Inheritance Book Two

Chapter One: Themistoklis

Themistoklis, or Them for short, was an unlucky waif cursed with too many misfortunes to count. His most recent misfortune was being recruited by the Astral Elves to go die in the Crater of Resentment. But truly, his chain of misfortunes had begun years even before that.

Like all waifs, at the age of twelve, he was sent to the holy mountain two miles to the north of Trella alone on a quest to trigger his magic—if he, indeed, had the capacity for magic.

At first, he had been excited. He thought once his magic was triggered on the mountain, he would have a long life of bliss ahead of him; he thought there was no other place to go than up, as his parents were banished from the waif homeland when he was six-years-old, and he had had to live with an adoptive family until he had gotten himself banished, too, at the age of sixteen. His adopted family did not treat him well and thought very little of him due to his former parentage. Children of those who were banished from the waif homeland were allowed to stay, that didn’t mean they were well-liked or accepted.

It did not help that Them had somewhat of a penchant for getting into trouble. Because he did not like his adopted home—a little home with a thatched roof sitting in the branches of a mighty oak tree—he would often steal from other villagers, tease the other boys and girls, and consume foods that were not kosher with his religion in his home village of Trauscus.

He was always starving.

He memorized the schedules of the other waifs in the village, and whenever he knew their homes were empty, he would sneak in, steal food and whatever else appealed to him, and then arrive late to the little schoolhouse which he only occasionally attended.

Most of the other villagers suspected it was he who was stealing their food, jewelry, and other items of interest, but because they had no proof, they could not accuse him directly.

Nonetheless, he was always regarded with derision and criticism by the other waifs and was otherwise ignored.

But when Them turned twelve, he was sure that once his magic was triggered on the holy mountain, that he would be well-respected. Moreover, he was sure that he would gain enough magical power to be able to hunt efficiently on his own and would no longer starve due to his family giving their biological children all the food, and only giving Them scraps.

When he arrived at the foot of the holy mountain, he was not without his worries, however. Like all waifs--regardless of whether he was able to awaken the magic that may or may not be coursing through his veins--if he didn’t come back to the village on his own, no one would come looking for him.

The mountain looked like an intelligent creature had made it. There was a path that circled around it in a spiral fashion, making it easy to ascend with no special equipment.All a waif needed was their own feet beneath them.

And so, Them had begun his adventure up the mountain in high spirits.

He walked for an hour on that ridge, expecting to see a vision that would allow him to tap into the magic hidden within him. The weather was warm--the path was jagged with sharp rocks. Them was sweating egregiously—so much that he felt it dripping from his forehead and into his eyes. His legs had eventually begun shaking and his stomach growled at him angrily.

He blinked and had thought he saw something glowing in an unearthly light through the sweat in his eyes, but when he had blinked the sweat out, the unearthly light had disappeared. Two hours later, he had passed out from the heat and didn’t expect to wake up again.

But wake up he did.

And when he had awakened, his muscles were still weak. He tried to lift himself to a sitting position, but he collapsed instead.

He had blinked rapidly--saw that he was no longer on the mountain. He was back in the green, shaggy forests of Trella, and he was looking at the feet of a creature he did not recognize.

He had tried, again, to pull himself to a sitting position, and this time, he managed it. He had sat up and seen that his rescuer was something out of legend. It was a will’o the wisp, a two-foot-tall, round and plump creature with an especially big head that doubled the size of its body and had large, cat-like ears jutting out from its head. It wore a tattered, brown cloak over its shining, white body. Round, black eyes blinked at the waif from under the cloak.

The wisp had floated effortlessly just two feet above the ground, inspecting the waif with intrigue.

Have I lost my way? Them asked.

Them looked down sadly. That’s how the stories go. Wisps come to people who have lost their way…

__

While waiting for the large, horse-drawn carriage to begin moving, Them had drifted off into a wakeful dream about the past. He awoke now as there was a bump in the road that jolted his eyes open.

Across from him in the carriage sat many creatures of different species. There was an elf and a dwarf sitting to the left of an old, human woman with dark skin, and to the right of her was a…

Them grinned from ear-to-ear. Hello, beautiful! I thought I’d never meet you in person! Why are you wearing a man’s clothes, though?

The fairy, who had been sleeping, opened his eyes and looked at Them in confusion.

Who are you? Eory asked.

-Chapter Two: No Time For Sulking

Twelve years ago, Pollyanna felt all life and vitality dissipating from her body as, for two months of her life, she had stewed in misery and given up.

She had faced failure for the first time in what felt like one-hundred years.

Laurence, the dishonorable and wretched cook in the kitchen--someone who had made himself out to be loyal to the Arrozan family--had put a strange cocktail of secret herbs in their food. Before it was sent out to be eaten by the Arrozan royal family, the guards tasted it to make sure it was not poisonous. It had no effect on them.

But later, Pollyanna would learn that the slimy, clever cook had figured out some kind of combination of herbs that constituted a potent sedative that would only be put into effect hours after it was taken, and only affected humans.

The day had otherwise been normal. Pollyanna had no other business to do but follow around and guard the king and queen all day, and so that was what she did.

But in the late afternoon, she had begun to feel drowsy. Drowsier than she ever had in her life. Her eyelids were heavy; her muscles felt lax—her vision began swimming. At that time, she had been in the throne room and listening to some rabble expressing their concerns to the king and queen about fights breaking out amongst the fairies and humans in the castle city.

The king and queen made it clear that they would send Pollyanna if necessary, but that the peasant should otherwise address the guards in their city to take care of the problem.

Pollyanna felt as if she were watching the human rabble leave the throne room with eyes that were not her own, and suddenly, she lost all muscle control and collapsed on the dais next to the king and queen.

The king and queen called her name, and the last thing she saw was King Herin kneeling by her side with his familiar, emotionally vacant face.

When she had awoken, four chains were manacled to her wrists and ankles. There were many swords, axes, and lances buried in her skin—her neck felt tender and a little off-balance. It seemed as if she had been beheaded, but the magic in her veins had quickly sewn her head back on.

She blinked rapidly. In front of her, a public beheading taking place in the castle courtyard in the waning light of an orange sun.

There was an incredibly loud crowd of bleating, human sheep gazing upon the people who were to be beheaded. She still felt incredibly dazed, but she awoke from her daze when she realized it was the king, queen, and their sons being beheaded.

The king was first in line. He was pushed toward the guillotine by a six-foot-tall, muscled, executioner.

Herin was screaming for Pollyanna to come rescue him—the most expression and fear he had ever shown since he was as young as six.

Pollyanna wriggled her chains, trying to escape; she tried to call back to the king, but a gag in her mouth prevented it. Around her, four guards pulled back on the chains around her ankles and wrists to restrain her.

Herin reached out to her with tears in his eyes as he was shoved into the guillotine. The executioner pulled the rope hanging off the side of the apparatus, causing the sharp cleaver at the top of the structure to drop.

Herin shrieked her name one last time in such an unearthly scream that the sound of it was seared into her memory forevermore. Pollyanna did not look away as the axe plummeted downward, severing the man’s head from his body. That was her self-imposed punishment for failing her king.

Gershom held his younger brother close as they waited for their turn nearby on the dais. Gershom had covered the younger fairy’s eyes, trying to comfort and soothe him as their mother was dragged to the guillotine next. Unlike her husband, she did not scream. Her expression did not change. But her eyes did meet Pollyanna’s accusingly.

It seemed as if time stopped for a moment as their eyes locked.

She knew what the queen was thinking; she was accusing the immortal warrior-maiden of failure.

The cleaver came down, the woman’s head came loose. The female fairy did not scream.

Pollyanna watched with unexpected tears in her eyes, still refusing to look away. She did not deserve to.

I promised myself I would never fail! I promised I would prove to myself and everyone else on this sorry earth that neither I, nor the Arrozans are to be trifled with! I cannot accept this failure!

Next, they grabbed the oldest Arrozan boy. They tore him from Eory’s arms as the younger brother screamed over the din of the crowd for his brother.

Gershom looked back at his brother regretfully, forcing a smile. Pollyana imagined that he must be telling his younger brother to be brave.

Within the crowd, a waif climbed up on the dais seizing the arm of the deceitful cook, Laurence, who had been cheering along with the crowd at the king and queen’s death.

The waif pointed at the older Arrozan boy, throwing herself on her knees before Laurence. Laurence shook his head, however, and nodded to the executioner.

The oldest Arrozan boy closed his eyes as he was pushed onto the apparatus. Tears that were accepting of his fate cascaded down his cheeks.

The rope was pulled again and the cleaver shhked downward, removing his head.

The executioner turned to the last Arrozan boy who was on his knees and weeping.

The waif—who Pollyanna recognized as Kori, one of the only waifs in all of Maribel— threw her arms around the younger boy. She glared at Laurence, her face dripping with hateful venom. The executioner pushed her roughly off the boy, dragging the screaming child by the wrist toward the guillotine.

With a determined look on her face, the waif pushed herself to her feet, engaging in a conversation with Laurence.

It took only a moment for Laurence to hold up a hand to the executioner who reluctantly released the boy. Kori called to the boy and he ran into her arms, weeping bitterly.

Pollyanna was dragged away after that, seeing no more of what happened. She was thrown in the back of a caravan with four guards still holding all four of her chains so that she could not move.

She was sure that, even if the youngest Arrozan child was spared for now, they would kill him very soon, and that would be the end of her.

As long as my family line survives, you will too. But if they are all extinguished, you will be, too. Fjorn’s voice teased her in her mind.

And so, Pollyanna was forcibly fed more sedatives and the soldiers dragged her to a securely built tower in the Dwarven kingdom of Ghar, where, night and day, she was kept chained on the freezing rooftop of a tower between two pillars, unable to move.

She had given up and waited to die.

Her failure haunted her, seeping into her bones and defining her.

If I am not the best at fighting—if I am not the best soldier—then what am I am?

The cold bit at her day and night up on that tower; her wrists were rubbed raw from the manacles digging into them. Her skin peeled--and if she hadn’t looked unsightly before--she certainly did, then. The dwarven guards would come by and taunt her from time-to-time, making her feel even worse.

She was put through such unforgettable pain on that tower as the dwarves poked, prodded, and tore at her body in an attempt to find a way to kill her for good.

As long as Eory lived, there was nothing that could succeed in that, however.

Time passed, and Pollyanna had little else to do but count the days that passed with it. And count them she did.

A week passed, and then another, and she was still alive. And then a month passed, and still, she lived. And then a year passed, and then another, and she still drew breath. And before she knew it, ten years had passed, and there was still a beating heart in her body. And suddenly, Pollyanna felt a burst of confidence and realized that there was no reason to sulk. The boy must be alive! Pollyanna thought to herself. They must be sparing him for good! And even if they aren’t, who cares? I’ve nothing left to do but try to escape--to prove that I am still a force to be reckoned with, even with my sires dead!

She smirked.

Pollyanna stepped forward as far as she could, pulling all the chains taut; she could hear the stone that her chains were attached to beginning to groan and give way.

She stopped for a moment, panting, after several minutes of pulling. Finally, with one last grunt of exertion, she yanked her arms and legs forward, and her chains were pulled from the stony pillar.

Gods! Why should I sulk? He’s not dead yet. I may as well give it my all!

By the time she was done with that tower, not a soul was left alive.

Pollyanna grinned at the memory as the adult Eory slept on her shoulder. Together, they waited for the caravan that would drive them to the Crater of Resentment to begin moving.

I’ve killed so many people to ensure your safety. I am willing to kill hundreds more. I never want to think of your mother's disapproving eyes on my face again. I will not fail ever again. She thought to herself as she looked upon his sweet face.

Chapter Three: Francis

Kori did not want to see the king after he had signed her son away over to the Astral Elves, and so, she dove into her work instead. She spent most of her time in the dungeon with criminals; she had returned, full-time, to her work as Redeemer, now that she had no Eory to visit or look after. There was something soothing about the work that made her forget about the horrors she had just experienced only a week before. For those first three days after Eory had gone, Kori could do little else but sit in her room in her nightgown, thinking of the cruelties visited upon her and Eory in that ballroom.

She thought of the king’s dirty and underhanded betrayal of his promise to set Eory free and kill only Pollyanna, and felt sick to her stomach at how he had so easily violated that promise. She thought of Eory’s hideous grin as he summoned that horrid creature from his dog’s corpse to devour all of those guards, feeling all-the-sicker. She thought of Pollyanna—a woman who she had no love for—with her tattered dress, bleeding from dozens of arrow wounds, and sincerely felt sorry for her, which made her feel all-the-sicker.

Lastly, she thought of how Eory had been ripped from her arms by a man she thought she loved, and sent to die a horrible, lonely death in the Crater of Resentment. That was what hurt the most, and made her weep the hottest tears.

The last smile he had given her was burned into her memory, and her mind would keep inevitably turning to it.

It was strange to think she had begun to prefer the company of criminals over the king’s, and yet here she was, about to spend all day with the most recent batch down in the bowels of the castle.

Kori hiked up her skirts, her heels clacking, on the stony steps leading down to the torchlit dungeon. At the bottom of the decrepit staircase were the dungeons, and alongside both walls, criminals were pacing, sitting, and exercising behind bars. The waif recognized them all but one. Curious, she sat outside the new prisoner’s dank, dark cell, looking in on them. Laurence, oddly enough, had not yet told her of this prisoner. It was very strange—the king almost always told her of new criminals before she went down to visit them, but not this time.

It was an elf. An ordinary elf, and not an Astral one. The elf was about five and a half feet tall, and did not have the long limbs nor the third eyes that Astral Elves did.

The elf’s legs were stretched out in front of him or her--crossed at the ankles--and Kori tried to discern the creature’s sex as her eyes roamed over their features. It was hard to tell with elves--especially since Kori was experienced with so few of them--but this one was practically impossible to tell. In a moment, she decided he looked more male due to his square chin and bigger nose.

Kori forced a smile, even though it was incredibly difficult for her to smile at a time like this. Hello. What’s your name?

The elf crossed his or her arms. My name is Francis, and I do not belong in this cell.

Kori still could not tell what sex the elf was from his voice nor from his name, so she was content with thinking of him as a man.

She felt sorry for the elf, as she did all criminals. Many of them were not entirely horrible people, after all. Many had just lost their way. She was getting that feeling from this elf.

You shouldn’t have disobeyed the law, then. Kori replied.

I broke no law, little waif. I am a messenger from Alanheim. I was sent with an official missive from our queen to your king concerning your debt. Francis answered with a roll of his eyes. You may be backwards, as all who are not elves are, but surely you know that taking an official messenger with a white flag captive is considered an act of war. Can you not pay your debts? Francis queried.

Kori raised an eyebrow as she looked upon the elf’s dirty, blank face, cast in orange torchlight. What debts? Kori demanded as she gripped the grimy bars worriedly. We have no debts!

Francis stood up from where he had been sitting, leaning against the wall, sighing heavily. Your king promised our queen an absurd amount of gold in return for helping you rid your kingdom of those Arrozans. Did he not tell you?

Kori blinked rapidly, her mouth open in shock. In a moment, she scowled. What is this? Some kind of lie you’re telling me to fool me into bartering for your freedom? Tell me what you are truly guilty of, elf.

The elf looked at her with sad eyes, I am guilty of many things that I am not proud of—including defending myself by killing two of King Laurence’s guards who tried to arrest me—but I am not guilty of anything that should have landed me in your dungeon. Ask your king, Lady.

Kori looked into his sad, green eyes, trying to gauge whether he was telling the truth. He certainly seemed sincere, but…

Laurence wouldn’t lie to me about something so important… Kori tried to convince herself. Gods, Maribel can’t afford a war with the elves. We’re still shaking off the damage the Arrozans did.

Kori didn’t wish to see the king. She wasn’t sure she was ready to see him; of late, she could still only see him as the villain who sent her son away and refused her request to join him. She had considered stealing the king’s crown in the night and summoning an Astral Elf to take her away, but the Astral Elves only obeyed the orders of kings and queens.

Regardless, even though she was fairly certain that Francis must be lying about the situation, she had to get to the bottom of it by confronting Laurence. If the lie proved true, Maribel was in deep trouble.

-Chapter Four: Corrupting Innocence

King Laurence rubbed his temples as he listened to the business of a fairy come before him who was asking that Laurence make certain towns and cities in the kingdom homogenous--with only fairies or only humans occupying certain cities and towns. His advisors were listening to this business as well, and so he let his mind wander. And where it wandered made his muscles tense on the arm of his throne.

He remembered that evil fairy’s eyes flaring with black magic and the resounding sound—like glass breaking—filling his mind. He remembered the Astral Elf taking the boy away, and afterward…

He thought the shadow dog would have disappeared once Eory had gone, but it roared and whimpered, ghosting through the castle’s walls until it ended up outside--the whole castle shaking as it did so. It was a miracle that, reportedly, no one had been killed during its rampage.

It was still out there, somewhere.

Peasants and nobles alike came to ask Laurence what had transpired in the ballroom that night, and if they should fear the return of this shadow dog. Laurence promised them that he had it under control, and he sent a regiment of twenty soldiers to go scout for the dog for seven days. If they found nothing, they were to return.

The roar from that foul creature filled his ears; its bared, glinting, sharp teeth filled his eyes. He could envision it feasting on those poor archers--leaving nothing but bloody splotches behind--even now.

Queen Harriet noticed her husband was not listening at all to the fairy’s problems and put a hand over his.

He felt like taking it away. It was Kori he wanted, but the waif wanted nothing to do with him at the moment.

Laurence should never have let her spare that fairy to begin with. If he had just said no to her when she threw herself to her knees and begged for his life, they all could have been spared his presence at the ball and the massacring at the still-bloody ballroom. It would not have stopped Pollyanna from coming and taking revenge on them all, but it would have spared Kori from becoming so attached to such a corrupt creature who had turned her simple heart.

Laurence remembered the moment she had saved the fairy prince vividly.

The executioner had just lopped off the older fairy boy’s head, and was hauling the youngest one over to the guillotine at Laurence’s approval.

But Kori had looked at the king with such hateful and judgmental eyes that he knew the waif would have never forgiven him if he had killed Eory. Kori marched to Laurence’s side and said quietly and fearlessly to him. Laurence, if you kill that boy, you will never see me again. If you kill that boy, I will have no respect or love for you and I will pray for your death everyday. That would be the only suitable punishment for you after killing such a young and innocent creature.

Laurence had retorted sharply, "Innocent! You know what the Arrozans have done to me and my family and everyone in Maribel! None of them have ever been honest and upright! There has not been a single moral or kind Arrozan for as long as they have ruled! Why should we expect this creature to be any different?"

He is six-years-old! His parents are the horrible people! Look at that weeping child! Does he look evil to you? Please… Let me take him. I will Redeem him like I have redeemed other criminals. I will raise him away from others in captivity where he will harm no one! Just let him live if you have any kindness in your heart! Otherwise, you are no better than the Arrozans you hate so much. Kori had spat with vitriol in every ounce of her words.

And Laurence gave in.

He gave in because he thought there was a truth to her words; the boy was young, and perhaps he could still be saved. And it was true he would be little better than the Arrozans if he killed a boy so young without having any proof of his evil tendencies. Lastly, he gave in because he loved Kori more than anything, and he felt so guilty for being unable to marry her. He owed her for toying with her feelings and her heart; he owed her for making her his mistress.

She made that corrupt and horrid boy into her surrogate son because there was nothing she ever wanted more in life than to have children. Laurence knew that better than anyone, but Kori would be hard-pressed to have her own children at this point, and he knew that he was the only one she wanted to have children with.

Over the years, she would consistently bring him news about Eory—sometimes, she was hoping to convince him that he was fit for society, other times, she just wanted to tell him about Eory because it came so naturally to her. It was as natural to her as a biological mother discussing her child’s first steps with her husband.

At some point, she had become more loyal to that boy than she had to him. That was the biggest thing that was bothering him.

Your Majesty? One of his advisors standing next to the throne called his name, breaking him out of his reverie. Laurence blinked rapidly, coming back to reality. Yes?

What’s to be done about this problem concerning the humans and fairies? His advisor asked.

Laurence rubbed the back of his neck. We can’t afford to convert every city and town in the kingdom into homogenous ones. We must all learn to get along. Separating humans from fairies will not help in that. If there is trouble within your city, ask your duke and city guards for help. I can do little to help you on this, myself.

The fairy glared up at him from the bottom of the staircase leading up to the throne. He had come a long way just to be told that Laurence could not fix everything. Every peasant and noble came before him expecting him to fix everything. It was exhausting and beginning to wear on the human king. Laurence felt guilty, but, at feeling his concentration dimming and his eyelids becoming heavy, he realized he needed to stop for the day.

He turned to his advisor. Take over, please. I must rest.

Laurence stood up, then, feeling dizzy when the shadow dog flashed in his mind—so dizzy that he nearly lost his balance on the stairs. Harriet cried out his name and steadied him. Are you alright, my darling? You never feel so sick that you have the need to let Levi take over…

Laurence nodded to Harriet and then turned his attention back to reaching the bottom of the stairs. His eyes nearly sparkled with delight when he saw Kori standing in the shadow of an arch on his right that led to the hallway.