To Bear an Iron Key (17 page)

Niove spat again. “So, the boy is to be challenged. Well, that is a complication.” Then she let out a sigh, which to Bromwyn’s stinging ears sounded almost mournful.

“But you will help us,” she said to Niove, “now that you have returned. Right?”

“Of course not, girl,” her grandmother said. “This is your test, and I will not interfere.”

Niove’s words made Bromwyn forget to be embarrassed or scared or ashamed, and she met her grandmother’s dark gaze with her own. “What do you mean? You have to help us!”

“Perhaps your spell of Sound left some residual effects,” Niove said dryly. “Are you deaf? I said I will not interfere, and that is what I meant.”

Bromwyn spluttered, “But that is insane!”

“Call it what you want, girl.” Her grandmother’s eyes glowed fiercely, and her smile was a nightmare stitched onto her weathered face. “But I will not lift a finger to help you.”

“Fire and Air!” Bromwyn stomped her foot, and mud splattered on her skirt. “You take me to task for daring to place my own needs above those of the village, and yet when I ask you for help for the good of the village, you tell me you will not because of my test!”

“Exactly.”

“You are as selfish as you accuse me of being! You helped Mother eighteen years ago. She said so herself. It was your quick thinking, she said, that kept the fey from overrunning the village!”

“Your mother failed her test,” Niove said, “and lost her magic. She needed my help.”

The words hung in the air between them, and Bromwyn gasped as she understood the meaning behind them. She said, “But I—”

“Have not failed. Not yet, anyway,” Niove added, “although the night is still young, and anything could happen, I suppose. Do you want to fail?”

Bromwyn’s mouth hung open, but since no words flew out, she quietly closed it and shook her head.

“Then do not. It really is as simple as that.” Her grandmother arched a white brow. “Now that you are done lecturing me, Granddaughter, I will be off. If I know the fey, they will have made a mess of the Allenswood. I mean to make them clean up after themselves.”

“Grandmother, I—” Bromwyn’s voice cracked, and she had to take a gulping breath before she could continue. “I am sorry.”

Niove snorted. “Apologies are as worthless as a hairpiece in a rainstorm. Do not apologize, girl. Pass your test. Show me that all the years you have spent studying with me have not been a waste of my time.”

Feeling very small, Bromwyn replied, “Yes, Grandmother.”

“Remember my advice to you, and you will be fine.” Niove Whitehair’s eyes shone, and for a moment, Bromwyn thought she saw something sparkling there beyond her grandmother’s power, something that hinted of love and pride. Then the moment passed, and all that was left was the quiet glow of magic. “When is the challenge?”

“Just before dawn.”

“The blue hour? Humph. So they mean to make it quick, before the sun’s full light shines and roasts them where they stand.” Niove snorted. “They underestimate you, Granddaughter.”

“If you say so,” Bromwyn whispered.

“I do. They are arrogant. Remember that.” Her grandmother scrutinized her. “I suggest you and the boy thief get some sleep. You look ready to drop, and if you plan on helping your friend with the challenge, you need your wits about you. The fey will do no great mischief, not this night at least. Not when they believe they may be returning every night for a year,” she added with a sniff.

“But then we should study, see what we can anticipate—”

“It would be a waste of time. You cannot prepare for a fey challenge. All you can do is try to outthink them. And for that, girl, you need to be sharp. And that means you need your rest.” Niove adjusted her black shawl, and then she turned away. “I suggest you set a cantrip to kick you out of bed ninety minutes before dawn. That will give you ample time to get the thief, and get yourselves to the Hill. And this time, girl, you had best dress appropriately. And for the love of Nature, wash those feet of yours.” Grumbling, she added, “Seeing the fair folk
barefoot
. Fire and Air, the girl is as heartblind as her mother ever was.”

“Grandmother?”

Niove glanced over her shoulder at Bromwyn.

“Thank you.”

Her grandmother smiled tightly. “Do not thank me yet, girl. First pass your test. Then we shall have words about what it truly means to be a Wise One, among other things.”

With that, Niove Whitehair walked up the street. One of the smaller fey dared to throw dirt at her, and Bromwyn watched first as the dirt slid off of Niove’s form, leaving her grandmother untouched, and then as the fey’s hair caught fire. The creature shrieked and zoomed away, leaving Niove to amble on, undisturbed.

“I will pass,” Bromwyn said softly. “Mark me on that. I will pass, and will do you proud.”

As she slowly made her way to her mother’s shop to get Rusty, Bromwyn realized that she didn’t know if she had made the promise to her grandmother or to herself.

BONDS THAT WILL NOT BREAK

Bromwyn rubbed her eyes as she waited for Rusty to come out of the bakery. Above her, the fey buzzed like gnats and swooped through the pre-twilight sky, but they left her alone. They did not taunt her or goad her on, did not acknowledge her in any way, not even to squat over her like a bird taking aim. Perhaps the King had told them to leave her alone. Or perhaps the fey that had crossed her grandmother’s path had served as fair warning. Bromwyn didn’t know, and she didn’t care. If the fey were giving her a wide berth, so much the better. She was too tired to properly growl at the creatures, anyway.

She’d gotten only a few hours of sleep, and now her eyes were burning and her mouth seemed fixed in a permanent yawn. Her mother had woken with her, and had drawn the water for Bromwyn’s bath, and had picked out her garments—which, sadly, had included shoes. Niove must have had words with Jessamin when Bromwyn was sleeping; her mother had not cared one whit about Bromwyn’s appearance yesterday, but this early morning, all Jessamin had been able to talk about was how Bromwyn would look the part of a Wise One. And her mother had hummed and laughed and smiled brightly as Bromwyn had bathed.

Just thinking about it now made Bromwyn gnash her teeth. In the face of her daughter possibly losing her magic, Jessamin had been happier than Bromwyn had seen her in a long, long time.

Then she rolled her eyes at her own foolishness. She knew that her mother was just being supportive, as a mother should be. And if she had taken pleasure out of helping her daughter dress, what of it?

For Jessamin clearly had enjoyed herself. Once Bromwyn had dressed, her mother had set about working her own sort of magic over her daughter’s long hair. Now there were so many pins and combs and … and
things
in her thick curly tresses that Bromwyn didn’t know how she would ever brush them out. And her head felt like it weighed a ton. No wonder storybook ladies always walked with their heads held high; if they dared to look down, the weight of their hairdo would send them crashing to the floor.

And that was why, thirty minutes before dawn, Bromwyn, yawning hugely, wore a flowing blue gown that had fancy beadwork by the sleeves and hem, and her hair was wrapped around and around itself in complicated coils and held in place with elaborate combs and pins (and other things that, as far as Bromwyn was concerned, had no names other than “hair glue”). A silver girdle disguised how the dress bagged over her lanky frame, and it also managed to play up her bosom in a grownup manner. An
extremely
grownup manner. The very thought of it made her uneasy. Her hand fluttered over her chest, her long fingers covering the rather daring neckline.

Simply put, she felt very much like an idiot.

“You look beautiful,” her mother had told her not even ten minutes ago, just before Bromwyn dashed out the door to go meet Rusty. “Much better than I ever did in that dress.”

Bromwyn hated it. Blue reminded her of the fey King, and the material felt much too smooth and delicate for a proper dress.

“You can have it back, if you miss it,” she had replied, scowling at her reflection in the mirror. Really, she looked so … so
unlike
herself. The fey were going to mock her. And Rusty would kill himself with laughter when he saw her. Yes, he would die laughing, and she would die from embarrassment, and they would both save her grandmother the trouble of killing either of them.

“Not at all. It looks marvelous on you.” Her mother had sighed happily, in the way that only mothers could do. “And the girdle flaunts your figure.”

In reply, Bromwyn had yawned hugely, and was flummoxed when her cleavage nearly burst free from her dress. Covering the exposed top of her bosom with her hand, she said, “I look like I should be working in the tavern.”

Jessamin had snorted, sounding in that moment exactly like Niove Whitehair. “You look nothing of the sort. Common girls work in taverns. You, my daughter, are far from common. And today, you look like a princess.” Her mother’s hand had smoothed away an errant lock from Bromwyn’s forehead. “You should fix your hair this way more often. Show off that beautiful face of yours.”

“It took you twenty minutes just to brush out the curls. I would rather spend the time doing other things.”

“Pish-tosh,” her mother had replied. “A little time on your appearance should be as important to you as a little time on your studies.”

That was truly ridiculous, but Bromwyn did not say so.

Jessamin had smiled, perhaps taking her daughter’s silence as agreement. “I can only imagine what Brend would say, should he happen to see you looking so fetching.”

And now, waiting outside of the bakery in the darkest time before the blue hour, Bromwyn wondered not about her future husband’s reaction but about another boy’s. A boy with red hair, and a quick smile, and eyes that danced with mischief. A boy with a penchant for trouble and for taking what didn’t belong to him.

Stop,
she told herself, but she couldn’t. She didn’t love Brend. She didn’t want to marry him, or to be with him for the rest of her life. Not Brend, who called her magic “deviltry.” Not Brend, who could barely stand to look at her. Not Brend, who was all too happy to go off with Jalsa to the tavern and yet couldn’t manage to say even a “thank you” to Bromwyn for standing by him in the face of his looming execution.

She remembered how, years gone, Brend had first turned away from her once she was no longer merely the cartomancer’s daughter but Lady Witch.

Her hands clenched into fists. Brend Underhill, apprentice blacksmith of Loren, was brawny and imposing, and he certainly would protect Bromwyn once they were wed; it was the duty of husbands to protect their wives, even as it was the duty of wives to side with their husbands, as Bromwyn herself had sided with Brend hours ago. But would Brend ever stand up to Niove Whitehair? Would he talk back to her grandmother and dare to tell her that he was proud of Bromwyn?

She could hear Rusty’s words even now, could hear the grin in his voice as he told her grandmother that he was Bromwyn’s friend.

Her eyes stung, and she blinked away sudden tears.

Enough, and more than enough.
She sniffed loudly and brushed at her eyes. She didn’t have the luxury of lamenting her life. Not now. Once she and Rusty met the King and Queen’s challenge successfully and locked the World Door behind the fey, then she could lay about and mope and waste her time wishing for a rescue that would never come.

Besides, witches did not cry.

So it was a dry-eyed Bromwyn who met Rusty as he shuffled out of the bakery’s storefront a few minutes later.

“Morning,” he said around a jaw-cracking yawn—and then he froze, mid-yawn, and gaped at her.

If he laughed at her, she would die on the spot.

She forced herself to smile as she said, “Good morning.” When a full minute went by without Rusty moving, she arched an eyebrow. “Is there a problem, Sir Baker?”

That made Rusty snap out of his stupor. Blinking, he lowered his hand away from his mouth. “No,” he said, “no problem. Just a little stunned, that’s all. You look … ”