The pillars of creation

Not far from her chair, on the floor off to the side, rested a square board with an elaborate gilded symbol on it. It reminded him of something on one of his lists of things. A pile of small, smooth, dark stones sat to the side on the board. A large red and gold pillow lay near her feet.

Oba paused, suddenly realizing the connection between one of the things on his lists and the gilded symbol on the board. The symbol reminded him of the dried base of a mountain fever rose-one of the herbs Lathea used to put in his cures. Most of Lathea's herbs were already ground up, but that one never was. She would crush a single one of the dried flowers only just before she added it to his cure. Such an ominous conjunction could only be a warning sign of danger. He had been right; this sorceress was the threat he had been concerned she might be.

Fists flexing at his side, Oba towered over the woman as he glared down at her.

"Dear spirits," she whispered to herself, "I thought that I would never again have to stare up into those eyes."

"What eyes?"

"Darken Rahl's eyes," she said. Her voice carried a thread of some distant quality, maybe regret, maybe hopelessness, maybe even terror.

"Darken Rahl's eyes." A grin stole onto Oba's face. "That's very generous of you to mention."

Not a trace of a smile visited her. "It was not a compliment."

Oba's smile curdled.

He was only mildly surprised that she knew he was the Darken Rahl's son. She was a sorceress, after all. She was also Lathea's sister. Who knew what that troublesome woman might have tattled from her eternal place in the world of the dead.

"You're the one who killed Lathea."

Her words were not so much question as condemnation. While Oba felt confident, because he was invincible, he remained wary. Though he had feared the sorceress Lathea his whole life, she had in the end turned out to be less formidable than he had reckoned.

But Lathea was not the equal of this woman, not by any means.

Rather than answer her accusation, Oba asked a question of his own.

"What's a hole in the world?"

She smiled a private smile, then held a hand out. "Won't you sit and have some tea with me?"

Oba guessed that he had the time. He would have his way with this woman-he was sure of that. There was no rush to be done with it. In a way he regretted having rushed right into it with Lathea, before he'd thought to get answers to everything, first. Done was done, he always said.

Althea, though, would answer all his questions. He would take his time and be sure if it. She would teach him many new things before they were finished. Such long-anticipated gratification should be savored, not rushed. He cautiously sank into the chair. A pot sat on the simple little table between the two chairs, but there was no second cup.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said when she noticed his eyes searching and realized the omission. "Please go to the cupboard over there and get a cup?"

"You're the hostess of this tea party, why don't you go get it for me?"

The woman's slender fingers traced the spiral curves at the ends of the chair's arms. "I'm afraid that I'm a cripple. I can't walk. I'm only able to drag my useless legs around the house and do a few simple things for myself.»

Oba stared at her, not knowing if he believed her. She was sweating profusely-a sure sign of something. She was sure to be terrified in the presence of the man powerful enough to do away with her sorceress sister. Maybe she was trying to distract him, hoping to make a run for it as soon as he turned his back.

Althea took her skirt between forefingers and thumbs and lifted the hem in a dainty manner, allowing him to see her knees and a little higher. He leaned over for a look. Her legs were mangled and withered. They looked like they had died ages ago and not been buried. Oba found the sight fascinating.

Althea lifted an eyebrow. "Crippled, as I said."

"How?"

"Your father's work."

Well, wasn't that just something.

For the first time, Oba felt a very tangible connection to his father.

He had had a difficult and trying morning and was entitled to a leisurely cup of tea. In fact, he found the notion provocative. What he had in mind for her would be thirsty work. Oba crossed the room and retrieved the biggest cup from among the collection he found on a shelf. When he set the cup down, she poured it full of a dark thick tea.

"Special tea," she explained when she noticed the frown on his face. "It can be terribly uncomfortable here in the swamp, what with the heat and humidity. This helps clear the head, too, after the onus of a morning's difficult tasks. Among other things, it will sweat the weariness from tired muscles-such as from a long walk."

His head was pounding after his tough morning. Although his clothes were finally dry after his swim, and the blood had all been washed off, he wondered if she could somehow sense the difficult time he'd had. There was no telling what this woman could do, but he wasn't worried. He was invincible, as Lathea's end had proved.