To Bear an Iron Key (8 page)

She ground her teeth so hard that sparks should have flown from her mouth. He had no idea how dangerous his situation truly was. Bromwyn shuddered. If Rusty was the Guardian tonight, the fey would eat him alive.

Possibly literally.

Well then, her grandmother had to take back the Key, and that was all there was to it. Bromwyn would convince her if Rusty could not. Should it come down to it, Bromwyn would beg. The very idea left a sour taste in her mouth, but she would do what needed to be done.

Rusty couldn’t be the Guardian. That would be horrifically bad, both for Rusty and the entire village of Loren.

With that thought in the forefront of her mind, Bromwyn stepped onto her grandmother’s stoop and rapped her knuckles on the wooden door. Had she been arriving for a day of studies, she would have entered through the back door without bothering to knock, but this was a different sort of call. A visit, as Rusty had put it. And so, formality was in order.

As she waited like a stranger on the doorstep, Bromwyn wondered if she should have worn shoes.

After a full minute had passed, Rusty whispered, “Maybe you should knock harder?”

“My grandmother is old, not deaf,” she said. But she knocked again, louder.

Once again, there was no answer.

The two friends exchanged a look, and then Bromwyn circled round to the back of the cottage with Rusty fast on her heels. She turned the knob to the back door, and it moved easily in her hand. With a push, the door opened, revealing the large kitchen.

Rusty said, “Your granny’s the trusting sort, I see.”

“You assume she needs to bother with locks.”

“Ah. Good point.”

Inside, the kitchen was clean, and dark, and very still. Bromwyn knew this room well, for it was where her grandmother brewed potions and prepared ingredients for magic and meals alike. The wooden countertops displayed various clay bowls and wax candles in their holders, as well as a collection of knives by the small sink. Above one of the counters were open shelves that housed earthenware plates and cups. In one corner of the room, the large pantry doors were closed, hiding the various herbs and flowers that Niove used both for her work and for cooking. In the other corner stood a huge barrel filled with water. A stone fireplace and chimney took up the far wall, with a massive iron cauldron squatting over the blackened fire pit and a small bristle broom to clear away ashes. Overhead, attached by large hooks, hung copper pots of varying sizes. In the center of the kitchen was a wooden table, with four matching chairs.

On the table was a piece of paper, held in place by a smooth stone.

Bromwyn felt her stomach drop to her knees. She stepped into her grandmother’s kitchen.

“Winnie?” Rusty called. “Should you be doing that when there’s no one home?”

“This from the thief,” she muttered as she went straight for the table. She picked up the paper, and as she feared, it was a note addressed to her, written in her grandmother’s spidery script.

Girl,

No, I am not here, so you can stop hoping that it will be as simple as you begging me to take back the Key. Gilla from Mooreston needed me to assist her with a problematic birth, so that is where I will be by the time you read this. As I am half a day’s journey from you, your thief friend will have to deal with the consequences of his selfish action all by his lonesome.

But that will not be the case, will it? No, you will want to help him, because he is your friend and you have a good heart, no matter what some people in this small village may think.

Know this: I will not take back the Key. I am done playing Guardian to the fair folk. After three score years of the role, I am all too happy to step aside for younger blood. And I suspect that the fey have become somewhat bored with me. They will be most surprised to see the new Key Bearer—and surprised fey are much less dangerous than bored fey.

Tell your friend to use all of the charm of his silver tongue when he speaks with the King and Queen. You should school him in the ways of the fey, and in what to expect. And tell him that the Witch of the Way of Death most humbly suggests that he consider a new pastime. Not all whose pockets he picks will be as lenient as I.

As for you, girl, keep your temper. Keep your wits about you even as you curtsey to the fey King and Queen. And keep in mind what they value most. Should you be successful, you will keep your magic.

I will be back after the Door has opened tonight. I expect to see things well under control. You are to be the Wise One of Loren. In my absence, you will act the part.

N.

“Fire and Air,” Bromwyn whispered.

She did not feel her knees give way—one moment she was standing and reading; the next, she was seated on the floor, hearing her heart beating wildly in her chest, beating the way the fey drums would be beating later that night in the dark of the forest. She thought she heard Rusty calling her name, but she could not answer him.

And if you succeed, you will keep your magic.

Her test of Witchcraft was upon her. Here, now.

And she had no idea what she was supposed to do.

SEEKING HELP

“Winnie? Winnie, what’s wrong?”

Bromwyn tried to catch her breath, but it was elusive as smoke. How could
this
be her test? She did not even understand what “this” was—it had been Rusty who had stolen the Key; Rusty, therefore, was the Guardian, not she. So what, exactly, was her test?

“Right, now you’re scaring me. Can you hear me?”

She blinked once, and then she turned her head to stare at her friend. Rusty was crouching next to her, waving his hand in front of her eyes.

“Winnie?” His voice sounded small and scared.

“Yes,” she said.

He breathed out a “whew,” and he grinned at her. “You scared me! You all but fainted, and then you wouldn’t answer me. I thought maybe your granny had put a spell on her house against trespassers.”

Her grandmother had, in fact, done such a thing—a particularly inventive and nasty spell at that. But Bromwyn saw no reason to mention it to Rusty. Instead she said, “Grandmother left me a note, and it … startled me.”

Rusty plucked it from her numb fingers, and as he read it, his face blanched until he was whiter than the village laundress’s fabled sheets. Finally he said, “Damn me,” and sat down hard on the floor next to Bromwyn. “This is bad.”

“Indeed.” Her voice was a bare squeak.

“So I’m stuck babysitting the fairies.”

Fire bubbled in her stomach. How could he sound so flippant? So careless? But then, he was careless, wasn’t he? Her eyes narrowed as she silently raged at her friend. It was Rusty’s carelessness that had gotten him into this situation, his mad desire to steal his way out of his birthright that had put him right here in her grandmother’s cottage.

Rusty had done this to himself—but she was tied to it.

“Yes,” she snarled. “You are the Guardian. Nature help us all.”

He ignored her bluster, which made her want to scream. Eyes on her grandmother’s note, he asked, “What’s this part about you keeping your magic?”

Her face twisted into a grimace. “None of your concern.”

“Now, Winnie—”

“Do not ‘Now, Winnie’ me!” She glared at him, and somehow she managed to lower her voice. Barely. “You do not study magic. You know nothing about the Ways of Witchcraft. It is not your concern!” She realized that she was shouting, so she clamped her mouth shut and fumed.

His gaze burned into hers, and she saw unspoken thoughts dancing behind his eyes.

“
You
are my concern, Bromwyn Darkeyes.” He snorted and shook his head. “You don’t want to tell me, fine. What sort of friend would I be if I didn’t at least ask about your witchy things?”

Bromwyn swallowed the lump in her throat. Rusty truly cared about her. He had no casual contempt of her way of life, no easy talk of “deviltry.” He was so very different from Brend, from the man she was bound to by a promise she had not made but was required to keep. Brend might protect her, as her mother insisted he would, from threats unknown, but he would never care about her. It would be a loveless marriage, filled only with uneasy stillness and cruel silence.

As if to mock her, Jessamin’s words echoed in her mind:
Life is cruel, Daughter. And fate is crueler still.

She blinked away a sudden rush of tears.

Stop that!
she scolded herself.
This is not the time, not the place!
Not that it ever would be. She was as trapped in her upcoming marriage as Rusty was in his upcoming role as Guardian.

Turning her head, she dabbed at her eyes.

“Oh … hey now. Don’t go and cry like that.”

She felt him put his arm over her shoulders, and now he patted her awkwardly.

“There there, Winnie. It’ll be fine. You’ll see. Please don’t cry.”

“I am not crying,” she said, angrily blotting her tears. “Witches do not cry.”

“No,” he said, and she could hear the grin in his voice. “Of course not. Witches also melt in the rain, and they live in candy houses. I’ve read the stories.”

She smiled through her sniffles. “I wish the candy houses part was true.”

“But not the melting in the rain?”

“It would make bathing rather inconvenient.” She sniffled again. “Thank you. I am all right. Just … feeling overwhelmed.”

He squeezed her shoulder. “Completely understandable, as I’m feeling the same way.”

They both climbed to their feet, and Bromwyn took the note back from Rusty. As she reread it, her panic returned. Her test, here and now.

Was it as simple as her keeping her temper in check? By Nature’s grace, was that it? If she refused to get angry, would that be enough?

No, she realized, for her grandmother specifically mentioned she also had to think clearly while among the fey. Granted, that could be nothing more than good advice all around. But the last part of the note was truly problematic: Bromwyn was supposed to remember “what the fey value most.”

As far as she knew, that was a toss-up between human children and human flesh.

She crushed the note in her fist. As ludicrous as it seemed, Rusty playing Guardian was clearly part of her test to be a Wise One. Should she fail, though, it would be more than just her own magic at stake. If she and Rusty made a wrong move beneath the watchful gaze of the fey King and Queen, the results would be devastating for all of Loren. The fey would return every night for a year—and they would steal away all of the village’s children, among other things.

And who could say whether they would limit themselves to one small village?

She pressed her lips together. Rusty couldn’t fail. She wouldn’t let him.

And she would pass her test, whatever it was. Somehow.

“Come,” she said, shoving the crumpled note into the large pocket of her dress. “We have to return to the village.”

“For what?”

“To speak to the only other person I know who has had any interaction with the fey.”

“Who’s that?” He smiled hopefully. “I don’t suppose it’s Jalsa, by any chance?”

She returned the smile, showing far too many teeth. “Sorry, my boy. We need to speak to my mother.” Bromwyn was certain that Jessamin would help them.

* * *

But her mother had other ideas.

“There is nothing I can do,” Jessamin insisted.

Her mother sat at her cloth-covered table, ready to smile at anyone who entered her shop. Her cards were laid out in a pattern before her, their vivid colors winking in the candlelight. On a bright day such as today, she didn’t need the additional illumination; all the candles really did was make the shop even warmer. But Jessamin swore that her customers expected such trappings when they came to seek their fortune or her advice. Bromwyn thought it was pure foolishness; her mother might as well wear the gaudy shawls and heavy kohl liner of the gypsies if she really wanted to make such an impression. Bromwyn had no patience for such pretense.

She had even less patience for her mother’s dismissal. She said, “But you must help him. I have heard Grandmother mention in passing that you have spent time with the fey—”

“As have you, Daughter.” Jessamin narrowed her eyes at Bromwyn, and when she spoke again, her voice was sour. “You danced with the King and even refused a gift from him, and you lived to tell the tale. You are more of an expert on such matters than am I.”

“That was years and years ago,” Bromwyn said angrily. “I do not remember the event properly.”

“Such things happen. Memories can be treacherous.” Her mother’s gaze hardened. “Besides, even if I could help you, I would not. I do not like to think of the fey.”

“If you will not help us,” Bromwyn implored, her voice low, “then Rusty will fail as Guardian tonight.” She darted a glance through the open door. Outside, Rusty was watching one of the mudrats shilling villagers in a shell game. The red-haired boy slouched against her mother’s shop wall, his large hat perched over his eyes as if he were dozing, but Bromwyn knew that he was keenly attuned to every move of the street child’s hands. Learning. Scheming. Determined to be a thief, no matter what the consequences.