The Pillars of Creation (41 page)

“You’re a Rahl. How could you not know of such things?”

“At a very young age I was taken away to the Old World by the Sisters of the Light and imprisoned there in the Palace of the Prophets. I am a Rahl, but in many ways I know little of my ancestral homeland of D’Hara. Much of what I know, I learned through books of prophecy.

“Prophecy is silent about those like Jennsen. I only recently have begun to discover why, and the dire consequences.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “So, this girl, Jennsen, came to see Althea? How did she know of Althea?”

“Yes. Jennsen was the cause of…” Friedrich’s gaze fell away from the man watching him, not knowing how he would feel about his kinsman, but then he decided to say it, even if it brought the man’s wrath. “When Jennsen was young, Althea tried to help protect her from Darken Rahl. Darken Rahl crippled Althea for it, and imprisoned her in the swamp. He stripped her of her power, except for that of prophecy.”

“I know,” Nathan whispered, clearly in sorrow. “Although I never knew the causes behind it, I saw some of it foretold.”

Friedrich took a step forward. “Then why would you not help her?”

This time, it was Nathan’s gaze that broke away. “Oh, but I did. I was imprisoned there at the Palace of the Prophets when she came to see me—”

“Imprisoned for what?”

“Imprisoned for the unjust fears of others. I am a rarity, a prophet. I am feared as an oddity, as a madman, as a savior, as a destroyer. All because I see things others don’t. There are times when I cannot help but to try to change what I see.”

“If it’s prophecy, how can it be changed? If you changed it, it would be untrue. Then it wouldn’t be prophecy.”

Nathan stared off at the cold sky, the wind lifting his long hair back away from his face. “I could never explain it adequately to one such as you, one ungifted, but I can explain a small part of it in this way. There are books of prophecy going back thousands of years. Those books contain events that have not yet happened. In order for free will to exist, there must be questions left open. This is done partly through forked prophecies.”

“Forked prophecies? You mean that events could go one of two ways?”

Nathan nodded. “At the least—often many ways. Key events, anyway. The books will often contain a line of prophecy for several outcomes that could result from free will. When a particular fork proves to be the one that actually takes place, one line of prophecy will be true while others, at that moment, become invalid. Up until then, they were all viable. Had another choice been made, that fork would have turned out to be the valid prophecy. Instead, that branch of prophecy withers and dies, even though the book with that line of prophecy remains. Prophecy is thus tangled with the deadwood of ages past, with all the choices not made, the things that never came to be.”

Friedrich’s anger rose again. “And so you knew what would happen to Althea? You mean you could have warned her?”

“When she came to me, I told her of a fork. I didn’t know when she would reach it, but I knew that death waited down both paths. With the information I gave her, she would be able to know when the time was at hand. I had hoped that, somehow, she could find a way around what I saw. Sometimes there are shrouded forks that we are unaware of. I was hoping that was the case this time and she might find it, if it existed.”

Friedrich was incredulous. “You could have done something! You might have prevented what happened!”

Nathan lifted a hand toward the grave. “This is the result of trying to change what will be. It does not work.”

“But maybe if—”

Nathan’s hawklike glare rose in warning. “For your own peace of mind, I will tell you this, but no more. Down the other path was a murder so torturous, so bloody, so painful, so violent, that when you discovered what was left of her, you would have ended your own life rather than continue to live with what you had seen. Be thankful that did not happen. It did not happen—not because she feared that death more, but in part because she loved you and didn’t want you to suffer that.” Nathan gestured to the grave again. “She chose this path.”

“This was that fork you told her of, then?”

Nathan’s glare softened. “Not exactly. The fork she took was that she would die. She chose how.”

“You mean…she might have chosen another fork, a path in which she would live?”

Nathan nodded. “For a time. But had she chosen that path, we would all soon be in the Keeper’s clutches. Because of those involved, I know only that down that path everything ended. The choice she made was that there would still be a chance.”

“A chance? A chance for what?”

Nathan sighed. Friedrich suspected that the sigh reflected things more grave, more sweeping, than anything Althea had ever seen.

“Althea bought us all time that others might make the right choices when the time comes for them to act of their free will. This knot of forks in prophecy is obscured unlike any other, but most of the threads lead to nothing.”

“To nothing? I don’t understand. What could that mean?”

“Existence is at stake.” Nathan’s eyebrow lifted. “Most of those prophecies end in a void, in the world of the dead—for everything.”

“But you can see the way though?”

“The tangle ahead is a mystery to me. In this, I feel helpless. In this, I know what it feels like to be ungifted and blind. In this, I might as well be. I can’t even see all of those who are making the critical choices.”

“It must be Jennsen. Maybe if you found her…but Althea said the gifted are blind to the ungifted offspring of Darken Rahl.”

“Of any Rahl. The gift is of no use in locating such truly ungifted offspring. There is no telling where they are. Unless you could gather all the people in the entire world and parade them before the gifted, there would be no practical way to detect them with the gift. Physical proximity is the only means for the gift to tell you who they are—because your eyes and your gift don’t agree—like when I saw Jennsen by accident.”

“You think, then, that Jennsen is somehow involved in this?”

Nathan threw his cape closed against the bitter wind. “As far as the prophecies are concerned, those like Jennsen don’t even exist. I have no way of telling if there are others, and if there are, how many there might be. I have no idea what part any of them play in this. I know only that they somehow play a pivotal role.

“I know some of what is involved, and some of those who will stand at critical forks in prophecy. As I said, though many of those forks in prophecy are obscured.”

“But you’re a prophet—a true prophet, according to Althea; how could you not know what prophecy says if the prophecy exists?”

Nathan gauged him from behind intent azure eyes. “Try to understand what I will tell you. It’s a concept that few people can grasp. Perhaps it can help you in your grief, for it is the point at which Althea found herself.”

Friedrich nodded. “Tell me, then.”

“Prophecy and free will exist in tension. They exist in opposition. Yet, they interact. Prophecy is magic, and all magic needs balance. The balance to prophecy, the balance that allows prophecy to exist, is free will.”

“That makes no sense. They would cancel each other.”

“Ah, but they don’t,” the prophet said with a sly, knowing smile. “They are interdependent and yet they are antithetical. Just as Additive and Subtractive Magic are opposite forces, they both exist. They each serve to balance the other. Creation and destruction, life and death. Magic must have balance to function. Prophecy functions by the presence of its counter: free will.”

“You’re a prophet, and you’re telling me that free will exists, making prophecy invalid?”

“Does death invalidate life? No, it defines it, and in so doing creates its value.”

In the silence, none of it seemed to matter. It was too hard for Friedrich to fathom just then. Besides, it changed nothing for him. Death had come to take Althea’s precious life. Her life was all the value he had had. His anguish poured back in to flood everything else. For Friedrich, it had already all ended. There was nothing ahead but blackness.

“I came for another reason,” Wizard Rahl said in a quiet voice. “I must call upon you to help in this struggle.”

Too tired to stand anymore, too grief-stricken to care, Friedrich sank back to the ground beside Althea’s grave. “You have come to the wrong person.”

“Do you know where Lord Rahl is?”

Friedrich looked up, squinting against the bright sky. “Lord Rahl?”

“Yes, Lord Rahl. You are D’Haran. You should know.”

“I guess I can feel the bond.” Friedrich gestured off to the south. “He’s that way. But it’s weak. He must be a great distance. Greater than I’ve ever felt of a Lord Rahl in all my life.”

“That’s right,” Nathan said. “He’s in the Old World. You must go to him.”

Friedrich grunted. “I’ve no money for a journey.” It seemed the easiest reason.

Nathan tossed down a leather pouch. It hit the ground before Friedrich with a heavy muffled clunk. “I know. I’m a prophet, remember? This is more than was taken from you.”

Friedrich tested the weight of the bag. It was indeed heavy. “Where did all this come from?”

“The palace. This is official business, so D’Hara will supply you with the money you will need.”

Friedrich shook his head. “I thank you for coming and offering your sympathy. But I’m the wrong man. Send another.”

“You are the man who is to go. Althea would have known it. She would have left you a letter, telling you that you are needed in this struggle. She would have asked you to accept when called upon. Lord Rahl needs you. I am calling upon you.”

“You know of the letter?” Friedrich asked as he rose to his feet once more.

“It’s one of the precious few things I know about in this matter. From prophecy, I know you are the one to go. But you must do so of your own free will. I am calling upon you to do so.”

Friedrich shook his head, this time with more conviction. “I’m not the one to do this. You don’t understand. I’m afraid that I just don’t care anymore.”

Nathan drew something out from under his cloak. He held it out. Friedrich saw then that it was a small book.

“Take it,” the wizard commanded, his voice suddenly full and rich with authority.

Friedrich did so, letting his fingers roam the ancient leather cover as he inspected words embossed with gold leaf. There were four words on the cover, but Friedrich had never seen the language before.

“This book is from the time of a great war, thousands of years ago,” Nathan said. “I only just discovered it in the People’s Palace after a frantic search among the thousands of tomes there. As soon as I located it, I rushed here. I haven’t had time to translate it, so I don’t even know what’s written in it.”

“It’s all written in a different language.”

Nathan nodded. “High D’Haran, a language I helped teach Richard. It’s vitally important he get this book.”

“Richard?”

“Lord Rahl.”

The way he said those two words gave Friedrich a chill. “If you’ve not read it, how do you know it’s the right book?”

“By the title, there, on the front.”

Friedrich ran his fingers lightly over the mysterious words. The gilding was still good after all this time. “May I ask the book’s title?”

“The Pillars of Creation.”

Oba opened his eyes, but for some reason that didn’t seem to help; he couldn’t see. Dismay stiffened him. He was lying on his back, on something like rough cold stone. It was a complete mystery to him as to where he could be or how he had gotten there, but his first and most important concern was that he had somehow gone blind. Trembling from head to foot, Oba blinked, trying to clear his vision, but still he could not see.

A thought worse by far was what really ignited his panic: he wondered if he was back in the pen.

He feared to move and prove the suspicion true. He didn’t know how they had done it, but he despaired that those three conniving women—the troublesome sorceress sisters and his lunatic mother—had somehow managed to once again lock him in his dark, childhood prison. They had probably been plotting from beyond the grave, and in his sleep, they had pounced.

Paralyzed by his plight, Oba couldn’t gather his wits.

But then, he heard a noise. He turned his eyes toward the sound and saw movement. He realized as things came into focus that it was only some dark room and not his pen, after all. Relief washed through him, followed by chagrin. What had he been thinking? He was Oba Rahl. He was invincible. It would serve him well to remember that.

Though he was relieved to know it wasn’t what he had at first feared, prudence kept him cautious; the place felt strange and dangerous. He concentrated, trying to recall what had taken place and how he could have come to be in such a cold dark place, but it wouldn’t come to him. His memory was all foggy, just a collection of random impressions; dizzying illness, pounding headache, profound weakness and nausea, being carried, hands everywhere on him, light hurting his eyes, darkness. He felt battered and bruised.

Someone nearby coughed. From another direction, a man grumbled at him to shut up. Oba lay still as a mountain lion, his muscles tensed. He worked at gathering his senses, letting his gaze carefully roam the dark room. It wasn’t completely dark, as he had feared at first. On the wall opposite him a weak light, possibly wavering candlelight, came in through a square opening. There were two dark vertical lines in the opening.

Oba’s head still pounded, but it was much better than it had been before. He remembered, then, how sick he had been. Looking back on it, he realized that he hadn’t even grasped at the time how truly ill he had been. As a youngster he’d had a fever, once. This had been like that, he supposed, a fever. He had probably gotten it visiting Althea, the awful swamp-witch.

Oba sat up, but that made him feel light-headed, so he leaned back against the wall. It was rough stone, like the floor. He rubbed his cold, stiff legs, and then stretched his back. He wiped his knuckles across his eyes, trying to banish the lingering haze in his head. He saw rats, whiskers twitching, nosing along the edge of the wall. Oba was starving, despite the rank stench of the place. It smelled of sweat and urine and worse.

“Look, the big ox is awake,” someone across the room said. The voice was deep and mocking.

Oba peered up and saw men looking at him. Altogether, there were five others in the room with him. They looked a scruffy lot. The man who had spoken, off in the corner to the right, was the only other man beside Oba sitting. He leaned back into the corner as if he owned it. His humorless grin showed that what teeth weren’t missing were crooked as could be.

Oba looked around at the other four men standing watching him. “You all look like criminals,” he said.

Laughter echoed around the room.

“We’re all being wrongly persecuted,” the man in the corner said.

“Yeah,” someone else agreed. “We were minding our own business when those guards snatched us up and threw us in here for nothing at all. They locked us up like we was common criminals.”

More laughter rang out.

Oba didn’t think he liked being in a room with criminals. He knew he didn’t like being locked in a room. That felt too much like his pen. A cursory inspection proved his suspicion true, his money was gone. From across the room, under the crack of the door, a rat watched with beady little rat eyes.

Oba looked up from the rat, to the opening with the light. He saw then that the two lines were bars.

“Where are we?”

“In the palace prison, you big ox,” crooked-teeth said. “Does it look like a proper whorehouse to you?”

The other men all laughed at his joke. “Maybe the kind he visits,” one of them said, and the rest laughed all the louder. Over to the side, another rat watched.

“I’m hungry. When will they feed us?” Oba asked.

“He’s hungry,” one of the standing men said in a taunting voice. He spat in disgust. “They don’t feed us unless they feel like it. You might starve, first.”

Another man squatted in front of him. “What’s your name?”

“Oba.”

“What did you do to get yourself thrown in here, Oba? Rob an old maid of her virginity?”

The men guffawed with him.

Oba didn’t think the man was funny. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. He didn’t like these men. They were criminals.

“So, you’re innocent, eh?”

“I don’t know why they would put me in here.”

“We heard different,” the man squatting before him said.

“Yeah,” the keeper of the corner agreed. “We heard the guards talking, saying that you beat a man to death with your bare hands.”

Oba frowned in true bewilderment. “Why would they put me in here for that? The man was a thief. He left me out in a desolate place to die after he’d robbed me. He only got what was coming to him.”

“Says you,” crooked-teeth said. “We heard you was probably the one robbing him.”

“What?” Oba was incredulous, as well as indignant. “Who said that?”

“The guards,” came the answer.

“They’re lying, then,” Oba insisted. The men started in laughing again. “Clovis was a thief and a murderer.”

The laughter cut off. Rats stopped and looked up. They sniffed the air, their noses twitching.

The keeper of the corner sat up straight “Clovis? Did you say Clovis? You mean the man who sold charms?”

Oba ground his teeth at the memory. He wished he could pound on Clovis some more.

“That’s the one. Clovis the hawker. He robbed me and left me for dead. I didn’t kill him, I measured out justice. I should be rewarded for it. They can’t imprison me for administering justice to Clovis—he deserved it for his crimes.”

The man in the corner rose up. The other men closed in.

“Clovis was one of us,” crooked-teeth said. “He was a friend of ours.”

“Really?” Oba said. “Well, I pounded him to a bloody pulp. If I’d have had time, I’d have cut some tender pieces off of him before I mashed his head.”

“Pretty brave, for a big fellow, when it comes to beating a hunched little man who’s all alone,” one of the men said under his breath.

Another of the men spat at him. Oba’s anger sprang to life. He reached for his knife, but found it missing.

“Who took my knife? I want it back. Which one of you thieves stole my knife?”

“The guards took it.” Crooked-teeth snickered. “You really are a dumb oaf, aren’t you?”

Oba glared up at the man standing in the center of the room, fists at his sides, his crooked teeth making his lips look lumpy. The man’s powerful barrel chest rose and fell with each seethed breath. His shaved head made him look to be a troublemaker. He took another step toward Oba.

“That’s what you are—a big oaf. Oba the oaf.”

The others laughed. Oba simmered as he listened to the voice counseling him. He wanted to cut the tongues out of these men and then go to work on them. Oba preferred doing such things to women, but these men were earning it, too. It would be fun to take his time and watch them squirm, to make them cry, to watch the look in their eyes as death entered their convulsing bodies.

As the men closed in around him, Oba remembered that he didn’t have his knife, so he couldn’t have the kind of fun he would have liked to. He needed to get his knife back. He was tired of this place. He wanted out.

“Stand up, Oba the oaf,” crooked-teeth growled.

A rat scurried across in front of him. Oba slapped a hand down on its tail. The rat tugged and twisted, but couldn’t get away. Oba snatched the furry thing up in his other hand. It wriggled, wrenching this way and that, trying to escape, but Oba had a good grip on it.

As he stood, he bit off the rat’s head. When he had reached his full height, a good head taller than crooked-teeth, he glared into the eyes of the men around him. The only sound was bones crunching as Oba chewed the rat’s head.

The men backed away.

Oba, still chewing, went to the door and peered out the barred opening. He saw two guards standing at the intersection of a nearby hall, talking quietly.

“You there!” he called out. “There has been a mistake! I need to speak with you!”

The two men paused in their conversation. “Oh yeah? What’s the mistake?” one asked.

Oba’s gaze moved between the two, but it was not just his gaze. The gaze of the thing that was the voice also watched from within him.

“I am brother to Lord Rahl.” Oba knew that he was saying aloud what he had never said to a stranger before, but he felt compelled to do so. He was somewhat surprised to hear himself go on as everyone watched him. “I am falsely imprisoned for measuring out justice to a thief, as is my duty. Lord Rahl will not stand for this false imprisonment. I demand to see my brother.” Oba glared at the two guards. “Go get him!”

Both men blinked at what they saw in his eyes. Without further word, they left.

Oba glanced back at the men locked in with him. As he met each man’s eyes in turn, he gnawed a hind leg off the limp rat. They moved aside for him to pace as he chewed, little rat bones crunch, crunch, crunching. He looked out the opening again, but saw no one else. Oba sighed. The palace was immense. It might be some time before the guards returned to let him out.

The men in the room with him silently backed out of the way as Oba went back to his spot against the wall opposite the door and sat down. They stood watching him. Oba watched back as he tore another chunk off the rat with the teeth at the side of his mouth.

They were all fascinated by him, he knew. He was almost royalty. Maybe he was royalty; he was a Rahl. They had probably never seen anyone as important as him before, and were in awe.

“You said they don’t feed us.” He waved what was left of the limp rat at their silent stares. “I’ll not starve.” He pulled off the tail and discarded it. Animals ate rat tails. He was hardly an animal.

“You’re not just an oaf,” crooked-teeth said in a quiet voice filled with contempt, “you’re a crazy bastard.”

Oba exploded across the room and had the man by the throat before anyone could so much as gasp in surprise. Oba lifted the squealing, kicking, crooked-toothed criminal up to where he could glare eye to eye. Then, with a mighty shove, Oba rammed him against the wall. The man went as limp as the rat.

Oba looked back and saw that the others had backed against the far wall. He let the man slip to the floor, where he moaned as he comforted the back of his shaved head. Oba lost interest. He had more important things to think about than bashing this man’s brains out, even if he was a criminal.

He went back to his place and lay down on the cold stone. He had been ill and might not be fully recovered; he had to take care of himself. He needed his rest.

Oba lifted his head. “When they come for me, wake me up,” he told the four men still silently watching him. It amused him to see how fascinated they were by having nobility in their midst. Still, they were common criminals; he would have them executed.

“There’s five of us and only one of you,” one of the men said. “What makes you think you’ll ever wake up again after you close your eyes?” There was no mistaking the threat in his voice.

Oba grinned up at him.

The voice grinned with him.

The man’s eyes widened. He swallowed and backed away until his shoulders smacked the wall; then he shuffled sideways. When he reached the far corner, he slid down and pulled his knees up close to himself. Whimpering, tears running down his cheeks, he turned his face away and hid his eyes behind a trembling shoulder.

Oba laid his head down on his outstretched arm and went to sleep.