. Maybe, somehow, she would be able to conceal Jennsen from him so she could have her own life.

He seemed to give her words serious thought, a long cloud of his breath trailing away in the wind. “We’ll go to the People’s Palace, then. Find this Althea woman.”

She felt somehow uneasy when she realized that he wasn’t offering any argument, or trying to talk her out of it. “The People’s Palace is the heart of D’Hara. It’s not just the heart of D’Hara, but the home of the Lord Rahl.”

“Then he wouldn’t be likely to expect you to go there, would he?”