Dare To Heir
Chapter 9

Another agonized wail reverberated through the castle reaching Jareths' ears. The continuous screeching was shredding his already raw nerves. His head, which had begun a steady ache soon after breakfast, wasn't fairing much better. Each and every movement, no matter how slight, caused a stabbing pain between his eyes which quickly radiated to his temples and finished its' painful journey by traveling down the back of his head. From the neck up, he was nothing but a mass of throbbing flesh.

At the first pang, he'd considered summoning Gavin, but that notion was quickly turned aside. Jareth knew that the summons would inevitably reach the ears of his mother. In turn; reaching Giselle. What he did not need was the two of them joining forces against him any more than they already had. Thick as thieves were those two!

His blasted mother had chosen to stay behind when his father had returned to High Court. It was an annoyance Jareth could have well done without, but there had been no diplomatic way in which to "encourage" her to accompany his father. To make matters worse, his uncle had managed to make his stay an open-ended visit. Veiled hints from his mother on Raedelft's impending departure were expertly turned aside.

His uncle had joined him for his morning meal whilst his mother and wife had a lie-in. Personally, Jareth was of the opinion that the sadistic Raedeltf had taken secret joy in witnessing his tumble from his chair. He wouldn't put it passed the sick bastard to linger here in the hopes of witnessing a relapse.

Jareth had felt fine when roused from his bed by a disgustingly cheerful Nargle, just as he had for the past several mornings. He would even go so far as to say he was feeling vigorously refreshed. He'd been relieved when the fire in the grate had sprung forth immediately upon his command. Its' blaze had been a comforting sight to be sure.

Jareth had told no one of the previous incident and had put his difficulty of starting the fire down to exhaustion. Still, it was magic at its most basic and simplistic. A mere child had the capability to magic a small fire into existence. Jareth did not let his mind dwell on such things for they were unimportant. Since there had been no further problems the subject was, therefore, relegated to back of his mind where he intended for it to stay.

He was now been listlessly listening to two of the villagers squabble over a turnip of all things. Normally Jareth would be highly amused by such an idiotic dispute, but the aching in his head made enjoying the ridiculous spectacle between the two men a impossibility Another utterly pointless twenty minutes had gone by before Jareth had finally had enough of their absurd, abject silliness. He decreed that they would share the turnip by cutting it into two parts.

This decision had momentarily quieted the men, who then, stared at the king as if to say: Share it?! By the looks of things, they had not liked his solution. One man opened his mouth to protest, but when Jareth, who had been leaning his head on a closed fist, sat forward and growled, "Any objections?" The man could see that any objections made would not be welcome, and so he wisely said nothing.

Nargle had then been sent to fetch a knife from the kitchen. Once the turnip had been halved, the men were then sent on their way with their divided booty muttering all the while on the unfairness of it all. Jareth, too tired to react to their impertinent grumblings, chose to ignore the men as they argued over whom they thought had gotten the largest half.

"Willum, how many more of these inane audiences will I have to suffer," Jareth asked wearily.

Without invitation Raedeltf interjected, "Alas nephew, 'tis the burden of all fine kings to hear out the petty issues of their subjects. If it is so tiring for you, perhaps I can relieve you of this horrid duty."

Willum gave the kings' uncle a dumbfounded look. He was well aware that given the opportunity Raedeltf would seize power for himself, but even Willum would never have surmised that he would be so blatant in his bid. Willum knew that Jareth was not presently at his best, but he was far from in need of being replaced!

Jareth glowered at his uncle, but his reply was as smooth as cream, "How generous of you, but I could not in good conscience ask a guest," Jareth put slight emphasis on the word, "to take on such menial endeavors."

Well done, Willum thought. That should put an end to Raedeltf's meddling. Just as Willum had prophesized, Raedeltf acquisitioned with just as much finesse as Jareth had in his refusal of his uncles' suggestion.

"Of course nephew, you are all thoughtfulness. I merely wished to be of service to King of the Goblins in whatever manner and capacity possible."

Just then another wail split the air. Jareth winced as another arrow of pain struck its' mark. "How can I be expected to concentrate with all that infernal caterwauling," the king asked in exasperation. "That beastly woman has been skinning that animal all damn day!" Jumping to his feet the king bellowed, "NARGLE!"

"I'm a cumin' you're lordshipness. I'm a cumin'." Nargle skidded to halt, knife still in hand from when he had sliced the turnip.

Jareth paced back and forth, hands clasped at the base of his spine and demanded, "Tell me, Nargle is the cook planning on torturing that creature for the rest of the day, or can we perhaps look forward to venerating silence in the proximate future?"

Nargle scratched behind one unwashed ear looking confused before saying, "That ain't the cook your worshipfulness. Marta, she be at ta markeet.

Jareth glared down at the hapless goblin before biting out waspishly, "Then pray tell, what is that obscenity?"

The goblin grinned, clearly excited. "Oh, that be missy Bebbin. She be practicin'."

"What she be practicin'," Jareth asked, mocking Nargle's atrocious accent. "The Banshee Bop?"

Nargle waved his stubby arms in front of the king before exclaiming in a loud whisper, "Oh, no your lordshipness, missy Bebbin be singin' a new song wichtin' she be hopin' to please youse with"

Jareth snorted and rubbed a hand across his face. Then, looking and feeling more pained than when he had been at his most ill, he said, "I assure you Nargle, missy Bebbin's new song is far from pleasing. Run along and ask missy Bebbin to cease in her attempts at pleasing me. An entire band of tone deaf, barely articulate, sonorously impaired goblins would be more pleasing than her vain attempts at becoming remotely close to carrying a tune."

Nargle's face fell. He had a particular fondness for missy Bebbin. She was kind to Nargle, stoppin' to speaks to him when the other missies stuck them noses in the air pretendin' Nargle was nuthin'.
Willum chuckled quietly at Nargles' downtrodden expression. He quickly turned it into a cough after Jareth threw a look his way that could have withered a ripened grape on the vine.

Clearly, the king was far from being amused. He is in pain again Willum accurately surmised. Something must be done. Now that the High Kings' brother was setting up residence in the castle, it would be dangerous for Jareth to be weakened by illness. Even the appearance of weakness had the potential to throw Jareths' rulership into jeopardy.

"My lord, I, myself, would welcome a break in the proceedings," Jareths' advisor admitted, "I beg the king's indulgence."

After a slight hesitation on his part, Jareth nodded his head in agreement. He was well aware of what Willum had done, and his was gratefulness toward his advisor was boundless. Willum informed the remaining townspeople that the king had declared a brief recess. The crowd dispersed quickly, many choosing to walk to the various wells spread out in the courtyard, so as to partake of a drink of the cool, sweet waters below. Jareth had the wells built years ago after an old, frail woman had keeled over from dehydration while waiting for her turn to address the king. One could not have ones' people passing out during their opportunity to discuss issues close to their hearts.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jareth could see his uncle wave away the goblet of water being offered to him by one of the less homely goblins. Those were the goblins that Jareth kept about to serve his guests. From past, unfortunate experiences Jareth came to the understanding that the ladies of the court, as well as some of the gentlemen, were unaccustomed to having their needs attended to by such creatures.

Therefore, he sent the more human-like goblins to minister to his guests' whims and foibles. It was obvious by the manner in which his uncle curled his lip up into a sneer that he held the goblins in Jareths' care with unmistakable contempt. It infuriated Jareth. The blasted man had no right to treat the beasts poorly; that was his job.

"Here, my lord." It was Willum with a goblet. Jareth sniffed at the contents. "No need to worry, it's only water. I do not think wine would be a good idea with how you are feeling, am I correct?"

Without answering, Jareth took a large swallow and then grimaced at the bitter aftertaste. Willum had not been totally honest with his king. He had slipped a pain relieving draught into the beverage. Immediately, Jareth could distinguish a lessening in the level of pain. Even so, he glared at Willum, angry that his advisor would do such a thing. Willum did not look in the least repentant at his subterfuge. If Willum had not had Jareth's total confidence and trust he would have been dragged to the oubliette; thrown in, and left to rot for an unspecified length of time. One did not tamper with a kings' food or drink, to do so was tantamount to treason.

"I have summoned the healer to your personal quarters, my lord." At Jareths' thunderous expression, Willum hurried to reassure him. "I was extremely discreet, your majesty. No one will learn of his presence."

Jareth, still peeved, left Willum standing alone but not before finishing the contents of the goblet. He set it down with enough force to elicit a clunk as it struck the surface of the circular table. Willum watched with concern as Jareth stormed away.

Sarah stared at the reflection in the mirror. She turned her head this way and that and was pleased to see that the bruising around her eyes had mellowed into sporadically placed dingy, yellow markings. The raw spot on her nose and chin had turned into rather unattractively raised scabs that had begun to peel leaving pinkish-white skin behind. She looked ridiculous, but there was nothing she could do about it.

She took small comfort in the fact that she would be able to at least cover up her knees with jeans. Taking her brush in hand, she began a slow steady pull through her mass of dark, tangled hair. It was soothing and brought memories back of when her mother used to sit on her bed doing this exact same thing. The firm steady strokes had a lulling effect on her mind causing a sublime state of relaxation. Sighing, Sarah dropped the brush on the counter by the sink and returned to her room.

Plopping down on her bed she reached back, grabbed one of her deep purple throw pillows, and clutched it to her chest. Resting her chin on one of the edges, she turned her thoughts to the dream she'd had the other night. She'd woken in the rocking chair, no surprise there. She remembered with perfect clarity sitting in it, but it had been what had followed that had disturbed her. After waking, she had begun to cry. What had made it worse was the enormous sense of loss that had filled every fiber of her being. It had been agonizing in its intensity.

She remembered quite clearly something about a book. Although, she had no idea what it meant. She knew it was significant, would change her life, in fact. Beyond that certainty, she wasn't sure of much else except that he would bring the book to her. Who was he? Again, she was at a loss. With a frustrated growl, she fell back, bouncing slightly as she struck the mattress. She was losing her mind, yeah that was it.

"Sarah," Irene's voice called from downstairs, "Breakfast."

She wasn't very hungry but yelled back. "'Kay, I'm coming."

Irene was bustling about the kitchen juggling two plates. One was filled with scrambled eggs and toast and the other with sausage and waffles. Toby was sitting at the table eating with gusto a bowl of oatmeal liberally sprinkled with brown sugar. Sarah grinned. Irene sure was a brave woman. Giving raw sugar to a kid was an unfailing way of getting him to bounce off the walls for hours on end.

"Here you go," Irene said placing both plates on the table.

"I hope only one of those is for me." Sarah doubted she could eat one entire plateful let alone two.

Irene tsked. "Of course not, but it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to eat more," she stated firmly while giving Sarah's cup of coffee. "You are going to have more than just coffee, right?"

Stirring in three teaspoons of sugar into the piping hot liquid, Sarah replied tiredly, "Yes, Irene."

Taking a cautionary sip of the hot brew, Sarah nodded in approval. It was perfect. Coffee, Sarah was convinced, was the nectar of the gods and without it she was an absolute monster to be around. Irene had learned that lesson the first morning. Sarah had drug her still sleep-addled brain to the table where much to her irate dismay absolutely no coffee could be found.

Irene, generally unshakable, had been quite rattled when Sarah demanded in a deep, gruff voice, "Where the hell's the coffee?"

Toby's spoon had stopped mid-way to his mouth. Her father's paper crackled sharply as he whipped it away from his face. Irene was stunned into silence at the language Sarah had just used in the presence of her younger brother.

Irene had made the mistake of saying, "What?"

Through a nasty glare, Sarah asked again, firmly and concisely, "Where. Is. The. Coffee?" She enunciated each syllable with a forceful pounding of her fist on the table.

"Uh," her father answered hesitantly, "We generally have juice, milk or tea."

Sarah had looked at them as if they'd had two heads, and shoved her chair back, stomping out of the room just like she used to do when she was an angst-ridden teenager. The next morning, coffee was discreetly added to the Williams' breakfast menu.

Sarah pulled the plate of food toward her. She'd chosen the one filled with eggs. They were scrambled hard, just how she liked them. She began to eat them under Irene's watchful eye. They melted in her mouth upon contact.

Toby, his breakfast completed, had run off to his room. He was going to go outside to play with the neighbor boy. Toby had proudly announced at supper the night before that Brad Youngston was his new best friend, and he'd been invited over to try out new baseball and glove. Toby rushed into the kitchen carrying a shoebox.

Curious Sarah asked, "What you got there, Tobe?"

Toby slipped the lid off showing Sarah the contents of the box. "They're my trading cards," he answered. "Me and Brad have tons of them, and his older brother goes through them with us too. He tells us stories about the players. It's loads of fun."

Sarah ruffled his hair affectionately, "You have a good time, bud."

Replacing the lid, Toby looked down at his sneakers, before saying in a whisper, "I heard you crying again last night. Are you homesick?"

Sarah stilled in her chair. Leave it to Toby to put the correct name to it. She was homesick, dreadfully so. She couldn't get back to her own apartment fast enough. Maybe then, this gaping hole in her middle would disappear.

Toby sighed before continuing, and what he said caused a cold chill to race through her body, "I miss it sometimes too, but if I went back I would miss mom and dad too much. He wasn't really scary, and the goblins were fun."

Sarah's heart began to beat out an unsteady tattoo, pounding so fast and hard that she instinctively pushed her hand against her chest, certain that she would need it to keep her heart in place. "What did you say," she asked, her voice ragged.

Toby looked toward the kitchen door, to make sure that Irene wasn't about to barge in on them. At least, that's what Sarah thought he might be doing.

"You know!" His tone was insistent and intense. "The king, and the castle! You came for me. Remember?"

"That was a story, Tobe. I made it up," Sarah corrected him. She wanted to stand, to run away but didn't think her legs would carry her far enough away from this troubling conversation.

"You did not," he stated emphatically with a hurt expression crossing his tiny features. "You went through that maze thingy. He watched you with one of his clear balls. He sang to me," he continued, ignoring Sarah's stricken expression. "He wanted us to stay but you wouldn't."

Sarah dropped her spinning head onto her hand. This was not happening!

Toby thrust out his bottom lip which worried Sarah because it meant a tantrum was brewing. "I can prove it."

He ran from the kitchen as if the hounds of hell were chasing him. Maybe they were; her mind mocked her quietly. He was, after all, talking about goblins and silly things that couldn't possibly exist. Oh Tobe, she thought in exasperation. How was she supposed to break it to him? Irene would kill her if she found out. Her stepmother was the no-nonsense type and would not appreciate it if Sarah influenced Toby with fairy-tales and fantastic make believe worlds.

A few minutes later, Toby returned, pushing the kitchen door open with unnecessary force. He was so mad at Sarah that he didn't care if he left a mark on the wall, didn't care if mom spanked him. He thrust out the object he held and waved it under Sarah's nose.

Sarah's mouth fell open. She was speechless. It was a red book, her red book. In the back of her mind, she heard once more the whispered words from her dream. "He will bring to you the book, but you must take it willingly." God, this is not happening! This is not happening!

"Take it," Toby demanded.

Which Sarah did, although she was horribly frightened. The moment she touched its' crimson cover garbled images assaulted her, sending her reeling back in shock. A maze of stone appeared and funny-looking creatures who Sarah recognized as long-forgotten friends. A snowy white owl and goblins galore; they were everywhere. Then, in her minds' eye, she saw him as clearly as if he were standing right in front of her. He stood there in all his splendid and outrageous arrogant glory. The Goblin King!

"Told ya," her brother stated triumphantly. Having got his point across, Toby picked up the shoebox he had placed on the table and exited through the back kitchen door.

With hands that shook uncontrollably, Sarah lay the book down and not for the first time that day thought, this is not happening! It was a lie she was using to comfort herself and Sarah knew it.