Heir to the Underworld (Suffer a Witch to Reign Book 1)

by D. H. Dawson

  Heir to the Underworld

  Suffer a Witch to Reign Book One

  D.H. Dawson

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  HEIR TO THE UNDERWORLD

  Copyright © 2021 D.H. Dawson.

  All rights reserved.

  Written by D.H. Dawson.

  Edited by Todd Herzman.

  To my own beau, forever and always.

  Chapter One

  Carmen

  Darkness gives way to smoke and flames. Fire illuminates a high-backed chair—a throne—and the back of the male figure sitting there. Fire rolls off him, and even in my dream, I try to jerk away, but I can’t. Anger and fear course through me, and as the figure turns his head to me, I gasp and wake.

  Sitting up in bed, I can hardly catch my breath. I take in deep, fresh gulps of smoke-free air, but it’s not enough. I look down at my palms, burning. They’re red, as though they had come too close to the fire. I toss the covers back and pad over to the window in bare feet. My heart races, beating rapidly. I feel it in my throat, my fingertips. That dream had felt so real. More than the last fiery dreams I’ve had lately. They seem to be happening more frequently.

  I push the window open, letting my eyes flutter closed. Irene will be here soon to dress me. I cringe. It’s supposed to be a special day: my eighteenth birthday, the day I will be crowned a princess. My view from the window is mostly the forest’s greenery, so that no one can spy on me, but I can see the edges of the village, early-morning risers preparing for my feast, which Irene will no doubt complain about.

  ‘Oh, good, you’re up. I thought I’d have to drag you out of bed today.’ Irene bustles into my room, a smirk on her lips. ‘Are you alright?’ Her cheek slides into genuine concern. She has been my maidservant as long as I can remember. ‘Dreams again, Your Highness?’

  ‘Since when do you use my title, Irene?’ Amusement colours my voice. She’s never been overly formal, and usually I like that.

  Irene shrugs as she makes the bed. ‘It’s a special day. Are you excited?’ She doesn’t push about my dreams. There’s something very disturbing about dreaming of Underworld Fire. An evil thing. It’s not what I want to think about, and Irene has suggested I don’t share these dreams with anyone.

  I bite my lower lip. I’m not excited. I’m nervous, afraid, even. As though she can read my expression, Irene tuts at me.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. You’re a wonderful princess, Carmen. This is just a formality, a celebration. Come, now. Let’s get you dressed.’ Irene leads me up onto my dressing stand and I face the mirror. I watch as she pulls out the gown made specially for me, for this day, a month ago. The silks are gold, the trimmings, too, with touches of white. Irene moves my long black hair out of the way as she pulls the dress up, over my legs, then cinches the corset tightly at my back. Shining gems glitter throughout the fabric, sunlight catching them.

  I gasp as she squeezes the air out of my lungs, the dress tight around my stomach. ‘How long must I wear this?’ I choke out, trying not to lean too far forward, though I can hardly move anyway.

  ‘It took much work to make this, you know. You could be a little grateful.’ Irene glares at me in the large mirror.

  ‘I am. It’s beautiful, I just—’ I gasp again as she tightens it. ‘I can hardly breathe.’

  Irene’s lip puckers a little in sympathy. That’s something, at least. She hesitates, then loosens the dress a bit. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Better. Thank you.’ As she finishes with my dress, she sets me down to sit at the dressing table, brushing out my hair. I have no idea what she’ll do to it, but I’ll probably hate it.

  Irene doesn’t ask my opinion as she winds black curls up into a high—and tight—bun, with a few curls hanging loose around my neck and chin. She pulls on an elaborate golden necklace sparkling with more gems and precious stones, then pulls a delicate headband across my forehead; nothing that will distract too much from the crown soon to be placed on my head.

  ‘Beautiful.’ Irene puts a hand on my shoulder. As she stares at my reflection, she squeezes. ‘Just one day of formality, then you can dress more to how you please, my princess.’

  I try to smile, but she and I both know that nothing will return to normal after today. The formality, the crowning, the feast, it’s just the beginning. I try to rise to my feet, but the way the corset sits, as I bend forward, it digs into me painfully. Irene takes my hands and helps me up. It’s going to be very uncomfortable sitting in this dress.

  ‘Oh, what’s that?’ Annoyance edges my voice as Irene gathers frilly swaths of something lacy.

  ‘Final touches. Don’t pout, now, Princess. It’s tradition.’ Irene loops white lace cuffs around my upper arms, my wrists, then around my throat, above the necklace. She gently taps my hand as I fiddle with it. ‘Don’t touch it.’

  ‘It itches.’ I glower.

  ‘I know. Small price to pay to be in your position, my dear. I have to go and help with the preparations, there’s much to be done. Don’t ruin anything.’ Irene pats my hand fondly. ‘You do look beautiful, Carmen.’

  ‘Thank you.’ As the door closes behind her, I try to loosen the lace around my neck and frown. I know I’m awfully lucky to be a princess, to be so fortunate—not only as a royal, but as a witch—but sometimes, being royal sucks. I scratch the lace on my arms. Perhaps Gilah will distract me.

  Walking in the dress isn’t as bad as sitting. Standing and moving gives me the freedom to breathe as much as possible. I leave my chambers and walk next door. In the moment before they see me, I watch my family and smile through the door left ajar.

  Gilah, my grandmother, sits on a plush lounge, Hara in her lap, Tiberius next to her, reading them stories, or, the child-friendly version of our history. I lean against the door and listen. ‘Once upon a time,’ Gilah starts, ‘our realm was divided. Witches ruled over humans and used them as slaves. In desperation, the humans summoned the Knights of the Underworld to come to their rescue.’ Gilah flips the coloured pages of the book in her hands. ‘The Knights defeated the witches, freeing the humans—’

  ‘But the Knights took their place and ruled over humans!’ Tiberius puts in. He knows the stories well.

  Gilah nods. ‘That’s right, they did. The Spirit witches of the realm gathered together, namely your mother and father, and myself, and we exiled the Knights of the Underworld, and your parents were granted their thrones.’ Gilah sets the book down. ‘Today, we celebrate your sister’s Crowning. She’s already a princess, but today she becomes a grown-up one, and will begin her training to one day take the throne.’

  Hara’s small hands clasp the book. ‘Queen Carmen.’

  I smile and knock on the door. Grandma looks up, eyes widening. She shuffles Hara off her lap and comes to me. ‘Oh, my darling, you look stunning!’ She guides me into the room, clasping my hands. She twirls me around, a laugh escaping my lips. ‘Oh, Carmen. You look perfect. How do you feel?’

  It’s on the tip of my tongue, I feel fine. But I don’t lie to Grandma. ‘I’m nervous.’

  My brother and sister come over and hug me, soon lost in the heavy folds of my dress. I try to reach down and pat their heads but bending is difficult.

  ‘Carmen, darling, come.’ Grandma leads me to the couch where I can sit somewhat comfortably—until little Hara jumps on my lap. ‘Careful, you’ll mess up her fine dress.’

  I shake my head and hug my sister close. ‘I don’t care about that.’

  ‘Are you nervous about the day, or what comes nex
t?’ Grandma asks. Tiberius sits on the floor, flipping through the book. What Grandma read to them was real, even if it leaves out some of the details and the horrors of the real history. Tiberius is nine years old, and these stories are important to him. They tell of the history of his land, his people, and even as a little prince, he knows to take that seriously.

  ‘Both? Also, I can’t breathe in this, and these are itchy,’ I say. Hara plucks one of the lace cuffs on my arm and frowns. She gets it. ‘I don’t know how well I’ll do in training. What if my instructors hate me because I’m useless?’

  Hara pokes my shoulder. ‘You lovely.’

  I smile and hold her close. She’s four years old, and not the stubborn kind of princess. She is sweet and soft. She’s the first to reach out to someone to help, even if Father doesn’t like her mingling with strangers.

  Grandma smiles. ‘She’s right. They’re there to train you. No one expects you to know battle strategies and how to fight before you begin.’ Grandma reaches out and holds my hand. ‘Today, you relax and celebrate. Tomorrow, you begin learning what it takes to lead a realm.’

  I blow air out of my mouth. ‘No pressure.’ A knock sounds from the door, and I turn to see Irene—hair now brushed, her dress smoothed out, looking more presentable.

  ‘Queen Mother.’ Irene curtsies. ‘Royal Highnesses.’ She curtsies to the little prince and princess. Hara smiles and stands, her full attention on the maidservant. Father recently convinced her to stop bowing back, though sometimes she still dips her head. It was a mark of respect, Mother argued, that they shouldn’t discourage. Royal etiquette is taught from a young age, and any good prince or princess showed kindness to all subjects.

  Irene turns to me last, her eyes travelling from the hem of my ridiculously long and poofy dress, up to meet my gaze. This time, Irene bows, bent at the hip. Traditionally, she—as a woman—should only do so for the King and Queen, but I know she’s so proud of me today that she wants to show it. She wouldn’t do it in front of anyone else who might take offence, though. I go over and she rises.

  ‘I am stunned, Your Highness.’ Irene shakes her head a little.

  ‘Seems like only yesterday she was this big, doesn’t it?’ Gilah picks up Hara, who squeals.

  ‘Indeed.’ Irene opens the doors and I face a patrol of Royal Guards who are here to lead me to the throne room in the lower half of the castle.

  ‘Happy Birthday, Your Royal Highness.’ The Head Guard, Patrick, bows—as men do. The other guards are silent, immobile statues, facing out into the hall.

  I smile at Patrick. He’s always been a favourite of mine, kind and thoughtful for a Helmet. That’s what the ladies of the court and I call them, because that’s all we can ever really see of them, and aside from Patrick I’ve never learnt their names. They are all Helmets, one and the same. Valuable, Father says, but replaceable.

  ‘Thank you. Lead the way.’ When I was a girl, lead to the throne room for important events, I used to take Patrick’s arm and he would escort me. He would wait patiently while I tripped over my dresses and fumbled in my tight, pointed shoes. Now that I’m older, I walk myself. His orange hair is slicked back, as he holds his helmet in his right hand. He snaps his heels together and strides forward, leading the other guards, who barely look at me, and we start off, toward the Crowning.

  Nerves twist my stomach. I wish I’d asked Gilah for a calming tea, with a rosemary or lavender tincture, but it’s too late for that. I hope Mother likes my dress, I hope I please Father, but most of all, I hope I don’t trip over something and embarrass myself. That’s something everyone would remember, for all my life. The Princess Who Tripped.

  Tiberius walks on my right, Hara on my left, Gilah behind me. A Royal Procession. If Mother and Father were here, they would be in front of me. But they’re in the throne room, waiting, along with everyone else. My mouth goes dry at the thought. Patrick leads us down the stairs. The guard directly in front of me glances back to make sure I don’t fall and topple them all down. I’m not the most gracious princess. I’d rather not be in this fluffy, trying-to-kill-me outfit. I wish I were curled up with a magic book, studying up on herb uses in a quiet room. Why do I have to wear this ridiculous get-up? Tradition. Well, when I’m Queen, I’ll show tradition a thing or two. I pick at the annoying lace cuff around my throat, feeling as though it’s about to choke me, though if there were any threat to my breathing, it would be my corset.

  At the base of the stairs, Patrick clears his throat and announces us, me first. I watch in horror as hundreds of people turn to stare at me. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, my palms turn slick. I wonder if I’ll leave sweat marks if I wipe them off on the dress. I try to school my features into my princess-look Gilah’s been teaching me. Look calm, but kind, she says.

  At the end of the hall, I can make out my parents sitting on their high-backed thrones, and I’m reminded of the horrible dream I had. My palms burn now, and I think I might faint with the heat in the stifling room. Gilah gently pushes me forward, a hand on my back, and I blink, noticing that my guard has nearly left me behind. They walk down the aisle, between the people, toward the King and Queen. I don’t rush—a Princess doesn’t fluster or hurry. I try not to roll my eyes. So many rules. I walk calmly in slightly longer strides until I’m where I’m supposed to be, just behind the guard. My heart races wildly.

  In the throne room today are many commoners, village workers, and all kinds of citizens. I recognise Juliette, my favourite baker, who smiles at me and bows her head. They all bow. Something in my chest constricts, and it’s not my thundering heart. I’ve noticed that some people bow with happiness and respect; they’ve learnt to get to know me for who I am. Though most bow with anger, fear or hatred in their gaze; I’m a witch, and despite the peace my family brought, witches still rule over humans.

  As I walk, I catch a familiar face. A boy stares at me, smiling under a mop of Earth-brown hair and bright, green eyes. Matthew. He’s the library assistant, and a fellow Spirit witch. Of course, he’s a commoner, so the ‘fellow’ part isn’t true, at least not to most, and I wouldn’t say that aloud. I shouldn’t be familiar with him, but we’ve grown up smiling at the other. It’s a comfort to see him here, now.

  I try to keep calm as I near Mother and Father. Tiberius, Hara and Gilah take their places on the stage, in their own seats. The one on my father’s right is empty, waiting for me, the next in line. Patrick and the guard assemble themselves around my family and he gives me a little smile. I think he’s proud of me for not tripping this time. I stare up at Mother and Father, my face smooth of emotion. I’m not supposed to smile. For the next few minutes, I’m supposed to be the picture of calm grace. I bow to my parents, trying not to wince as the corset attempts to slice through my stomach, into my organs. Gaia, who invented this thing and why do they hate women?

  The High Court stand to my left, Lords and Ladies and their children. The rest of the Royal Guard stand to my right in Royal-red cloaks over armour and chainmail. Beside them stand a handful of the Coven, our religion. The High Priestess, Gretchen, stands tall in her Gaia-green robes, ready to bless me. Her clairvoyance is unparalleled; has she Seen if I will mess up today? Behind me stands everyone else. I can feel their gazes piercing my back.

  Father smiles at me—he’s allowed to. He rises and opens his arms wide. ‘Members of the court, the Coven, and citizens of the realm, thank you all for witnessing my beautiful daughter, Carmen, on her Crowning today as she turns eighteen.’ He lowers his hands, and behind him, Mother stands, smiling, and edges a little closer to me. Father waves Gretchen over, and one of her Paladins follows, holding a large, fluffy red pillow, on which sits my gleaming golden crown. I try to take a deep breath—not that I can, really. My crown looks heavy.

  Father tips his head up to speak to the room. ‘Today, Carmen, you stand on the threshold of adulthood. You will wear this crown with dignity and pride as you take one step closer to the throne. Someday, you will l
ead our great realm, witches and humans united, and I know you will be a wonderful, just leader.’ Father holds the crown and I lower myself to the steps—thankfully without tipping over—and stare straight ahead, at his knees. Past him, I watch Hara play with the tiara which is supposed to be on her head, twirling it around in her hands, and suppress a smile.

  As Father lowers the crown on my head, I bite back a wince. It’s heavy and sharp. It digs into my hair, tightening the already painful bun, and the metal is cold. I hadn’t expected it to nearly topple my head back. After only a moment, my neck strains from keeping myself upright, the crown balanced, though it feels like it’s trying to push me into the ground.

  Gretchen stands over me and presses her thumb to my forehead. ‘You are blessed by Gaia on this sacred day, and will be watched over by her as the future Queen.’ Her steely gaze shifts, as though she Sees something, but she quickly smooths her features and takes a step back.

  ‘Rise, Crown Princess of the Gaia Realm,’ Father says.

  Hoping I can balance with all that’s working against me, I get to my feet, chin steady, back straight, as I was taught, and nearly sigh in relief when I stand. Good job Carmen, you stood without making a fool of yourself. I turn slowly, crown digging into my head, to face my subjects. They’re all on their knees. I feel a stab of guilt that I physically have to tilt my head down to see them.

  ‘Come, Princess, sit.’ Mother holds out a hand for me at the top of the three stairs, and I take it gratefully. She smiles and I squeeze her hand briefly before I take my seat. It’s where I usually sit, but the crown makes it different. It makes everything different. Guilt clings to me tighter than the lace cuffs as I see a young boy curiously lift his head to stare up, and his mother yanks him back down. That’s not respect. That’s fear. Gretchen returns to her place in the centre of her Paladins. I glance at Father, staring out at his subjects. Only when he and Mother take their seats, releasing them, can they stand again. Mother sits, but Father leaves them on their knees, on the cold stone floor, several moments too long. Longer than I would, if I were Queen.