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

by D. H. Dawson

  Chapter Two

  Carmen

  If I thought the Crowning would be nerve-wracking, the High Court meeting, now that it was here, was going to be much worse. It wasn’t standing or sitting above people. It involved actually talking. I try to remember all my princess-y lessons as Patrick and the Royal Guard patrol lead us into a private antechamber off the throne room. It’s large and carpeted in plush red, as is most of the palace. There’s a long table. At one end sits the War Commander, at the other end—

  I blanch when Father indicates I should sit there. No one told me about this.

  ‘Today is about you,’ Father says.

  He means it kindly, but my skin burns as all eyes turn to me. My family sit around me, and the rest of the High Court gather by the War Commander. The man’s face is tight and stern. I could definitely see him taking a battle-axe to someone, if they so much as got in his way.

  I do not incline my head, but I do have to speak first. As the doors of the antechamber close, silence falls, and lands on me. Thankfully, Mother said I could leave my crown behind, so at least I can turn my head to look at everyone. It’s something Mother taught me, when taking stock of a room; aside from my parents, everyone will wait for me to speak first, so why not take a few moments to gather my thoughts and look at everyone present? It’s a subtle strategy, but a helpful one I find now.

  My eyes find the young man standing directly behind the War Commander. He’s tall and muscular, tanned from fighting out in the sun, and has a stern but calm air to him. There’s enough resemblance, though in posture more than appearance, for me to assume this is the War Commander’s son.

  The Coven have taken their leave as they don’t interfere with these proceedings. The rest of the High Court is dotted with familiar faces. I mostly interact with the daughters of Highborns, not the sons. I refrain from smiling at my friends. Isabella, my best friend, trails a hand over her forehead and nods, indicating that she approves of my headband. I am never to smile in meetings as it is considered to be a weakness, which I think is stupid. Lords, Ladies and advisors to the Crown all stare at me expectantly. A handful of servants and maidservants—including Irene—line the wall to my left, out of the way.

  My gaze slides back to the War Commander. ‘Commander.’

  ‘Your Royal Highness. Happy Birthday and Crowning Day. It’s an honour to lead this meeting. However it please you, to address me as Commander, or my given name, Connor.’ He inclines his head and raises a hand. ‘This is my son, Ares. He’s well-worn in battle and strategy already. Your Highness, as you begin training, may I recommend him as your instructor?’

  My gaze fills with Ares. He’s not as good at smoothing his features as I am. His lip curves, not quite hiding his smile. He steps forward and bows deeply.

  Another princess lesson flicks into my mind. If I’m taking the lead, never look to someone else for advice in front of others. More weakness. I slowly take a breath. The best thing to do in situations, Mother says, if I’m unsure, is to use my authority as a royal. Someone may ask a question of me, or demand something, but I do not have to give an answer.

  ‘I will take your suggestion under advisement,’ I say as airily as I can. I wouldn’t mind having Ares as an instructor.

  Connor inclines his head. ‘Very well, Your Highness.’ The War Commander goes on to introduce me to the rest of the Lords and Ladies of the High Court, but I’m barely listening. Before long, Connor’s gaze rests on me, his brows raised expectantly. Oh, right. I’m supposed to rise first. The meeting concludes, so I get to my feet—it will be a miracle if I can do this all day without falling or passing out—and the others rise, too.

  Patrick and the guard form again and he pushes open a set of double doors. ‘I hope you’re hungry, Your Highness, the feast awaits.’

  I lower my voice. ‘I don’t think I could eat in this.’ I indicate the corset, slowly killing me. ‘Too tight.’

  Patrick’s mouth quirks. ‘Doesn’t stop you drinking, does it? You’re of age now.’

  That would certainly help my comfort level. Or, maybe it would. I’ve only had wine a few times in my life, and only because Patrick snuck it to me, risking a beating, I realised later, but Father wouldn’t do that. There are many old laws of the Crown, established before my parents—under the tyrannical reign of the witches before them—that they don’t adhere to. They’re not harsh or cruel.

  Patrick leads us out of the antechamber. My gaze searches for Ares, and I start to realise he’s already looking at me. He has warm, hazel eyes under his sun-gold hair. When our gazes meet, he drops his, as they always do. That’s another sucky thing about being a princess, everyone is too afraid to look at me. I like to think I’m a good princess, but most people in this realm have suffered previous witch’s reigns, and for all they know, maybe I am a bad one. Dreaming of fire certainly feels bad.

  It’s a relief when we step outside and a fresh breeze hugs my warm face and chest. This dress is not only big, heavy and tight, it has layers that make me flushed and warm. Though that might be nerves, too.

  I follow Patrick as he leads us out into the grounds. I asked Irene about this earlier. Why celebrate out near the boundary, the border, when we would be safer inside?

  ‘It’s better for the people,’ Irene had said. ‘To see you out here, where the magic holds the Knights at bay, to be among your people today.’

  I look up at the boundary. It’s a magical bubble which keeps our realm safe from the evil that lies beyond. The Knights of the Underworld.

  A servant pulls my chair out for me. I nod—damn it—and take my seat. All these things to remember. It was expected that I forget them until today. I was still a child, still learning, like Tiberius and Hara. Today is different. I bite my lip at my mistake and catch Father’s eyes boring into mine. He saw. I catch the purse of his lips, then, past him, Mother’s kind but slightly disappointed look.

  I avert my gaze and instead stare out, down the long, twin tables. It forms a rectangle, from me and my family, out into the open grounds of the realm, where, from a certain point, midway down, anyone can sit at the table with us today for a short time, and dine with us.

  Ares sits down a few places away from me. On his other side, his father sits, and strikes up a conversation with another man.

  The son of the War Commander. That sets Ares higher than the firstborn son of a Lord, so he can talk to me in this setting. If he chooses.

  Heat fills my cheeks, and this time it’s not from the stifling rooms. I look out to the table, then pretend to be distracted by Hara. As a little princess, she gets all the sweet looks and affection, with little expectation thrust upon her. I envy that.

  ‘May I offer my compliments, Your Highness, on your dress?’

  It takes me a moment to realise the unfamiliar voice belongs to Ares. He’s smooth, his voice doesn’t falter or hitch. It’s noticeable, because when people speak to me, usually they’re nervous, and I can hear it. I wish my head didn’t feel so heavy, so I could tilt it to better look at him. Even without my crown, my hair’s updo weighs me down. Ares is in formal armour, though he’s young—and the Commander’s son—so he hasn’t entirely stuck to the expected attire. A metal breastplate covers his torso, and under it a white shirt, though his arms are bare where he should be wearing forearm protector thingies—I forget what they’re called. He meets my gaze and I’m lost in the eye contact I’m not used to.

  I try to remember my etiquette. There’s princess-etiquette, then there’s etiquette on how to interact with males, then both. I want to throw my fork down, even though I’m not eating. It’s all so frustrating. Accept compliments. Be confident. ‘You may.’ It sounds lame to my own ears.

  I’m looking at him side-on, but I see his mouth curve again, as though I did something stupid, but he’s amused by it. It makes me want to snap at him, but I don’t.

  ‘Are you having a good birthday, Princess?’ Ares asks. He doesn’t turn to face me, a
s he should, to give me his full attention, but sometimes people don’t. Sometimes, etiquette aside, their feelings get in the way, as mine do. They’re nervous, afraid. Flustered. But Ares does not look flustered.

  ‘Of course,’ I lie. I would rather get out of this stupid dress. I knot my fingers together in my lap to stop from pulling the lace cuff from around my throat. Was the damn thing made to be itchy? A princess should not be sad, nor sullen, I remember, though it’s not the best day I’ve had. This isn’t my idea of a good time.

  Mother leans forward and smiles at me, then pokes her husband, mutters something, and Father looks at me. Automatically, I sit up straighter, chin up, and stare ahead.

  Father leans close to me. ‘Are you alright?’

  I blink in surprise. Usually, Father is more concerned with appearances than how I am. Without looking at him, I murmur back, ‘Certainly, Father. This is all beautiful.’

  Father taps my arm, so I look at him. ‘I like the dress, but since the Crowning is officially over…’ He winks at me, and I exhale.

  Thank Gaia. I peal the lace cuff off from around my throat and rub at my neck, and continue to strip off the other stupid adornments. Father turns back to whatever he was doing, and I catch Ares staring at me, brows raised.

  ‘What, have you never seen a princess take off her lace before?’ I nearly clap a hand over my mouth. What a silly thing to say, but this outfit has frustrated me for hours. No princess should have to endure this.

  Colour flushes Ares’s smooth cheeks, and his lip twists, as though trying to distort a grin. ‘Of course, Princess.’ I mean, what else could he say to that?

  I pry all the bits off me I can, and am damn tempted to call Irene over to get this corset off me, but I can’t. At least I’m not itchy anymore. The lacy bits pile up on the table before me. Irene comes over, sets them on a plate—I catch her disapproving look—and takes them away. She doesn’t care about tradition, only the work that was put into making those things, and I’ve now carelessly discarded someone’s hard work. I can’t offer a glance of apology, not out here in the open. I will later.

  ‘So, Princess, am I to be your strategy instructor, or do you have other suitors for this task? You’re to have several instructors, if I’m correct?’ Ares says.

  Again, I don’t have to answer, but something about him makes me want to talk. I’ve never really talked to young men before. They all tend to back away from me. I know one thing, I do have a say in who trains me for magic, strategy and weapons, my three main areas of training I need to fulfill to be Heir Apparent to the throne one day. Three instructors. I don’t know of any others who would be suited to this job. Connor, the Commander, has his own job. I could demand he teach me, but he would not like that, and I don’t think he would be very nice to me. Which leads me to wonder. ‘What kind of teacher would you be?’

  Now, Ares turns to face me. ‘I would be kind and instructive, Princess.’

  Technically, he’s supposed to address me as ‘royal highness’, but since he’s Highborn, and he’s using my title, it’s alright. And I don’t mind. I purse my lips. ‘That seems an appropriate answer. I accept.’ I am supposed to start training as soon as tomorrow, so I’d better find my instructors.

  Ares smiles, and it’s disarming—so rare is it that people look at me and are relaxed enough to genuinely smile. ‘If I may ask, who will be your remaining instructors?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. My father may present candidates, if you know of anyone appropriate.’

  ‘I’m afraid I do not, Princess.’ Ares is cool and calm. I wonder if that’s a solider thing, to be alert but relaxed all the time. It’s nice to see someone’s shoulders not bunched around their ears in my presence.

  I gaze up at the boundary, the most significant evidence of magic within our realm. A clear bubble that reaches high into the sky, the wall that keeps us safe from the outside and the threat beyond. As I stare, a patch of the bubble crackles, and fades, then a shattering sound that makes me cry out pierces the air.

  Part of the barrier has broken.

  Charging through, on horseback, are half a dozen Knights of the Underworld. I stand so fast my chair falls behind me. I take up the short blade from a Helmet beside me as the Knights attack at the other end of the grounds. Screams break through the cheery ambiance of the feast as the Knights start cutting down my citizens.

  With wind, earth and water, they rage through the town, but I won’t let them. I am the Crown Princess of the Gaia Realm, and I will protect my people. I use my Spirit power: clairvoyance. I step away as Father’s hand reaches out for my arm, but I’m already past him, headed for the otherworldly foe.

  I See a few seconds into the future. It comes in handy when fighting, though I’ve never used it on Knights before. In my mind, three charge toward the long table I stand at. I blink and move, short sword in hand, and watch as a Knight raises his hand, and with it comes a trembling earthquake that finally outweighs my balance. That’s it. After today, I’m never wearing a big, poofy dress like this again. Someone is at my side before I can get up, slashing out with a much longer, broader sword than I grasp. Metal clashes with metal as the swords dance together, and I recognise the not-quite-right attire—Ares.

  As the Knight comes too close, I shudder. I’ve never had the misfortune of seeing a Knight up close before. Until today, once a year or so, I would join hands with my parents and use my power to strengthen the boundary spell that keeps us and our realm safe. I hadn’t imagined that our foes looked quite like this. A skeletal hand grasps the sword, onyx eyes gleaming from the slit through its helmet. The black horse is silent as death.

  Ares shoves at the Knight, hard; if the Knight were a witch or human, he would’ve been dismounted, but as though his boots were glued to the stirrups, he did not shift. The Knight canters past us, and someone shouts my name.

  I turn to see Patrick and the guard enclosed around my family. Gilah holds Hara in her arms, facing away from the chaos, Tiberius pressed to Grandma’s side. In the fleeting moment of panic, I am glad Hara won’t see.

  ‘Princess, get back,’ Ares barks at me. He holds out a hand to help me up.

  I take his hand, warm and steady in mine, and let him haul me to my feet. An annoying voice in the back of my head reminds me a princess should not be so graceless as to have fallen down. That voice quietens as Ares steps in front of me protectively. Patrick calls my name again. We’re separated, and I know he wants to get to me, but the Head of the Royal Guard cannot and will not abandon the King and Queen. My parents’ gazes are on me, filled with worry.

  ‘Come, Princess—’ Ares guides me by the elbow, out of the fray, but he isn’t quick enough. I See it. A Knight comes up behind me, so it’s timed perfectly as I turn, sword thrust up, as the Knight’s horse rears, still without sound, and my sword plunges into his mid-section, slicing through chainmail. I did it. I stabbed him.

  ‘Princess.’ Ares’s hands are around my waist, pulling me back as the horse nearly clops me over the head with its feet. As I stumble and turn, I end up facing Ares. In the midst of battle, my breath catches in my throat. Ares’s hands are still on my waist. A moment later, he snaps his hands away, remembering himself, and casts his gaze down. ‘My apologies—’

  I turn. ‘No time for that.’ I don’t know what to do to help. There are still five of the six Knights that I can see as I scan the field. Ice rolls over a hut, freezing the people inside, no doubt, and the grounds shake as a tornado begins to form on the other end of the field. ‘I won’t let them do this.’

  A few Royal Guards fight their way through the panicked crowd toward me. I grip the sword in my hand and try to march to the nearest knight, but a guard holds my arm, firmly but not tight. ‘Your Royal Highness, you must come with me. Your family must be protected.’

  Everything seems to slow down. I gaze over at my family, huddled and afraid behind their guards. I glance at Ares who stands beside me. His father fights valian
tly; he’s a witch. I can see his strength. Connor side-swipes a sword that, if he were human, could have taken his shoulder apart.

  Why are we doing this? We’re witches. We’re stronger than humans, every one of us. I look at the guard, his grip on my arm. Ares frowns, his gaze on the guard’s hand on me. I won’t let my people die. Not if I can do something about it.

  I push the guard back. ‘No, I won’t hide.’ I ignore his stammered protests and turn in the other direction before the small tornado can take out everyone’s houses. I catch Ares’s smile as we run together—I’m a little surprised he’s sticking with me—he could go off and fight, or not, wherever he chose. I’m more surprised I can run in this dress. I pause and kick off my shoes.

  As we reach the tornado, two Knights sit atop their horses, controlling it, but there’s something odd about these horses. They’re as dark as night and silent as the others, but they worry and fidget until one rears. It tosses its rider back, to the ground, and it’s the first time I’ve seen a Knight come loose of its saddle.

  ‘Matthew?’ I see him, the library assistant, hands raised, murmuring something. Of course, he’s a Spirit witch, and apparently one with an affinity with animals. Even Underworld animals. He’s fighting.

  Ares aims at the rider still on horseback, and, instead of trying to cut the rider down, he plunges his sword through the horse. The Spirit part of me cringes, even as the horse makes no sound, but doesn’t fall anyway. Ares takes a step back and calls out to Matthew. ‘Do that for this one!’

  I use my Sight. When Matthew aims for the other horse, toppling the second rider, they will retreat, back to whence they came, beyond the boundary. Good. I turn, and find an unfamiliar face staring at mine a few paces away.

  ‘Your Highness, are you harmed?’ I don’t recognise him. A young man, perhaps about my age. I can tell from his plain clothes that he’s human, black hair messed. He’s holding a sword, and his arm is bleeding. Witches don’t bleed that easily.