To Bear an Iron Key (21 page)

“Or should you not manage to find him by then.”

The Queen’s eyes shone brightly. “And then the World Door shall remain unlocked for a year.”

Bromwyn felt panic creep into her as her breathing quickened and her heartbeat threatened to become treacherous. How could she dispel an illusion without her magic?

No—she would not panic. She would not give that to the fey, and certainly not so cheaply. Bromwyn forced herself to take a cleansing breath. She didn’t need her magic; she needed to outthink the fey.

When the fey mimic bodies, they do not seem to get it exactly right.

So she had said to Rusty, after the fey had clothed themselves in likenesses of Jalsa and Brend. The King himself had done only a little better when he had posed as the priest. No matter how close a fey copy was, something about it would be off—the appearance, the attitude, a combination of both. She could do this.

She
would
do this.

“Agreed,” whispered Bromwyn, her fists clenching.

The King and Queen both shouted: “Ready, steady, go!”

Bromwyn looked at the hundreds of Rusties that floated a bit off the ground. They were all looking back at her, some quite boldly, and nearly all wore Rusty’s half-smile. Just the sight of them was enough to make her feel dizzy.

They underestimate you,
her grandmother’s voice whispered.
They are arrogant.

“My lord and lady,” Bromwyn called out, “I request process of elimination.”

A mocking laugh, and then the King said, “Agreed.” There was a pause, and then he added, “What of it, my wife? She is just a girl, no matter what her blood.”

“Agreed,” sniffed the Queen, sounding less than pleased. “A touch or a word from you shall eliminate those you specify. Now begin, or concede. I grow bored.”

Bromwyn smiled from the small victory.

Well then,
she thought.
Let us start with the easy ones.

Instead of trying to look at all of the Rusties, she focused on them one at a time. Slowly, she began to dismiss those whose costumes were far from the mark: eyes the wrong color, hair too long or too short, the foolish hat too narrow or too small. One by one, she touched those she dismissed, or simply pointed at them and said “No.”

And one by one, the false Rusties popped into their previous fey guises of blond hair and blue eyes, their bodies swathed in summer flowers. Once revealed, they flew to the sides of their King and Queen, who stood watching—the King with a wry expression, the Queen with her arms folded across her chest, her face dark.

Bromwyn continued her scrutiny, and she continued dismissing Rusties. Feet too large. Expression too mocking. Teeth too perfectly white and straight. Skin too pale. Skin too dark. Suit too small. Face too old. Nose too big.

And then there were three Rusties left. Only three, from hundreds. And Bromwyn could not tell them apart.

She looked from one to the other to the third, and back again, but they all were the same, down to the pale scar that bisected his left eyebrow, the one that Rusty liked to pretend came from a rogue’s sword instead of from him tripping over his own feet and slamming headfirst against the bakery’s countertop.

Bromwyn felt another hint of panic, but she pushed it away as she took a deep breath. Then she closed her eyes.

“What is she doing?” asked the King.

“Praying,” said the Queen, laughing merrily.

Bromwyn ignored them.

I know you,
Derek Jonasson,
she thought,
the
baker’s son who would be a thief prince. I know how you smile, how you smirk, how your eyes light up whenever you think of something wicked, which is far too often.

I know the sound of your laugh, your musical laugh that does funny things to my stomach and makes my heart want to dance.

I know what makes you fret. I know what makes you rage.

I
know what stirs your heart and what makes you demand impossible things. I know your dreams.

I know
you,
Rusty.
And I will not let the fey steal you from me.

With a nod, she opened her eyes. She peered at the three Rusties, and now she was able to see the slight imperfections: The Rusty in the middle was just a whisper too full in the face, and the Rusty on the left was a hair’s width too tall.

Bromwyn motioned to the Rusty on the right. In a clear voice, she announced, “This is the lord Guardian and Key Bearer.”

The other two Rusties popped into the blond-haired, blue-eyed guises and blew her kisses before they zoomed off to join their brethren. The true Rusty tumbled to the ground, but he tucked and rolled, then landed with a flourish on his feet and managed somehow to keep his hat atop his head. He grinned at her hugely.

Bromwyn grinned in return. She had done it! Now all they had to do was usher the fey through the World Door, and then lock it behind them.

Two sets of indulgent claps shattered her thoughts.

“Well done,” the Queen said lazily, still clapping.

“Yes, yes,” said the King, yawning. “Very amusing.”

“But it is not really you that we are interested in, witch girl.” The Queen smiled. “Now it is time for my lord Guardian’s challenge.”

Bromwyn blinked. “But … my lady, I do not understand. We agreed that I was to take the challenge.”

The Queen laughed. “And so we did, witch girl. But you never said that you would take it in his place.”

“You merely said you wished to take it,” said the King, his expression sly.

“And so we readily agreed.”

“And now it is his turn.” The King smiled a small, cruel smile, one that promise malice. “As agreed, it is a challenge of Sight. And the witchling will not use her magic to aid you.”

Bromwyn’s mouth went dry, and she found she could not speak. From long ago, she remembered the pixie Nala counseling her, telling her that rules were easy to follow if she was certain of the words—and that was why she must always be careful of what she said.

She hadn’t been careful, and now all her turn at the challenge had done was eaten up time.

“Agreed,” said Rusty, his voice cracking.

Bromwyn felt invisible bands wrap around her, and suddenly she was hovering in the air. Her instinct was to struggle, but she quashed it. First, it would do her no good, for her power could not begin to measure up to that of the fey lord and lady. Second, it would be undignified. So she clicked her teeth together and held her head up and tried to look bored.

“My children,” shouted the Queen. “Look you well.”

Bromwyn ignored the leers and mocking cries from the fey horde as she felt their gazes riddle her. She stared at Rusty, tried to tell him with her mind that she believed in him, that she knew he would pass the challenge.

“Now clothe yourselves!”

And then she saw herself—hundreds of copies of herself. Some of the fey were giggling wildly, and roaming their hands over their bodies in a way that made Bromwyn blush fiercely. But she didn’t comment on it; let them keep it up, and it would be that much easier for Rusty to dismiss them.

“To the air,” the King shouted.

All of the other Bromwyns flew up to cover the air in the clearing. Around the World Door they hovered, some spiraling upside-down so that the long, billowing gown bunched up and showed off long legs.

In her mind, she heard the Queen say:
Now smile.

Bromwyn’s mouth pulled into a soft smile. She struggled against it, but it did no good. Silently fuming, and taking pains to keep her thoughts very, very well hidden, Bromwyn stopped fighting against the fey magic. Her smile stretched wider, and her thoughts grew darker.

To either side of her, her duplicates giggled.

If Bromwyn could have done so, she would have growled in frustration. She sounded nothing like that!

“As the witchling before you,” said the King, standing now in front of Bromwyn so that she could see his back, “all you need to do, Key Bearer, is pick the true Bromwyn Darkeyes from our children.”

“And the witch girl will not aid you with her magic. This will be all your own skill, my lord Guardian,” the Queen purred from somewhere to Bromwyn’s left. “Let us see how your silver tongue helps you now.”

“Best choose quickly,” added the King. “Once twilight ends, we will be gone.”

“With you, my lord Guardian, should you fail.”

“Or should you not manage to find the witchling before the sun fully rises.”

“And should that happen,” said the Queen joyfully, “then the World Door shall remain unlocked for a year.”

“And we shall return every night,” said the King. “And your village will be ours.”

“I request the same as Lady Witch,” Rusty called out. “Process of elimination!”

Bromwyn would have laughed, had the Queen’s magic allowed it. Instead, she was reduced to giggling along with the fey around her.

“Agreed,” said the King, sounding bored.

“Agreed,” said the Queen, with a sniff of derision.

“Agreed,” said Rusty, and Bromwyn could hear the grin in his voice. The thief prince sounded as if he were getting ready for another adventure.

Had it been up to Bromwyn, she would have narrowed her eyes and scolded him, reminding him not to get too cocky. But all she could do was glower at him from inside her mind. Her mouth smiled on.

“Now,” Rusty said, “let’s get this challenge started. Dawn is coming, and I’m sure that my lord and lady have places to be.”

“By all means,” said the King with a mocking bow. “Begin.”

Thanks to the fey Queen’s magic, Bromwyn couldn’t move, so she couldn’t see where Rusty was. But she heard his voice, loud and confident, as he began to dismiss her copies.

“No. No. Heavens, no. Heh, don’t I wish, but no. No. No. Argh, absolutely not. No. Nope. Alas, no.” And so on. A number of times, Rusty stopped in front of Bromwyn, and each time, her heart would skip. He would stare deeply into her eyes, then appraise her as if she were a prized horse. She wanted to kiss him and slap him. Surely, he had to know her from the fey.

And surely, he didn’t have to ogle her!

So it went, and the sky slowly lightened. With every rejection of her duplicates, Bromwyn felt more confident, and when an abundance of her copies had been ousted, she wanted to cheer until she was hoarse.

Finally, only one copy and Bromwyn herself were left.

Her duplicate floated directly across from her, and even to Bromwyn it seemed as if she were looking into a mirror. Rusty was staring at the copy intently, then back at Bromwyn herself. He took off his hat and raked his hair with his fingers. Then he replaced the hat, the wide brim shadowing his face—but not before Bromwyn saw the sheen of panic in his eyes.

He didn’t know.

Me,
she shouted with her mind.
Me, Rusty, here! You must know me!
She continued to smile blandly, though she wanted to scream with all of her heart.

Rusty took a deep breath and pointed to the other girl, and Bromwyn felt a wave of pure relief wash over her. Now he would dismiss her final copy, and they will have bested the fey at their own game.

But then Rusty said, “This one. This is Lady Witch.”

No.

Bromwyn couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t do anything but watch the other Bromwyn open her arms to Rusty, who leaned in to embrace her. And then her fey duplicate kissed him on his brow.

No!

Bromwyn barely felt the Queen’s spell unravel before she was falling. With a thump, she crashed heavily on the ground. Biting her lip to keep from screaming, she scrambled to her feet and ran over to Rusty.

He was staring at nothing. A dazed smile had frozen upon his face.

When Bromwyn grabbed him out of her duplicate’s arms, he didn’t respond. She shook him, even slapped his cheek, but all he did was smile, mesmerized.

He was marked, lost forever in the thrall of fey magic.

Please,
Bromwyn thought desperately,
please no!

The Queen laughed, a sound like leaves rustling in the wind. “It would seem, witch girl, that you lose.”

TO BREAK A CURSE

“No,” Bromwyn whispered.

Her denial was lost amidst the cheering of the fey. They screamed their joy, stamping their feet and whooping laughter, somersaulting through the air and spiraling through the clearing. Drums beat wildly as the fey danced their victory, chattering and jibing, riding the wind and stretching their limbs long as if to embrace the coming sun.

Rusty was pulled away from her and passed around like a toy.

Bromwyn sank to her knees, her hands by her mouth, her head shaking “no” and “no” and “no.”

The King and Queen soared through the air, filling the glade with the scent of honeysuckle in the rain. Bromwyn watched them, too stunned to look away. As the King danced with her, the Queen’s emerald hair fanned out in a lush wave, sparkling with diamond chips. The blue silk of his shirt and trousers flowed like water, and the flowers of her gown and his cloak rippled as they moved. They laughed, and Bromwyn’s world fell apart.