The pillars of creation

On the other hand, he recalled the anxiety in her eyes when she looked at him. Maybe she recognized in his eyes who he was-that he, too, was the son of Darken Rahl, like she was. Maybe she already had plans of her own that didn't include him. Maybe she was upset that he existed. Maybe she, too, would be an adversary, intent on having it all for herself.

Lord Rahl-their own brother-wanted to keep them down because they were both important, that much seemed likely. Lord Rahl didn't want to share all the riches that rightfully belonged to Jennsen and Oba. Oba wondered if Jennsen would be as selfish. After all, such selfish tendencies seemed to run in the family. How Oba had avoided that wicked aspect of heritage was a wonder.

Oba felt his pockets, recalling as he did so that he had done the same thing when he had been in the other room with the criminals, but his pockets were empty. Lord Rahl's people had stripped him of his wealth before locking him away. They had probably taken it for themselves. The world was full of thieves, all after Oba's hard-eamed wealth.

Oba paced, as best he could in such a confined place, trying not to think of how small it was. All the while he listened to the voice advising him. The more he listened, the more things made sense to him. More and more items on the mental lists he kept began falling into place. The grand tapestry of lies and deception that had so afflicted him knitted itself together into a broader picture. And, solutions began to solidify.

His mother had known all along, of course, how important Oba really was. She had wanted to keep him down from the first. She had locked him in his pen because she was jealous of him. She was jealous of her own little boy. She was a sick woman.

Lathea had known, too, and had conspired with his mother to poison him. Neither had the bold nerve to simply do away with him. They weren't that kind. They both hated him for his greatness, and enjoyed making him suffer, so their plan from the first appeared to have been to poison him slowly. They called it a «cure» so as to soothe their guilty consciences.

All along, his mother wore him down with menial chores, treated him with contempt, heaped endless scorn on him, and then sent him to Lathea to retrieve his own poison. Loving son that he was, he had gone along with their devious plans, trusting in their words, their instructions, never suspecting that his mother's love was a cruel lie, or that they might have a secret plan.

The bitches. The conniving bitches. They had both gotten what they deserved.

And now Lord Rahl was trying to hide him, to deny to the world that he existed. Oba paced, thinking it through. There was too much he still didn't know.

After a time, he calmed and did as the voice told him; he went to the door and put his mouth near the opening. He was, after all, invincible.

"I need you," he spoke into the darkness beyond.

He didn't shout the words-he didn't have to, because the voice inside added to his own would make it carry.

"Come to me," he said into the quiet emptiness outside the door.

Oba was surprised by the calm confidence-the authority-in his own voice. His endless talents amazed him. It was only to be expected that those less endowed would resent him.

"Come to me," he and the voice spoke into the empty darkness beyond.

They had no need to yell. The darkness effortlessly bore their voices, like shadows traveling on wings of gloom.

"Come to me," he said, bending unsuspecting inferior minds to his will.

He was Oba Rahl. He was important. He had important things to do. He couldn't stay in this place and play their petty games. He had had enough of this nonsense. It was time to assume the mantle of not just his birthright, but his special nature.

"Come to me," he said, their voices oozing through the dark cracks of the deep dungeon.

He kept calling, not loudly, for he knew they could hear him, not urgently, for he knew they would come, not desperately, for he knew they would obey. Time passed, but did not matter, for he knew they were on their way.

"Come to me," he murmured into the still darkness, for he knew that a softer voice yet would draw them in.

Off in the distance, he heard the faint answer of footsteps.

"Come to me," he whispered, enthralling those beyond to listen.

He heard a door in the distance grate open. The footsteps grew louder, closer.

"Come to me," he and the voice cooed.

Closer still, he heard men shuffling along a stone floor. A shadow in the dim light fell across the small opening in the door beyond.

"What is it?" a man asked, his echoing voice tentative.

"You must come to me," Oba told him.

The man hesitated at so pure and innocent a declaration.

"Come to me, now," Oba and the voice commanded with deadly authority.