To Bear an Iron Key (13 page)

The friends skidded to a halt.

“This way,” Rusty shouted, pulling Bromwyn to the left. He drew a long knife from his boot and started hacking a path through the tanglers.

From her belt, Bromwyn pulled out her own knife, normally used for slicing cheese and fruit, and she joined Rusty in cutting through the ropey foliage. The bell-like sound of fey laughter infuriated her, and she stabbed the greenery in violent strokes.

The tanglers sagged and retreated from the savagery of their attack, and the two friends pushed their way through.

On they ran, until an adventurous branch snagged Bromwyn’s long skirt and sent her sprawling. Her spell of light unraveled as she crashed to the ground, and in the dark she gasped as the severed magic surged through her.

Around her, safely hidden, the fey giggled.

From the blackness behind her, Rusty shouted: “Winnie!”

“Here,” she growled, clenching her teeth against the searing wave of wild magic. With a grunt, she reached inside herself and channeled that force into the leafy ground. A moment later, the pain dissipated.

Shaking from exertion and fear, Bromwyn once again cast from the Way of Sight, and once again, her right hand glowed.

“You all right?” Rusty asked, offering her a hand to help her up.

Before she could answer or even accept his aid, brambles erupted from the ground and sliced the meat of his palm. He cried out, spraying Bromwyn in droplets of blood as he yanked his hand back.

The fey chortled.

She didn’t know which enraged her more: seeing her friend injured or hearing the mocking laughter of the fey. It didn’t matter; she’d had enough. With a snarl, Bromwyn cast from the Way of Taste, weaving her spell deftly and quickly as the anger coursing through her goaded her to work faster than ever while using a Way other than Sight.

The jeering laughter soon turned to harsh coughing as the fey felt the effects of her magic. It was a taste she knew quite well, for there were many times over the years when her grandmother had washed Bromwyn’s mouth out with soap. The price of speaking her mind had been a very clean palate.

Still coughing, more than a dozen pixies burst from the cover of the trees, flying up past the leaf canopy and into the night.

Bromwyn hoped that none of them were Nala.

“Nasty little things,” Rusty growled, sucking the blood from his hand.

“The fey can be vicious. But then, so can we.” Yanking her skirt free, Bromwyn realized that she used her magic out of anger. Well, she had other worries bigger than her curse—and besides, she was already feeling resentful and bitter and the icy touch of fear, so what else could the curse possibly do to her? She asked, “How is your hand?”

“Stings, but I’ll live.”

At least, he would for the moment; what would happen once her grandmother returned was anyone’s guess.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing his other hand. “We have to hurry.”

They ran.

Ten minutes later, as they approached Master Tiller’s abandoned farm, Bromwyn thought they still had a chance to rein in the fey before things got out of control. Seeing a light in the fields, she carefully unraveled the spell on her hand, assuming that the farmer had hung covered candles to celebrate Midsummer. Then she realized it was not a light within the rows of spelt but the stalks themselves glowing brighter than they ever did during the day, let alone at night.

And then she smelled smoke.

“Fire!” she shouted, pointing to the orange glow amid the fields.

She and Rusty dashed to the farmer’s water pump, which stood next to a row of large buckets. Bromwyn worked the machine to fill one of the pails halfway, which Rusty then hefted to the field to douse the flames.

Bromwyn starting filling another bucket.

“This isn’t going to work,” he shouted as Bromwyn worked furiously. “It didn’t do anything to even this tiny lick of fire here!”

“It has to work,” she yelled over the sound of the water spurting into her pail. “It is all we can do!”

“You’re a witch! Use your magic!”

“I am a witch of the Way of Sight,” she shouted. “What am I supposed to do, trick the fire with an illusion of guttering out?”

He called back, “Sounds good to me!”

Bromwyn growled her frustration and dropped the half-full bucket to the ground. The water sloshed over the edges, but most of it remained inside the pail.

She snarled at the water, as if it were the cause of all her problems. Rusty didn’t understand; it wasn’t as if she were some storybook witch, able to tame the forces of Nature itself with barely a thought. No, that sort of might was reserved for creatures
of
magic, like the fey. It wasn’t meant for some human girl who was simply able to work
with
magic.

She stomped her foot. What she wouldn’t give to have real power—to fly through the air, or to have the rains fall from the sky at her command. But she had learned her lessons well, far too well. From everything her grandmother had taught her, along with knowing how to work magic, she had to
believe
that her magic would do what she wanted it to do. And Bromwyn knew that casting from Sight would not put out a fire. For that matter, casting from any of the Ways of Witchcraft would be a waste of time and effort.

Wait, that might not be true. She frowned, thinking. Maybe she could attempt to cast from the Way of Death—literally kill the fire.

But even though she had studied all of the Ways of Witchcraft, she had never tried to cast from that particular path. If she failed, the results could be far worse than Master Tiller losing his livelihood. She could accidentally suck out all the life around her and blight the land. Vexed, she blew out an angry sigh. No, she couldn’t take that risk, not without her grandmother there to guide her.

Then what? She had to do
something.

Rusty ran up to her, barking out a series of coughs. “Some magic would be good, and now, if you please!”

“Fire and Air,” she muttered, and then she blinked. She swore by Fire all the time. That meant she believed in its power … didn’t it?

Did she believe in its power enough to cast from it, as if Fire were a Way of Witchcraft?

Screwing up her courage—or maybe just her bravado—she turned to face the burning fields. Reaching deep inside of herself, she closed her eyes and touched the core of her power, the place where her magic lived, where it connected her to all of Nature. She held onto that magic, let it fill her almost to the bursting point, and then she cast it out onto the fields. It blanketed the rows of spelt, and she felt as it rode the wind—Air—and then touched the grain—Earth—and then sizzled around the fire.

Fire.

Her eyes were closed, but she easily saw and felt the flames around her, trying to burn her, cleanse her, char her and free her to drift like smoke. Instead of shrinking from such power or swatting it away, she welcomed it, taking it deep inside herself—and then she tried to quash it. Sweat beaded on her brow, her neck, her arms. The air she breathed scorched her lungs.

“Winnie?” Rusty’s voice sounded strained and scared. “I think you’re on fire … ”

Bromwyn bit her lip as she pushed the Fire back.

It reared up and sought to roast her alive.

“Water,” she wheezed.

A moment later, she was dripping from head to foot; Rusty must have upended the bucket over her. But still the Fire roared, both in the fields and inside of Bromwyn. The feeble amount of water from the pail wouldn’t be nearly enough to quench the inferno around her or within her.

Now there was something else on her: hands patting her. That had to be Rusty again, probably trying to smother the fire with his jacket. But she knew it wouldn’t work.

She cursed silently and wondered if she was going to die.

And then she cursed again, the words chiming like bells:
Fire and Air!

Air.

She released the Fire and grabbed for the winds, and they answered. Air buffeted her, whipped her wet hair and dress, overpowering the magical fire until it was nothing more than tingles on her skin. The winds rolled around her, moving faster and faster, and she cast them out and over Master Tiller’s fields. The gales roared in delight, and Bromwyn laughed with them as Air blanketed Fire and smothered it.

Once the flames were snuffed out completely, Bromwyn released the Air, and she sighed as it blended into the nighttime sky, its power once again one with Nature.

And then her body felt like her mother had hung her up like a rug and thrashed all the dirt off of her, and her head felt fuzzy, and her thoughts were soupy and slow. She tumbled against Rusty and said, “Ow.”

He lowered her down gently, and for a moment she just lay there on the ground, her head in Rusty’s lap and his hand brushing her sweaty curls away from her face, and she breathed, and she allowed herself both to hurt and to enjoy the feeling of Rusty holding her so close.

And then she took a deep breath and pushed away both the pain and the pleasure. For tonight, she was the Wise One of Loren. She’d made a mess of things, and she had to clean them up. After that was done, she could collapse for a week in bed. And that was assuming neither the fey nor her grandmother killed her first.

She looked up at Rusty. “Thank you.”

“You were amazing,” he said, his voice dreamy. “Bromwyn Darkeyes, you were … ” He shook his head. “Winnie, I don’t have the words. Just … wow.”

“A good wow? Or a bad wow?”

“Good wow. Definitely a good wow.”

She smiled, wishing she could stay in his arms for even a moment more. But she had a job to do. They both did. She murmured, “You are a silly boy.”

“Boy?” His eyes sparkled as he grinned at her. “I’m a man, just as you’re a woman.”

“What I am is exhausted.” Her smile faded, and as she gazed into Rusty’s eyes, she said solemnly, “But I am also a witch, and you are the Guardian during Midsummer, and we have to help the villagers handle the fey.”

Something dark passed over Rusty’s face, but it was fleeting, and then all Bromwyn could see in his eyes was mischief.

“Come on, then,” he said. “Stop lying about, you lazy thing. We’ve got fairies to catch.”

CHILD’S PLAY

Approaching the main avenue of Loren, Bromwyn and Rusty saw just how bad things truly were.

In their iron baskets, the streetlamps were all ablaze, as if the fey had purposely left the suspended lanterns burning so that the people of Loren could fully appreciate the damage. Doors were smashed; wooden fences, ruined. Goods had been scattered to the wind. Apples littered the muddy streets, as if a mighty gale had blown through the village’s orchard and scattered the fruit like marbles. Debris and wreckage dotted the road, and Bromwyn stepped carefully around broken earthenware urns and jars. As she picked her way along the street, she recognized the remains of a cheese press and the dented forms of a multitude of strainers and pans. Yellow dust swirled like a golden tempest, and Bromwyn understood that the village’s wooden barn that stored its grain had been shattered. Loren stank like scorched earth.

And it looked like utter madness. People ran through the muddy streets, screaming as dozens of copies of Brend and Jalsa soared through the air, taunting the grownups and terrorizing the animals. Livestock bleated and whinnied and brayed, and just as the grownups ran amok, so did the pigs and the oxen and the chickens and the sheep and the cows. Cats loitered, strangely undisturbed, as everyone and everything else fell to chaos. Here the fey buzzed about, some flying, some on foot, all laughing and using their magic to trip or sting the human adults; there the fey dragged people from their homes and peppered them with stones, or with the very Midsummer offerings that had been left for them earlier that day. The villagers whimpered as the fey pelted them with rotten fruit and stale bread, splattered them with spoiled cream. Dogs whined; people shrieked.

The only humans who escaped the insanity, from what Bromwyn could see, were those whose doors were protected by an iron horseshoe nailed over the entranceway. But far too many of the people of Loren didn’t believe in the old stories. Those with horseshoes over their doorways probably had put them up to bring about good luck rather than to ward off attacks from storybook fairies.

Bromwyn snorted in disgust. She didn’t know whether to pity the grownups or to be annoyed at them.

As they passed the bakery, Rusty halted.

Bromwyn skidded to a stop and turned to look back at him. He was gaping at the ruins of the front door, at the breads and pastries thrown to the ground, at the spilled flour matting the floor.

“I have to make sure my mam and da are all right,” he shouted over the din.

Bromwyn opened her mouth, about to offer him words of comfort, but then she saw a huge gathering off to her left. “No time for that,” she said to him, her voice strangled. “Look there!”

She pointed to the center of the main avenue, where children were lining up in the Village Circle like string toys. Dozens of boys and girls, most of whom were in their nightclothes, were listening to the fey speak to them. The fey’s words would be sickeningly sweet, and their promises would be as beautiful, and as fleeting, as a rainbow. Once ensnared by such false promises, the children would happily follow them off a cliff, should the fey tell them to.