Dark Inheritance Book 1: Chapter 1

Chronicles of Lyr Book 1: Dark Inheritance Part 1: Keepers of Shadow

Chapter One

         At first, everything looked the same. The same forest, stretching endlessly ahead of me. The same fields, half-plowed from the day’s early harvests. The same cold Harvest night air. It was always cold at night. But on this night, new warmth swept into the breeze, bringing along the scents of burning wood, the sound of crackling flames lapping stones, and as I turned my head, the destruction was obvious. On the familiar hill before me, the village glowed with an unnatural orange, shining in the night sky like a torch. I was surprised to see stars, although I don’t know why. The sky formed a dome above me, like a black circle. The trees were a circle too, locking me tight within them as the flames engulfed my village. Circles aren't supposed to break. They're supposed to go around and around at a dizzying rate, and not spin out of control like this. I used to compare my life to a circle, but now I wasn't sure that it was the right term.

         There had been a time when I could trust anyone with the innocence of a child. Now, I could barely trust myself. I stared into the glowing embers that were once my home, my heart pumping as the smoke billowing down the hill stung at my eyes and choked my lungs. I hadn’t known how far I would go, or how far I could go, but this had to be it. How could I go farther than setting fire to the village full of the people I thought I had loved? Most people would close their eyes and cower in fear, try to pretend this wasn't happening. Not me though. I simply watched it all go down, not even flinching once.

         I only had him to blame. I wasn’t born that way: cruel, and willing to set my beloved village on fire. All right, that was for their own good, even if they didn’t see it, but I’m sure that if I had the inclination to try, I could have found a better, less deadly way to shut them up. But that was where he came in. It was how he taught me, how I was raised. I didn’t see it at first: the way he treated me, or the way he watched me and hid me most of my life.

         For as long as I could remember, he had truly been the only one there for me. I had respected him, enough to call him “Papa,” even though I knew he wasn’t really my father. I could still remember the orphan’s home, if only barely. Just enough that, when asked, I could tell people the real truth, not one distorted by a child’s forgotten memories. The real mystery was how I ended up there. For the longest time, it was the only unknown in my life. I always knew the sun would rise, and that Papa would be there with a slice of bread for breakfast. I would go to lessons with Mara, and come back to find him waiting for me. We would have lunch, I would do my chores, and then it would be time for supper. It was never changing. I liked it that way. I thought Papa did too.

         It wasn’t until a few years ago that he began to act differently around me. He began to have a shorter temper, and he began to challenge nearly everything I said. I didn’t fight back; not at first. My silence just seemed to provoke him, though, and it only got worse. He became more of a disciplinarian. I began to sink farther into my own mind, choosing to hide everything from him. I knew that was why he had changed. I never should have told him, but somehow, I felt he already knew.

         I was changing too, and in ways I didn’t understand. Ways I knew weren’t normal. I began to see things, hear things, as if looking through eyes that weren’t my own. I then knew things I probably shouldn’t have. I saw things I probably shouldn’t have seen. I was afraid, and Papa was the only one I trusted enough to help me. It was that night, the one I told him, where he first became changed.

         “Who else have you told?” He yelled at me. Then he shook me. Hard.

         “Nobody.” I replied, my voice shaking and tears already streaming down my face. His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go. I just wanted him to let go.

         “Dry those tears, Cosette. Don’t tell anyone. Not Mara, and not any of the townspeople.” He said. His voice was forcibly gentle, but I could still hear the evil hiding in the edges. I could only nod, thrown speechless by his harsh actions.

         The next day he took me out of my lessons, saying he felt I wasn’t learning enough and that he would teach me himself. He did teach me, but it wasn’t anything like what I learned with Mara. These were strange things. He told me it was important history, things I should have been taught in my old lessons, but that some people didn’t believe in them. The Shadowkeepers, that is. He taught me a lot about them using this big book I wasn’t allowed to touch, with a cover of faded maroon leather that made it stand out on the highest part of the bookshelf, but only to someone looking. Every day, he would read me the same thing.

         Long ago, there were thousands of them, he would say. Each had his own special power, and something to keep them from overusing it. A limitation. The Shadowkeepers used these powers to do evil. They destroyed cities, overthrew kingdoms. Then, a man came with this book, The Book of Inheritance, Papa called it. The man set a spell on the Shadowkeepers. Every time they did evil, it would hurt them, and give the man power. The man was next in line to be king, and would use that power to help his kingdom. It would also make him immortal, so his kingdom would live wealthy for a long time. Papa said the spell also caused the Shadowkeepers to appear less frequently than before. After it was cast, they were quite rare.

         At first, I saw these stories of Shadowkeepers as fairy tales; legends that someone made up long ago. During that time, Papa was easily frustrated with me. I used to voice my opinion on the Shadowkeepers’ tales, and he would yell at me and punish me. I ultimately fell silent, choosing to keep my opinions to myself while showing no response to his stories. Eventually, he told me the truth; that I was a Shadowkeeper.

         It was then that I fully understood my power. I could put myself in other people’s bodies, look through their eyes and see their thoughts. Papa taught me how to use my power. He helped me learn how to control it, and how to gather information that I desired. He started with people I knew well. I learned that Mara was seeing a merchant boy against her parents will, and that they didn’t know. I found out Sylvester had poisoned all his children, and watched him kill another (apparently, he never really loved his wife, and preferred the children produced from an affair with a gypsy lady he had met years before.) Everything I learned, I despised. I hated taking people’s thoughts and actions. I hated knowing.

         There was one person I was never allowed to use my ability on. Papa. He told me he had learned a trick, years ago, that kept things like that out of his mind. I tried, once, and ended up blacking out. It took all my strength away, and I couldn’t see anything. That was at the very beginning, when it sapped my strength to see anything at all. I never tried again though, not the whole time I lived with him, and for a while afterwards.

         We would sit for hours at a time, him naming off people, and me looking through their eyes. We learned the limitations of my power. I could only see through the eyes of people I had touched. The more recently I came in contact, the easier it was to use them. At first, I would struggle to keep conscious when seeing people I hadn’t touched in years, but it soon became easier. After a while, I could visit whoever I wanted. It would still sap my strength, but it was no longer difficult to stay awake afterwards. It became almost effortless to see people I had touched recently, or multiple times. Sometimes, I even found myself doing it without trying, something I hadn’t dreamed of doing before.

         Now, as I stood staring at the burning village, the one I had single-handedly set fire to, I recalled his words. I remembered his stories of the Shadowkeepers. Could Papa have been right? Was I doomed to do only evil? As I watched the first cottage collapse, I felt as if the answers were yes, and always would be. I could still see myself grabbing his book, running my fingers over the title. “The Book of Inheritance.” I could remember opening our old wood heater, spilling the contents onto the floor and onto a pile of parchment I had laid there on purpose. Then, I lit a candle, and used it to set fire to the curtains of the other villagers. I set fire to the shops, and the hay in the horse stables. Even the trees dotting the grassy edges of the dirt paths didn’t get out of my touch. Only the book, the clothes on my back, and my bow and quiver of arrows would survive, if it went as I had planned.

         I let myself watch the burning village only a few minutes longer. I could hear shouting now, coming closer to me, saying things in voices I couldn’t’ quite understand. I could see the light brown uniforms of the Omegas moving around outside the city. They would come looking for me: the person who set the fires. I had to get out of there, and quick. Holding the book tight in my hands, I ran into the trees. It was almost surreal, turning to take one last look and seeing the flames through the branches of the trees, and the stars still shining brightly above me.

         I ran as long and as far as my legs were willing to take me. By the time I had to stop, I could no longer smell the smoke or even see the flames dancing in the night sky. Not even a faint glow remained. Yet, I could still hear the trampling of heavy feet; Omegas, most likely following me and the snapping of twigs I caused. I used my last bit of energy to climb a nearby tree. The bark tore at my bare hands, small twigs poking into me as I crouched on a thick branch. I soon saw the Omegas pass below me. Three of them, but they didn’t see me. I held my breath until I could no longer see their shadows or hear their shouting or trampling feet. At some point, I dozed off, suspended in the air on that thick branch.



         I don’t know how long I slept. I just remember the nightmare, the swirling red filling my vision. I could see their faces, the faces of the villagers I once knew. I could hear their voices, screaming and asking me why I did it. Worst of all, I could see their disappointment and their fear. It tore at my gut. I woke up in a cold sweat, hot tears running down my face and blurring my vision. Through them, the sun seemed brighter, speckling me and watching me between the leaves. It wasn’t mid-day yet, but it was getting close. I could see thin gray clouds tainting the blue of the sky: the remnants and reminders of what I had done.

         I slid myself off the branch, stumbling a bit as I hit the ground. The skin on my hands felt raw. Looking at my palms, thin slivers of blood and new flesh appeared beneath the torn white of the skin the bark had tried to take off. It stung, but I ignored it. Clutching The Book of Inheritance to my chest, I started walking. I didn’t know where I was going, exactly, but wherever it was, it was away from that village, and away from Papa. That was enough for me, and enough to make my feet move. I walked for a while, but I was sore all over, a trait I figured I had received from my night in a tree, and it wasn’t long before I grew too tired. I sat on the exposed roots of a tree. I flipped the Book open to the first page.

         The page put Papa’s words into writing. It told the story of the Shadowkeepers, but I immediately found that the truth had been stretched as it came from Papa’s mouth. Originally, the Shadowkeepers were not evil, it said. In fact, they were called Lightkeepers, and used their abilities to do good things for others. Then a man found the Book of Inheritance. He used its spells to curse the Lightkeepers, making them Shadowkeepers. The curse forced them to do evil things without noticing or even trying to. Good things would be done the wrong way, it said. And each time, the man gained more power, and more life. As long as they did bad deeds, he was immortal. Once this was found out, an old witch tried to stop him. The only way was to remove the Shadowkeepers from existence. A new spell was placed on them, and it became even harder for a new Shadowkeeper to be born. They dwindled, but could never be completely erased. If the man’s spell was ever broken, the witch’s would break as well.

         I closed the book, holding back a burning mixture of tears and anger.  I stood, more determined now than ever. I still wasn’t sure what I was doing, or where I was going, but the knowledge that Papa really had been lying to me all those years hurt so much, I really couldn’t care. His presence burned my heart, his image stung my mind with his countenance. Bile rose in my throat. How many people had I hurt?

         I began to run. It seemed like Papa was everywhere, following me to get his revenge, but that was impossible. Papa was dead. He had to be. I couldn’t imagine him surviving the flames. I didn’t want to imagine him alive. I didn’t want to imagine him at all, really. He wasn’t the only one, either, dancing in the shadows. All my friends, all the villagers, seemed to dash in and out of my peripherals. I could almost see Mara peering at me from behind a thick tree.

         But, then again, maybe it was Mara. The imaginary image moved. My heart stopped, and I found myself staring harder, frozen to my spot. Something was there after all, watching me. I held tighter to the Book, poising myself to grab an arrow quickly if needed. It moved again, a humanoid shape. Now, I could tell it wasn’t Mara. But I didn’t know what, or who, it really was.