To Bear an Iron Key (12 page)

The Queen’s lips pulled wider, almost as if she could hear Bromwyn’s furious thoughts.

“Lady Witch,” Rusty said, “would you be so kind as to pour the wine?”

Bromwyn tore her gaze away from the Queen and met Rusty’s intense stare. His eyes implored her to please, please,
please
keep her temper.

“As the lord Guardian requests,” she said, her tone clipped.

Rusty dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Thank you.” He didn’t add “Winnie,” but Bromwyn could see the nickname on his lips.

Somehow, just sensing the shape of his pet name for her made her less angry, and it was with a tight smile that she turned her back on the fey royalty to open the cask of wine.

As she prepared the cups, Rusty made small talk with the Queen and King, and even with some of the watching fey folk. Bromwyn didn’t know how he could be so at ease. She’d nearly lost her temper more than once, and the fey had been there for not even five minutes. And yet, there was Rusty, holding his own, charming the Queen, even joking with the King. Thank Nature for small favors.

She filled the four goblets with the apple wine. The Guardian had to toast the fey King and Queen, but before the first taste of wine was sipped, the rules of decorum had to be clearly stated as well as agreed to by the fey. Once the wine was sipped, those rules—and only those rules—would be enforced. If the Guardian didn’t impress the King and Queen during their visit, there was the very real threat of them challenging the Guardian’s authority.

And that, as Rusty would have said, would be very bad.

Biting her lip, Bromwyn corked the bottle. No, she would not worry. Rusty knew what to do.

Carefully, she brought over all four goblets. Rusty took two from her, and then the two of them presented the cups to the fey sovereigns. The King and Queen exchanged a bemused look, and then they each selected a cup—the King from Bromwyn, the Queen from Rusty.

“I should like to wish you blessings and prosperity,” Rusty said, “but everyone knows that the fey are already blessed and prosperous. And so I wish friendship between our peoples on this Midsummer night. And in the name of that friendship, let no human child be stolen this night by the fey or otherwise marked by the fey, and let no human adult be taken for any reason by the fey.”

Perfect.
Bromwyn smiled to herself. He said it just as they had practiced. The first rule, and by far the most important, had been stated. Now the fey had to accept the conditions Rusty had set forth.

“Well spoken,” the Queen murmured. “We do solemnly agree to your most reasonable request, my lord Guardian.”

One rule down, and only about a thousand more to go. But Bromwyn wasn’t daunted. They could do this.

Around them, the fey cheered. From somewhere, drums began to beat a wild rhythm, one that captured the feeling of a hunter chasing prey through the lush woods. Bromwyn felt the music’s effects on her body—the way her heart seemed to mimic the drumbeat, how her limbs wanted to move and caper and dance. She forced her feet to remain still.

“Our children celebrate,” the King said, his voice a rich bass that was a musical accompaniment to the music. “We should do no less. Come, witchling.” He plucked Bromwyn’s cup from her hand and thrust it and his own goblet to the Queen, who used her magic to float the additional cups gently in the air.

“My lord?” Bromwyn stammered. “What are you doing?”

“It has been far too long.” The King took Bromwyn by the elbow. “Let us fly once again and dance beneath the stars.”

Before she could say anything else, the King’s magic washed over her—and suddenly, Bromwyn was flying as the King held her aloft. Her stomach dropped to her toes and her heart thumped loudly in her chest. Bromwyn didn’t know whether the sound that escaped her lips was a groan or a giggle.

They danced.

“Five years ago,” the King murmured, “I offered you your heart’s desire. And you refused me.”

Bromwyn swallowed thickly before she replied. “It was a most generous offer, my lord. But the price was too high.”

“You would have had a place in my Court as my daughter. Was it so much to ask that you love me with all of your heart, young Darkeyes?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And now? At the cusp of adulthood, have you found another to whom you would give your heart?”

“I am betrothed, my lord.”

A smile played on the King’s lips, hinting at amusement. “You have learned how to reply to a question without actually answering it. Well done. Now answer me truly, witchling: Is there another to whom you have given your heart?”

For some reason, she briefly thought of Rusty, who even now was alone with the Queen and her charms, the Queen and her lush smiles.

She pushed thoughts of him aside; she didn’t have the luxury of being concerned for her friend, not when the King had charged her to speak the truth. She admitted, “I have been promised to someone, my lord. My heart is no longer mine to give.”

“You wear your sorrow like a scarf, witchling. It screams to be noticed, even as it strangles you. You are unhappy here, in this land that my kith and kin visit once each year.”

She found she could no longer meet his gaze.

“In my land,” he said gently, “you would have your pick of fey suitors. Any who would ask for your heart would be yours, with only a word of consent from you. In my land, you would never have to pledge your heart to another if you did not wish it.”

“Except to you, my lord.”

“Except to me,” he agreed, “and to my lady Queen. But I promise you this, Bromwyn Darkeyes: In my land, you would want nothing less. In my land, surrounded by all the joys and desires that magic provides, you would be content, and more than content. You would be happy.”

She thought of how peaceful she felt when she walked barefoot through the Allenswood, and she wondered, as she danced through the air with the fey King, what it would be like to walk in a place where magic and Nature had wed.

She bit her lip, and then in a small voice, she asked, “Are … are you offering me a place in your land, my lord?”

He leaned down, as if to kiss her cheek, but instead he whispered in her ear:

“No. You refused me, and I told you that I would never offer such a prize to you again. I am simply letting you know just how wrong your choice was. You will never be happy here, witchling, in your world where magic is looked at with suspicion. You will grow old with bitterness in your heart, knowing that you could have been happy forever in my land. You will die, wasted and alone, and all your potential will be gone, with nothing to show for it.”

Bromwyn squeezed her eyes shut, but still the tears came.

The King’s laughter was cruel and cutting, and as they floated back down to the forest, Bromwyn felt something vital inside of her slowly bleed away.

Once her feet were on the ground, she pulled away from the King and sank to her knees, sobbing. Her body shook as she cried, and soon her sobbing gave way to coughing. She tried to calm herself, but she found she could not take a proper breath.

Around her, the fey horde laughed and danced to the beat of wild drums.

A hand pressed down upon her shoulder.

“Here, Winnie.” It was Rusty who spoke, his voice filled with concern. “Drink this.”

Something was put into her hand—a cup. Coughing, she drank. She swallowed apple wine.

Her coughing vanished, as if by magic.

Eyes wide, she stared at the ritual cup.
Oh no,
she thought.
No no no no no…

“My children,” the King said, raising his arms high. “The only rule is that which you heard: No human child may be stolen this night or otherwise marked, and no human adult may be taken for any reason.”

The fey buzzed with malicious glee.

Bromwyn’s goblet slid from her numb fingers. Wine splashed at her feet and stained her dress.

“Clothe yourselves properly,” the Queen declared. “After all, we must blend in if we are to make mischief.” With a wave of her hand, two images appeared.

Bromwyn gasped as she gazed upon the likenesses of Brend and Jalsa, both of them grinning wickedly, as if they longed to do evil things.

The Queen said, “These are the images in the forefront of the lord Guardian’s mind. Wear them.”

The fey shimmered and rippled, and then the glade was filled with hundreds of copies of Brend and Jalsa.

Bromwyn shoved her fists into her mouth to keep from crying out.

“I don’t understand,” Rusty said to her, sounding panicked. “What’s happening here? What are they doing?”

“The evening is yours,” the King announced. “Enjoy the night! And know that at the blue hour, we will see our Key Bearer answer our challenge. Fly!”

Spewing laughter, the fey burst from the clearing and scattered in the night, leaving Bromwyn and Rusty with the King and Queen.

“I don’t understand,” Rusty said again, this time sounding angry as well as scared.

“We were most impressed by your honeyed words, my lord Guardian,” said the Queen, turning the honorific into a mocking title. “But we do not believe you have any power behind them.”

“We thank you most humbly for leaving the fey to their own devises in matters of conduct,” the King said with a laugh, taking the Queen’s hand in his own. “Barring, of course, stealing children and luring adults.”

“Which comes as little surprise. Anyone would know to place those restrictions upon us,” said the Queen.

“Indeed,” said the King. “The Whitehair was never so trusting, not in all of her long years as Guardian. And yet, here you are, with no further rules. And with barely a trick from us.”

“You said she was choking!” Rusty shouted. “You said she needed something to soothe her throat!”

“Indeed I did. And you gave her the wine to drink. And so the terms for the rules have come to a close.” The Queen smiled, poisonously sweet. “You understand that we must press our claim to your land.”

“No,” Bromwyn whispered.

“Yes,” said the King, and then he and the Queen began to dance in the air.

“It has been too many years since the fey have freely walked your world when it was not the magic of Midsummer,” said the Queen as she and the King leapt on the wind.

“And we long to do so again,” said the King as they spun in a circle.

“It is clear that the witch girl hoped we would not challenge you, my lord Guardian.” The Queen laughed richly. “But challenge you we shall, and you will meet it with good grace.”

“Come,” said the King to the Queen as they danced. The scent of honeysuckle in the rain filled the glen as the Queen’s hair and King’s cape blew in the breeze. “Let us explore as we have not done in more than a human’s age.” He turned to grin at Bromwyn. “Upon our return, we shall see if once again we may dance upon these skies every night for the next year.”

“And introduce our ways to your lovely village,” said the Queen, grinning hungrily. “Until the blue hour, my lord Guardian!”

The King chortled, “Until the blue hour, witchling!”

With that, they were gone.

“This,” Rusty said, looking up into the sky, “is really bad, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Bromwyn said thickly. “It really is. The fey are going to bring Loren to its knees tonight. And just before dawn, the King and Queen will challenge you for the right to keep open the World Door for a whole year.” She swallowed. This was her test—she knew it in her darkest heart. It was already a disaster, and she feared that no matter what she did now, she would lose her magic. And that would only be the start. She whispered, “Grandmother is going to kill me. A lot.”

“Are you speaking figuratively, or literally?”

She didn’t reply.

The sounds of the fey shrieking laughter tore the nighttime sky.

Bromwyn finally shook herself free from her despair, took a deep breath and pulled herself to her feet. “Come on. We have to get moving.”

“Why? Are we running away?”

“Running toward. We have to get back to the village before the fey do too much damage.”

Rusty looked down at his boots. “I liked my answer better by far.”

FIGHTING FIRE WITH FIRE

The two of them raced through the Allenswood, desperate to get back to the village. Their feet skimmed over tree roots and the leaf carpet of the woods as they dashed so quickly that they nearly flew. Their way was lit by a hasty spell from the Way of Sight on Bromwyn’s hand, which now glowed as if she cupped a star in her palm; holding her arm up as if it were a torch, she illuminated their way. On they ran, incited by the fey drums and the urgency of the moment—the Guardian chasing after his charges and the would-be Wise One with twigs and bits of leaf caught in her long hair. Bromwyn was certain they would make it back to the village in time to put an end to the worst of the damage.

Perhaps that would have happened, had some of the fey not remained in the forest, ready to make mischief.

With a splintery roar, the Allenswood came alive to intercept Bromwyn and Rusty. Tree branches barred their way in a wall of bark and leaves; to their sides, tanglers burst from the ground, thick and green and flowing like snakes; behind them, thorns weaved their way between knee-high bushes, ready to cut tender flesh.