To Bear an Iron Key (16 page)

“As you say, my lord,” she said, inclining her head again.

“Now that this game is done, I must go find another before I grow bored.” He motioned lazily. Overhead, the two streetlights went out. “Until the blue hour, witchling!”

Bromwyn felt the surge of wind that told her that the King of the fey had leapt into the nighttime sky.

“Well,” she said in the darkness, “that was rather spiteful of him.” She cast from Sight, using her magic to give the illusion of light on the extinguished lamps. In their iron baskets, the pine knots glowed brightly.

“They have a wicked sense of humor,” Rusty said.

“If humor is what you want to call it.” She watched the King join the other fey, and she realized with dismay that she, too, longed to fly away, to soar among the winds and chase after the birds. What stung more than the realization was the knowledge that if she had chosen differently five years ago, she would have flown every single day. Had she gone to live in the land of the fey, there would have been nothing she could not do.

Nothing, except choose whom to love with all of her heart.

But given that she had no choice in the matter anyway, she felt horribly cheated.

I made the right choice,
she told herself angrily.
Doing the right thing should not weigh so heavily.

From behind her came a breathy sob, and a woman asked, “Is it over?”

Forcing herself to smile, Bromwyn turned to face Jalsa, who was rubbing her battered wrists. “Your innocence has been accepted. You have nothing to fear from the villagers tonight. But,” she added, “you may want to carry an iron nail on you.”

“Winnie?” Rusty didn’t look up as he worked on the ropes that pinned Brend’s arms behind his broad back. “How did you know it wasn’t the priest himself? It looked just like him.”

“Not completely,” she said, darting a glance at Brend—who was looking at her so curiously—before she turned away. “Too much hair. When the fey mimic bodies, they do not seem to get it exactly right.”

At that moment, four Jalsas floated past them … and two of them were completely naked.

Behind Brend, Rusty mumbled something that sounded like, “Close enough.”

Bromwyn restrained herself from rolling her eyes. She said, “More than the appearance, the attitude was completely wrong. The true priest is a man of peace. He would never have urged people to commit murder.”

Jalsa—the real Jalsa—let out a wail, and she threw herself on Brend, whose bonds fell to the ground. She cried, “They were going to kill us! And we didn’t do anything to deserve it! Oh, it was horrible! Horrible!”

“There there,” Brend said awkwardly, putting his arm around her. “It’s over now. You’re all right.”

“Hey,” Rusty said, affronted.

“Oh, Sir Smith, I was so frightened!” Jalsa sobbed (prettily, Bromwyn noticed) and clutched Brend’s shirt. “But you were so brave! So courageous! So strong!”

“So helpless,” Rusty said.

Bromwyn didn’t know whether she was terribly annoyed by her betrothed soothing the buxom barmaid or terribly amused.

“We were in dire straits for a time,” Brend said, patting Jalsa’s back as he continued to throw strange glances at Bromwyn. “But the good villagers saw the truth of things.”

“You are right, Sir Smith,” Jalsa said, looking up into Brend’s dirty face. When the tavern girl spoke again, her voice was less tremulous and more of a throaty purr. “I feel the need to have something to drink, to soothe my nerves. But I am uneasy walking alone tonight. There are
frightening things about. Would you accompany me?”

“I would be honored,” Brend said gravely.

Bromwyn nearly gagged when Jalsa batted her eyelashes at him.

“This is so completely unfair,” Rusty said to Bromwyn, who kept her mouth shut.

Brend held his arm out, and Jalsa took it. Together, they slowly walked away from the church gates, as copies of them fluttered about the sky. Before they turned the corner that would lead to the tavern, Brend looked over his shoulder and caught Bromwyn’s gaze. Whatever he tried to say to her with his eyes, Bromwyn couldn’t tell. And then, the two victims were gone.

“In the stories,” Rusty said loudly, “the thief prince gets the girl.”

“If you were a prince in real life,” Bromwyn said, “you would have gotten Jalsa. Who, I cannot help but notice, has been reduced once again to a girl. I thought she was a woman?”

“A wench,” he said, puffing out his chest. “She’s a wench if there ever was one. Say, Winnie, I remember learning about our village’s history.”

She slid a glance at him. “Do you, now?”

“Mistress Teacher spent many an hour on that particular tale. And there’s nothing it in about anyone named Loren.”

Bromwyn felt a blush heat her cheeks. “Perhaps that is because I made that part up.”

Rusty stared at her for a good five seconds before he burst out laughing.

“What?” Bromwyn said, sniffing. “What is so funny?”

He shook his head as he laughed, and Bromwyn sighed as she waited for the fit to pass.

Finally Rusty said around his snorts, “The Wise One of Loren is a liar. How do you not see the humor in that?”

“The Wise One,” another voice replied, “knows when to tell people what they need to hear.”

Bromwyn stiffened. Rusty, facing her, gulped loudly, and she watched the blood drain from his face.

Biting her lip, she said a hasty prayer to Nature. Then Bromwyn turned to face the wrathful gaze of her grandmother.

WISE WORDS

“You have returned,” Bromwyn said meekly.

“And you have a penchant for pointing out the obvious.” Niove Whitehair glowered down at her, and Bromwyn cringed. The lanterns hanging overhead cast deep shadows on her grandmother’s seamed face, and the whites of her eyes glowed with power. For her to display even a hint of her magic so openly meant that she was completely livid with Bromwyn. That didn’t bode well.

“I would ask how everything goes,” her grandmother said with a sniff, “but that is painfully apparent.”

No, that didn’t bode well at all.

Bromwyn bit her lip and looked down at her muddy feet. She wished she could just disappear—which, strictly speaking, she could, but her grandmother would easily see through the illusion. And that would put Niove in an even worse mood.

“Tell me this, Granddaughter: Are the fey bound by any rules this night? Or have you forgotten everything?”

Bromwyn whispered, “They cannot steal children, or lure adults.” She coughed. “Or eat them.”

After a long pause, Niove said, “Well then, that is something, at least. Still, I expected better from you.” She snorted in disgust. “Look at them, romping about, frolicking as if this were their own personal playground. Makes me want to spit. You should have done better than this, girl.”

Blushing furiously, Bromwyn said nothing. She was too upset to even be angry at her grandmother’s words, for Niove was right. Bromwyn should have done better. And not because of the risk of losing her magic, but for the larger reason: The people of Loren were suffering for her oversight. She bit back a sob.

“Don’t talk to her like that.”

Bromwyn couldn’t have heard properly. Surely, she imagined Rusty coming to her defense. No one, not anyone, ever talked back to Niove Whitehair.

Her grandmother boomed, “Who are you, boy, to tell me how I may speak to my granddaughter?”

Fire and Air,
Bromwyn thought.
Rusty really did speak aloud!
She wanted to kiss him and curse him, but she couldn’t bring herself to say or do anything, other than tremble before her grandmother and await judgment.

“I’m her friend,” Rusty said, his voice steady and not sounding at all scared. “And more than that, I’m the Key Bearer. It was my idiocy that got us into this mess, not hers.”

By Nature’s grace, her best friend was possessed. That had to be it. There was no other explanation for him being so pert to the village Wise One, or why her grandmother hadn’t stricken him down by now. Bromwyn’s temper was short; Niove’s was legendary.

“An honest thief,” her grandmother mused. “Who would have guessed?”

“Bromwyn Darkeyes is the one who saved Master Tiller’s fields,” said Rusty, sounding not at all like the boy Bromwyn knew—he sounded older, more confident. “And she’s the one who talked sense into the mudrats before they did something horrifically dumb, like follow the fairies up the Hill and through the Door. And she’s the one who talked the village adults out of a murder or two.”

“Really,” Niove said thoughtfully.

Bromwyn felt her grandmother’s gaze raking over her, and she desperately tried not to whimper. Witches never whimpered, not even when under the intense scrutiny of older, more terrifying witches.

“I’d say she’s got much to be proud of,” Rusty said, and now Bromwyn could hear a grin in his voice. “I’m proud of her. And I’m proud to call her my friend. That’s who I am, Wise One: the friend of Bromwyn Darkeyes.”

Then there was silence, thick as the baker’s festival bread.

Bromwyn couldn’t believe what Rusty had said, or that he had spoken at all. Talking back to Niove Whitehair? He must have gone mad indeed.

“Not many have the strength of character to speak their minds to me,” Niove said slowly, approvingly. It was a tone that Bromwyn had rarely heard, and almost never when it came to Bromwyn herself. “My granddaughter is lucky to have you as a friend, boy.”

“Thank you, Wise One.”

“But it seems to me,” she said, much sharper, “that your stint as Guardian is going less than well. Would you say that is accurate?”

“Yes, Wise One,” Rusty said, his voice shrinking until his words were tiny things. “It certainly could be going better.”

“And it could end up going significantly worse.”

Bromwyn heard the threat in her grandmother’s words, and she chewed her lip.

“Leave us, boy. Go to the cartomancer’s shop, and wait there for my granddaughter. She and I must have words now.”

“Yes, Wise One,” he squeaked. “Thank you, Wise One.”

Bromwyn heard him scamper away, leaving her to her fate. She couldn’t blame him for running; when Niove said frog, you hopped. Very, very high. She swallowed, and waited, and wondered if her grandmother was going to kill her now, or wait until after Midsummer.

“I know of your words to the children of this village,” Niove said once Rusty had gone. “Especially to that Jordan Rivers, who has not a lick of sense to him. I saw you hold your own in front of the mob, and speak to the fey King on his own terms. But I do not know what your thief friend meant by saying you saved Jason Deerborn’s fields. Explain.”

Doing her best not to stutter, and failing miserably, Bromwyn told her grandmother how she put out the fire in Master Tiller’s spelt fields. She still couldn’t bring herself to look Niove in the eye, so she addressed her own muddy toes.

When she finished, there was a long pause before her grandmother spoke, a pause filled with Bromwyn imagining the worst sorts of punishments Niove could dish out, many of which having to do with cleaning out the privy behind her grandmother’s cottage.

“And so.” Niove let out a sigh. “At least you did not burn yourself out. That counts.”

Bromwyn said, “Rusty doused me in water … ”

“I do not speak of your body, girl. Do not be daft; it ill-becomes you.”

Bromwyn gleeped and bit her tongue. She had not considered that calling Fire and Air might well have destroyed her ability to cast. Had she known, would she still have taken the chance?

“Well,” Niove huffed, “once this night is done and the World Door is closed, we will have much to discuss. Assuming, of course, the fey will not be returning for a year’s time. They have not challenged you, I take it?”

Bromwyn whispered, “They did, Grandmother. They challenged Rusty for the right to walk the world every night this year.”

“And you were going to tell me of this
when
, girl? After the King and Queen had enslaved the village? Wheel and want!” Niove spat loudly, and Bromwyn flinched. “Priorities, girl! You need to learn priorities!”

“I am sorry,” Bromwyn cried. “Truly! I was going to tell you. It is just … ” She took a deep breath, and then she said, “I was afraid to.”

“Why?”

Bromwyn admitted, “I thought you would kill me.”

“And I still might.”

Bromwyn screwed her eyes shut and tried not to die on the spot.

“Even so,” her grandmother said, “your duty is first and foremost to this village. You are to be a Wise One. Or have you forgotten that?”

“No, Grandmother,” she whispered.

“Stop putting yourself first, if you plan on ever filling my shoes. So to speak. Where in Nature’s nurturing earth are your shoes? You met the fair folk
barefoot
?”

There was a sudden sting by Bromwyn’s ear. “Ow!”

“Bromwyn Elmindrea Lucinda Moon,” her grandmother hissed, “the next time you are to represent this village as a Wise One, you will dress appropriately! You are not some mudrat!” She clouted Bromwyn’s other ear. “Do you hear me, girl?”

“Yes, Grandmother,” she said, rubbing her sore ears.