To Bear an Iron Key (5 page)

And now that Bromwyn thought about it, it was safer for the common folk to do exactly that. They considered the fey to be nothing more than storybook fairies, tales to delight their children and to frighten them into behaving “lest the boggies get them,” as many Loren parents threatened—which was pure foolishness, because all the ballybogs would do if they caught human children was get them filthy from head to foot, which Bromwyn suspected most children would thoroughly enjoy.

If the villagers knew just how dangerous most of the fey truly were, and how close Loren was to one of the World Doors that connected to the magical land of the fey, she suspected there would be a mass exodus that would leave the village husked out, barren. So even though it frustrated her, she allowed the people of Loren their illusion of safety.

Being a Wise One, her grandmother often said, meant knowing when to remain silent.

Around her, the breeze picked up strength. The wind carried with it the smells and sounds of Loren, and Bromwyn closed her eyes as she breathed deeply, pushing aside her uneasy thoughts and wrapping herself in the scents of life. Over the underlying smell of the village itself—stone and earth and wood and refuse, their odors blending and tickling in the back of her throat—she caught the tantalizing aromas of cinnamon and sugar. And then her mouth began to water.

She hurried over to her favorite shop, and she paused there, hoping for a whiff of apple pie or, better yet, sugar cookies. Jessamin was a fine cook, and Bromwyn herself was no stranger to the ways of the kitchen, for food carried its own sort of magic. But neither of them could hold a candle to Mistress Baker and her renowned pastries.

People crowded inside the bakery and loitered outside, waiting for their morning breads and other such foods. Bromwyn knew that because today (well, tonight) was Midsummer, customers would purchase more than usual, both for the afternoon celebration in the Village Circle and for the ritual of leaving fresh bread, ripe fruit, and clotted cream on their doorsteps for their storybook fairies to take at night. Bromwyn wondered, as she glanced at the rows filled with cooling pies, why the villagers bothered with such meaningless gestures; they must have suspected that vermin ate the bread and berries, and stray cats took the cream. To the good people of Loren, Midsummer seemed nothing more than an excuse to be festive and waste food.

Bromwyn knew that the true reason for Midsummer Festival was to entertain the fey on their annual visit to the land. And that enjoyment had nothing to do with bread or berries or milk. Their hunger was for something else entirely.

Enough
, she told herself. She shouldn’t be thinking dark thoughts on such a bright morning.

Bromwyn peeked inside the baker’s door, looking for a glimpse of red hair. But no—if Rusty was in the shop at all, he was out of her view. If anything, he was probably running ingredients from the basement storehouse to the ovens in the back, judging by the line of customers waiting their turn. Bromwyn smiled as she imagined Rusty covered in enough powdered sugar to turn his hair pink.

As she walked past the bakery, she felt a soft nudge against her back.

Her hand whipped out behind her, and she grabbed hold. There was a yelp as she yanked her arm forward, and now in front of her was a mudrat of a child, whom she held by one skinny arm.

He blinked wide brown eyes at her, looking like quite the waif as he obviously prepared to give her a sad tale of parents lost and an empty belly forcing him to steal. Then something passed over his dirty face, and his eyes became glassy with fear.

“Lady Witch,” he stuttered. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know it was you! I swear it!”

She released him, but he stood rooted to the spot. Maybe one day, she would appreciate people’s fear of her, as her grandmother insisted again and again. But right now, all it did was make her feel tired, and uneasy, and very much the monster.

“Usually the long hair is a dead giveaway,” she said with a smile that she hoped was soothing.

But the child paled, and she realized her mistake. She could have kicked herself for the poor choice of words.

“I,” he said. “I. I.”

“You,” she prodded gently.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean! Here!” He thrust something at her—a small roll of bread, probably snatched just moments ago from one of the bakery shelves.

“Please,” she said, “this is not necessary … ”

“Take it,” he shrieked, dropping it into her hand.

She closed her fingers around the roll and he took off, fleeing down the dirt-packed street and rounding a corner that would eventually lead toward the docks, as if he could outrun her magic had she chosen to lay a curse on him.

She sighed. Stupid mudrat.

Breaking off a small piece of the roll, she popped the morsel into her mouth. The bread was indeed fresh, and still warm, and she enjoyed the snack as she walked on. As she chewed, she thought about turning back toward the bakery to say hello to Rusty.

She smiled wryly. Had she seen him, he would have made a joke about her bare feet, or about how he was thinner than she was, or about her hair being so long that it was practically a dress. Rusty always teased her. If it were anyone else saying such things to her, Bromwyn would have gotten angry—not that the others in the village treated her like an ordinary girl, but if they had, she was certain she would have scolded them until her tongue bled. But with Rusty, she didn’t get angry. Instead, she teased back. True, there were times when she threatened to turn him into a toad, but that was only when he was being particularly thickheaded. He couldn’t help himself; after all, he was a boy.

Lost in thoughts of the red-haired apprentice baker, Bromwyn also lost track of where she was until a clanging sound jostled her. She blinked, and her nostrils flared. The reek of charcoal overwhelmed the scent of fresh bread, and when she swallowed the last bite of her roll, the food tasted faintly of ashes.

She had arrived at the forge.

There stood Brend, soot-covered and sweaty, forcing metal to his will as he hammered some weapon or other against an anvil. He had eschewed his shirt, as usual, and beneath the leather apron that covered his chest, his muscles bulged. Brend was a strong man of eighteen, and Bromwyn had no doubt that he would become even stronger as he grew older. He cut an imposing figure, and if she had truly been concerned about her own protection, then she would have looked no further than Brend Underhill, apprentice of Nick Ironside.

But she did not want protection. She wanted love, eventually. For now, she wanted freedom.

No matter; she was not to have either.

The familiar bitterness welled up in her belly, and she forced it down. Brend had been one of the village children she had grown up with, all of them playing together and filling the streets with shouts of laughter. But once she had become apprenticed to her grandmother, those children, including Brend, looked the other way when she would walk by. Out of all of them, only Rusty had remained true; only Rusty still laughed with her and teased, not caring that she was a witch who could spell him into a toad.

Out of all of them, Brend had been the first to walk away.

At the age of ten, Bromwyn had learned how easy it was to be hurt by those she cared about, and how quickly friends could become strangers.

But none of that mattered now. Standing in the doorway of the forge, her eyes already watering from the charcoal dust riding the air, Bromwyn stretched her mouth into a proper smile. Perhaps this morning, Brend would be civil. Most of the villagers let their grudges and prejudices pass on a festival day, and today (well, tonight) was Midsummer.

Nostrils crisping from the fumes and the heat, she called out, “Good morning, Sir Smith.”

Brend stiffened, then glanced over his shoulder to regard her. At least now he met her dark gaze; when they had first been betrothed a year ago, he had barely been able to glance in her direction. Either he had grown bolder regarding her, or he simply was too busy to bother with showing his unease around her. Bromwyn didn’t mind either possibility. Anything was better than being feared by the one she was supposed to marry.

Her stomach pitched from the thought of her upcoming wedding, and she ground her teeth together to keep smiling.

After an indeterminable amount of time passed, he acknowledged her and said, “Lady Witch.” As always, his tone was proper, and cold, and completely out of place with the heat of the hearth fire in its pit. He gripped his hammer tight enough to whiten his knuckles, and the set of his shoulders showed he was ready for violence. Beneath him, his anvil gleamed as it caught the firelight. Voice tight, Brend asked, “What brings you to the forge this morning?”

Bromwyn kept her smile in place. “As every morning, I simply wished to see you and bid you a good day.”

“Lady Witch is too kind.”

“My mother sends her regards.”

“Do extend my thanks.”

“She thinks highly of your master,” Bromwyn said, grasping for conversation. And it was true; Jessamin always spoke fondly of Old Nick, praising his strong arm and stoic character. That was why, she had said many a time over the past year, Jessamin had matched her daughter with his apprentice.

There was a pause, as heavy as the dusty air. Bromwyn had reached the limit of small talk; anything further would be prying.

Fire and Air, why did the man have to make this so difficult?

She asked, “Where is Master Smith this morning? Surely not preparing for Midsummer.” The thought of the village blacksmith taking part in the afternoon’s festivities was enough to make her lips twitch in a sudden smile. Old Nick was not one to do anything even remotely considered fun. He was like her grandmother in that regard.

“Off to the smelter’s for ore.”

She floundered for conversation. “And that is not something for the apprentice?”

His eyes punched a hole through her. “What Master Smith deems appropriate for his apprentice is surely no concern of yours.”

She felt a blush smack her face, the embarrassment more brutal than the forge’s heat. “I meant no disrespect. I was only curious.”

“It’s not your business,” he said abruptly, thrusting his tools into a vat of liquid. Over the hiss, he said, “As I don’t ask you about your deviltry, so you won’t ask me about my work.”

“Deviltry?” she echoed, stunned. “Surely you joke.”

He scowled at her. “Magic isn’t natural.”

Perhaps her curse had come into effect this morning after all; how else to explain that just after her mother had warned her of small-minded people thinking foolishness about witches, her own bridegroom turned out to be one of those fools?

“Magic is more natural than blending metals at inhuman temperatures,” she said, her voice rising, “more natural than forcing iron to your will. I never force Nature to do anything, unlike you with your hammer!”

Sparks crackled in the fire pit as the two betrothed glared at each other.

“This is a mockery,” she said at last. “Will you not speak with your mother? Why should we be thrust into a marriage neither of us wants?”

He growled, “A son does what his parents ask. Maybe a witch doesn’t bother with such things.”

“Our differences are too great,” she said through clenched teeth. “It cannot work.”

He shrugged, an easy roll of his massive shoulders, but his expression belied the movement. “We have no say in the matter.”

She wanted to scream, to grab his hammer and hurl it against the wall. But he was right: They had no say. They were trapped by the decisions of others. The unfairness of it ate at her heart.

Bromwyn managed a curtsey. “Until tomorrow, Sir Smith.”

He nodded, once, and then he showed her his back. It was broad, and peppered with fire scars, and unforgiving.

She fled.

Only when she was atop her mother’s shop, safe on the wooden roof and away from nervous stares and critical gazes did she allow herself to cry, briefly and silently. Then she called herself three kinds of fool, wiped away her tears, and began to practice her spells. The first attempt fizzled and died before it left her fingertips. The second fared little better. But the third took hold, and magic sparkled as she worked through the movements.

After an hour, all that existed was Bromwyn and her magic; nothing else mattered. She was focused. Determined. She would master her emotions, even if she had to turn her heart into stone to do so.

THE BAKER’S SON

“Good Midsummer to you, Winnie!”

Bromwyn flinched, and then she bit her lip as her spell slipped away from her control. “Fire and Air,” she muttered as she tried to recast the magic before the pain began. Ignoring Rusty—who’d bounded over the rooftop, she had no doubt, like some storybook hero—she slowly coaxed the spell back into proper form. Sitting cross-legged, her hands resting lightly on her lap, she appeared to be relaxed; only the sweat beading on her brow showed her effort.

“Winnie? Don’t you hear me?”

A deaf mule would hear you,
she thought with a scowl—and then the entire casting crumbled. Bromwyn didn’t have the chance to direct the power from the broken spell before it slammed into her, and she gasped as wild magic surged through her until it felt like her skin was aflame. With a hiss, she channeled the energy into the air, where it crackled and sparked like heat lightning.