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

by D. H. Dawson

  In my palm, hidden from both their views, the single strand of fur curls away into ash.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cristian

  I leave the edges of the village and walk from Matthew’s sparse little house, down to my own home. I don’t like to mention that I live within the smithy with my father. We should be able to afford our own home, one with walls and our own bathroom. I toss open the fabric curtain that separates us from the world, and groan.

  Julian Smith, my ever-useless father, sits in his chair, head tilted back, asleep.

  ‘Oh, sure, just let the place burn down.’ I kick his boot and he starts awake. ‘What is the matter with you?’ I point at the open fire, a blade now melted within the coals.

  Dad purses his lips, as though it were I who had done the stupid, annoying thing, not him. Parents never admit when they’re wrong. Dad lumbers to his feet and puts his gloves on. ‘Not a big deal,’ he slurs.

  ‘If we have money enough for you to drink, why don’t we have food?’ I rifle through the single cupboard which serves as our pantry and find nothing edible. I turn and frown at him.

  He doesn’t look at me. I feel the burning shame wafting off him. He never looks at me when he’s being a terrible father, but that doesn’t stop him doing it.

  ‘I need the forge,’ I tell him. ‘I have to make weapons for the princess.’

  Dad waves to the wall where there are three swords hanging. ‘Use one of those.’ His voice is garbled.

  How drunk is he? Perhaps I shouldn’t let him forge today.

  ‘Not that kind.’ I show him the Gaia Wood. ‘She’s a witch. To get her to train for real, I need to use these.’

  Dad finally looks at me, or, near me. At the stake of white wood. ‘Are—are you mad?’ He yells. ‘You stupid boy! You’ll kill her!’

  I stand firm. ‘I would never. I’m her instructor. I know how to fight. Like you taught me, back in the days when you could stand without swaying.’ Bitterness drips from my words, but I can’t help it. ‘She’s a good princess, and she needs to learn how to fight. Now, move. You’ve ruined that job anyway. Would you go down to the well and get some water? Take a bath, sober up. Please find another job. We really need the money.’ I don’t have to tell him neither of us have eaten since yesterday, and while the drink may fill and warm his belly, mine is empty save for the gnawing stomach acid biting at my insides.

  It’s hard to read the expression of a drunk sometimes, their minds swirl, their features smooth or blank. ‘Whatever you do, don’t kill the princess.’ Dad pulls off his apron. ‘Even if she is witch.’ He says the last word like a curse, and, though I feel a little badly about it, I don’t blame him. I watch him stumble outside, then call him back when he forgets the pail for the water. Idiot.

  I shake off my encounter with him. Not as bad as most days, really. I put the leather apron on and am relieved to find some molten metal left over. That should be enough for two short blades, the Gaia wood down the centre. One for me, one for Car—the princess. I have to stop thinking of her first name. I cannot think of her like that. She’s a witch. Not to mention, a royal.

  My mind wanders as I forge; it’s effortless now after years of practice. I wonder what Ca—the princess—is doing right now. Perhaps Ares has returned with the tokens from the guards. I can feel my lip curl at the thought of the son of the War Commander. Such a tool. Perhaps they’re sitting at the pond, doing magic together. The princess had seemed so proud, so happy, when she had magically followed the small rabbit in the backyard. I couldn’t smile when she turned to me. I couldn’t congratulate her.

  I push the resentment down. It’s not fair to punish the princess this way, but I can’t help it. I pull the metal from the pit and place a portion of wood in the centre and let the metal cool and set around it. I remove my gloves and apron to let it cool before dunking it in the water. The metal needs to solidify around the wood first.

  Wiping sweat off my brow, my feet move through the tiny forge without my volition, and I’m standing where the carpet is worn almost down to the wood beneath my feet. I stare at the picture on the wall, of the woman with dark hair and kind, blue eyes, like my own. The princess would never understand my distrust of witches. I reach out and brush the frame. I miss my mother every day. Since she died, my father has… not been my father anymore. I look after him.

  Dad stumbles through the curtain. His hands are empty, the only pail we had is gone, and there’s a new bottle in his hands. He grins at me, far from sober.

  ‘Damn it, Dad.’ I snatch the bottle from him. ‘Where did you get this?’

  He reaches out slowly, clumsily, for the bottle, but I hide it behind my back. He laughs then snorts. ‘Guards don’t mind sharin’’

  I shudder. ‘Oh, shit, Dad.’ The guards really do mind sharing. Last time he stole drink from them in the pub he was thrown in the cells for a week. I didn’t eat for half that time. No one will hire me. I pull him inside. ‘Who exactly did you take this from? Who?’

  Dad mumbles something until I poke him sharply in the chest. ‘Patrick something,’ he says. ‘Orange hair, down at the pub.’

  Shit. I know who Patrick is. He’s the one who’d liked to have slapped me for my honesty to the princess. I take the drink and hope the guard is already slightly drunk; that might make him slower to strike and easier to confuse. I set Dad down in his chair and point at him. ‘Stay here. Do not move. No forging. Go to sleep.’ As I pass through the curtain, I mutter, ‘Useless old man.’

  I head down to the pub and find a few of the Royal Guard chatting boisterously. Their red cloaks make them stand out like bloodstains. They’re all witches, and my heart races. Patrick has noticed his drink is gone. He’s looking for it under the table. As I try to set it down carefully on the table next to his, he catches me and shouts.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, boy?’ The Head of the Royal Guard strides over to me, not quite as drunk as Dad, but still sloshed. He snatches the drink and peers into my face—his nose far too close. ‘I know you. Human. Carmen’s weapons instructor.’ The guards behind him fall silent, listening. ‘I can’t believe the King suggested you. Insolent.’ He shoves at my chest, hard, and I stumble to the ground.

  Damn it. I don’t have any weapons on me, but even if I did, that’s a one-way ticket to the cells. I stay down. ‘I was just going to pass you your drink, sir.’ I say as mildly as I can.

  He kicks me in the shin, and I bite back the yelp on my lips. ‘Filthy little thief. Get out. Don’t you have some forging to do?’

  ‘I don’t, actually. Do you need some work done?’

  Patrick sneers at me and turns away. I exhale. That could have gone worse. I test my leg. It hurts, but it’ll be fine. I stagger to my feet and limp out of the pub. I hate the smell, anyway.

  I wince at my leg, and slink back home, shaking my head. Way to make my life harder, Dad. My stomach growls as the scent of fresh bread assaults my nose, all the way down the street from the bakery. I swallow thickly. Dad has just ruined the latest job he’s gotten, and isn’t likely to get another today. Even if he gets one tomorrow, when will he finish it and be paid? Damn it. I keep walking, tired, hungry and frustrated. I’d better finish these blades for the princess. When she’s done learning how to track, she’ll need to know how to fight. I’m hoping I have the energy to be the instructor she needs.

  Someone calls after me and I flinch. Has someone recognised me as my father’s son? What has he done to them? I turn slowly and swear under my breath. A guard in red catches up to me, and my heart rises into my throat.

  ‘Hey, are you okay?’ The guard is steady on his feet, so he’s had little, if any, drink.

  I blink. ‘What?’

  He points to my leg. ‘I saw what Pat did. He shouldn’t have. Are you okay?’

  Now I feel drunk. Is he serious? ‘Since when do guards care about humans?’ I shouldn’t say that. He could beat me up in the middle of the street and
no one would do anything.

  The guard shrugs a little uncomfortably. ‘I heard what you said. Are you really looking for work? I broke my sword in training this morning, so I need another. Would you mind? I hear your father does great work.’

  When he’s not stupid, drunk or thieving, he does. I’m not a witch, so I don’t worship Gaia—or anyone—but I’d have thanked her, or whomever, in that moment. I nearly sag to the ground in relief. ‘Yes, of course. We would be happy to help. When do you need it by?’

  ‘I’m using a spare at the moment, but I’m not fond of it. In a couple of days?’ The guard holds out a leather purse and unbinds it. He rifles into it and presents three gold coins. ‘I’m paying you in advance. As kind of a sorry, for back in the pub.’

  ‘Uh, a sword is one gold.’

  The guard steps forward, takes my hand, and places all three coins in my palm. ‘I expect the best quality.’ He smiles—which is weird enough—and turns to leave. ‘Bring it to me at the pub when you’re done.’

  I’m left standing in the middle of the street, my mouth hanging open. I’m not stupid. I won’t let my father touch this. I duck home to find him still asleep. It’s perhaps a little unethical, but I’ve decided to do this job myself. I’ve been forging for over six years now, since I was a kid. I can make anything as well as my father. My nose scrunches as he snores in his sleep. And he is in no position to be working.

  I tuck the coins away on my person carefully and sit down on the ground to check my shin. It’s bleeding a little, so I clean it off and wrap it. I check on the Gaia weapon. It’s set, so I dunk it into the water, hoping the loud fizzle doesn’t wake Dad. I glance at him as I set the first weapon aside. He’s unmoved. Of course that didn’t wake him. A horse could whinny in his face and the man wouldn’t wake. I set up the second weapon, then leave.

  I need to get some supplies. I can rely on Dad being passed out for the rest of the day, so what I do, he won’t know about. I leave home, and head down the road. I pad around the back of old Elyan’s store.

  ‘El, you here?’ There are rocks gathered carefully in glass display cabinets. He’s a miner, the only person I know who travels between realms. The mines in this realm have been empty for decades.

  The older man appears from the end of the hall and starts when he sees me. ‘Gaia.’ He puts a hand over his chest. ‘Trying to scare me, are you?’ He’s human, but commits to the witchy faith, just for show, I think. Or habit. He comes over and lightly thwacks my shoulder. ‘I just sold a rock to your father yesterday.’

  I take a seat in the back of the store. ‘He ruined it. I need more, please.’ Elyan is a good guy. He’s looking older than I remember him, his skin is dark as the obsidian he collects, and there are new creases around his eyes, the edges of his mouth. He can be grouchy, but he always gives me and Dad good deals. Sometimes, when I was younger, he even let me sleep in the back when Dad wasn’t just drunk, but angry-drunk, in the days shortly after my mother died. Dad used to be bad company on the best of days.

  The old man huffs. ‘That father of yours needs to get his act together.’ He reaches for the cheaper ones, but I sit up.

  ‘Actually, give me the purer stuff. I have a customer. He’s paid me already.’ I offer Elyan proof, and he smiles.

  ‘Good kid.’ He selects a nice quality chunk of steel and takes one coin and gives me silver coins in change, still giving me a really good deal.

  ‘Thank you.’ I turn the ore over in my hands. I’ve only worked with metal this quality a few times. It’s easier to work, but even the Royal Guard take the ordinary stuff we make unless they specifically want something better, like for a ceremonial sword. Or there are some guards who just fancy themselves a little better than the others. I don’t know the name of the guy who graced me with this job, but I like him. Well, for a witch.

  Elyan pats me on the shoulder, then notices the tear in my shin. ‘What happened here? You need fixing?’

  ‘Just a scrape, I’m fine.’ I reach up and hug the man. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You work with that carefully now, you hear? And for Gaia’s sake, eat something!’

  I smile and wave back at him as I leave. The man has a point. I’m starving. I drop the metal off at home, glad for the deal I got. Elyan sells metal to all kinds of people in the realm, so he can afford to let me off a little. He sells to other smithies, jewellers—not our specialty—and even witches who use metals or gems in their spells.

  I head to the market and decide to be careful what to buy. If I get everything I’d like—and for once, can actually afford—Dad will ask a million questions when he wakes, and then he’ll take the money and piss it away again. I walk down to the marketplace and inhale the intoxicating scents. It’s enough to make my head spin. I’m not fussy about what I eat. I go to the bakery, one in particular.

  Juliette smiles at me. ‘I was hoping to see you soon.’ She raises a mocking-pointed finger. ‘By my count, you’ve not eaten today, have you?’ She has long, dark hair, but always wears it up in a loose bun on her head.

  I hand her a piece of silver. ‘No, but I’m about to. Two loaves, please, and a wheel of cheese.’

  Juliette takes the silver with an impressed look on her face. She knows better than to ask if I’ve stolen it, or if my father has—if he did, I’d give it back, not spend it.

  ‘Very good, then. How’s the new training going? I heard you’re the first human to be part of the royal training program. That’s impressive, Cristian.’ She hands back my order, and as her gaze washes over me, she smiles sadly. She knows why I might have trouble working for the royal witches, but at the end of the princess’s training, I hope, I should be paid for that, too.

  ‘Thanks.’ I take the food. ‘I’m just getting started, really. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Is it true? Is she… nice?’ Juliette lowers her voice. We wouldn’t want someone overhearing that, as it could certainly be taken the wrong way.

  ‘She is.’ Not that that makes it much easier. My mother’s old friend watches over me when she can. If I hadn’t come to her now, she might’ve brought me something by tomorrow.

  Juliette looks a little disbelieving—a nice royal?—and I don’t blame her. ‘Get some meat if you can, Cristian. Training the princess, you’ll need to be at the top of your game.’

  I smile and take my leave. My village is scattered with good people, with good hearts. People, not witches. But the coins tucked into my pocket remind me that, however strange it seems, however irregular it happens, perhaps witches are capable of goodness, too. My hand wanders to my shoulder, remembering that the princess had told the healers to care for me.

  The two Gaia blades are ready. My stomach is full of bread, cheese—it’s been a while since I had the luxury of cheese—and fresh water. Dad is still asleep. I carefully break away two slices of bread for him—that alone won’t raise suspicion, I could say Juliette gifted us a little, and hide the rest away. I make sure the coins are sewn into my bag and put a piece of cloth in with them so they won’t jingle—too easy to attract thieves with a jingling bag.

  I head back to Matthew’s house, wishing I didn’t have to watch the princess do magic. It would always make my skin crawl. I try to swallow those fears, those feelings, as I knock on the door, and hear Matthew call out to let myself in. I walk through his house—at least he has a house—and try to count my blessings, for today, despite the pains of my father and that stupid guard, Patrick, at least I got a good job and food.

  Carm—the princess—smiles at me from where she sits on the ground, her fingers glowing as she weaves a spell. I see pictures in the water and start. They’re magically tracking a bunch of guards.

  Ares is gone, thankfully, but I’m still left with two witches. I swallow my nerves.

  The princess points to my belt. ‘You made them. They look beautiful.’

  I raise an eyebrow. If she were talking about a normal, good-quality sword, I might agree, but these
are not. ‘They’re short blades with Gaia Wood, Princess. Nothing beautiful about them. They’re for training.’

  Matthew doesn’t pay much attention to me, but he looks like he’s got his work cut out for him. From the number of pieces of cloth floating on his side of the pond, he’s got over a dozen people to keep track of, and their movements, who they’re conversing with, and where they’re going.

  ‘Will this really lead us to a—a—?’ Damn it, why do witches need so many names?

  ‘A Summoner?’ the princess puts in. ‘Yes, it might. It’s obvious my guards are working with someone. We just need to watch to find out who.’

  ‘Well, do you need to be doing that, or would you like to train?’ I slide one of the blades out and hand it to her, hilt first. She’s the one who asked for these.

  The princess stands and takes it. ‘I could use a break from spellcasting. What happened to your leg?’

  Oh, you know, just that jerk of a guard you seem to love so much, who, by the way, hates humans, and was beating me up. I bury the anger that heats my chest. ‘Nothing, Princess. Don’t worry about it.’ Like she would care. I take my own Gaia blade and we move over to a more open part of the garden, away from ponds and other obstacles.

  The princess’s dark brows draw together, as though suspicious, or maybe annoyed that I’m not telling her the truth.

  Her hair is out, and she’s wearing a dress. Can a girl really fight like this? Can I tell her she’s silly to try? I know she’s a princess, but if she wants to fight—I stare as she sets the weapon down, takes a strip of ribbon from the bodice of her dress, and ties her hair back. ‘I know I’m in a dress, but I’m afraid I don’t have much choice in that.’

  I hide a smile. At least she’s aware of these things. ‘Well, we’ll just have to keep an eye on your footwork. Don’t want you tripping over your own clothes.’

  ‘I don’t trip so much anymore.’ She takes up the blade. ‘What do I do?’