To Bear an Iron Key (22 page)

She had failed—failed to protect Rusty, failed to pass her test. Failed to protect Loren. The fey would return every night, and they would steal away the village’s children, or lure them with false promises or seduce them with petty prizes. The children would be theirs, as would the adults, for even iron could keep the fey at a distance for only so long before they would find some way around it.

And then they would feast.

The drums beat; the laughter swelled. Bromwyn covered her ears, squeezed her eyes shut. But it was too late to deaden her senses. The smells, the sounds, the sights were enchanting—everything shimmered with fey magic, beckoning to her to join them in their dance, to laugh with them in their celebration. To cheer with them in their victory.

To be with them, to do anything they asked, to live only to hear them laugh.

To love them with all of her heart.

The only thing that stopped her from throwing herself into the midst of the dance was seeing Rusty, stumbling from fey to fey, being pushed round and round in a circle as he smiled on, sightless.

Oh, Rusty.
Bromwyn’s heart broke as she watched him stagger-dance like a puppet.
Forgive me.

“My children!”

Bromwyn tore her gaze from Rusty to see the King hovering in front of the World Door, his arms out.

“The sky bleeds gold, and the magic of twilight gives way to the harsh dawn. Day fast approaches. And so, shed your skins and prepare for travel. Through the World Door, my children. But worry not,” he added, gloating. “For we will return this evening, and the next, and the next after that!”

The fey shrieked their joy, and then they folded in on themselves and shrank until they were points of golden light no larger than bumblebees. They buzzed their laughter, and they shimmered and sparkled in the light of all colors that was the World Door. As a swarm, they zoomed around the clearing one last time before they surged through the gap between realities and were gone.

The line of stars over the stones of the Hill seemed to wink, and the Door sighed. Like a dreamer slowly waking, the World Door yawned. In a matter of minutes, it would be closed.

Closed, but not locked.

Along with the Door, the clearing held only the Queen and King, and a spellbound Rusty. And Bromwyn, of course, beaten and left with nothing but to await her grandmother’s judgment before her magic was shorn from her.

Even now, she could hear her grandmother’s voice, warning her that the fey were arrogant.

And they were; it was their arrogance that caused them to allow Bromwyn to slightly alter the rules of the challenge to accommodate process of elimination, even after the allotted time had passed.

But her grandmother had told her something else about the fey.

She remembered the note that had waited for her in Niove’s kitchen, remembered the advice her grandmother had written in her spidery script:
Keep in mind what the fey value most.

What did the arrogant truly want? What could she offer them?

She remembered King’s voice, from years gone:

I could give you your wish, Bromwyn Darkeyes. Come with me and my lady Queen
. Join us as we go through the World Door at dawn to return to our land. There you will have no rules. There you may run and play and dance among the stars. What say you?

The King wanted
her
, Bromwyn realized with a start. He had, when she was a child. And last night, even in the throes of his taunting, she had seen in his eyes that he had wanted Bromwyn to join him. She had felt it in her heart.

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

“Please,” she begged the King now, him and Queen both, “please, my lord, my lady, please. Take me instead.”

There was a pause, through which Bromwyn heard her own ragged breathing. And then the Queen barked out a laugh.

“And why ever would we do that, witch girl? Our hunger is for humans.” The Queen smiled coyly. “You hold no special appeal. Fey magic courses through your veins.”

Her words thundered in Bromwyn’s ears, and she remembered how she had overcome the fire in Master Tiller’s fields, how the heat had stayed with her when she had cast a spell of Sight upon her hand and threatened to burn the fey.

She thought of how she had never known her father, only that he had died soon after he and her mother had wed.

She remembered the wretched things the King and Queen had insinuated about her mother, and for a moment, a horrible moment that seemed to eat the entire world, she wondered who her father truly had been.

They lie,
she told herself fiercely.
The fey lie. They trick and they trade, they bend truth and stretch it until it breaks. Do not listen to them.

The King put out his hand, and his lady wife fell silent. He looked at Bromwyn, his gaze cutting, his smile cruel.

“I told you, did I not? I told you I would never again offer you a place in our land. Did you not believe me?”

No, this wasn’t right! He was supposed to tell her that yes, he wanted her to join them! She tried to catch her breath, but it wisped away from her, like smoke drifting on the wind.

“My lord,” Bromwyn stammered, “I offer to take the Guardian’s place. As a page, as a slave, as however you and your lady Queen would have me.”

The King chuckled softly.

“Whatever you wanted,” Bromwyn said, desperation making her voice stronger, “I would do.”

His voice low, the King asked her, “And if I were to agree, would you love me with all of your heart, young Darkeyes, as do all of my fey children?”

The Queen snorted.

“Yes,” Bromwyn whispered, knowing it was a lie, but she would have told him anything to save Rusty. Yes, she would agree to that, and more. Yes, a thousand times yes.

For Rusty, she would agree to sign away her soul.

The King’s laugh hit her like a slap. “A pity, then, that I must refuse.” His voice dripped with scorn. “Unlike some, I do not go back on my word.”

Bromwyn bit her lip to keep from sobbing, but she couldn’t stop her tears. She had lost. And now Rusty and the village of Loren would pay the price. And pay. And pay, until they were bled dry.

“Such pain,” the Queen chortled. “Only the young can sound so heartbroken and yet so outraged. How it hurts her to swallow her pride!”

“Look, I see tears on those cold cheeks!” The King laughed heartily. “She cries for this boy.”

“She does,” said the Queen. “See how her tears shine like jewels!”

The King’s laughter faded, leaving only the hint of an echo in the wind. “Tell me, witchling,” he said, his words surrounded by that ghost of amusement. “What is your claim on this one boy? Why does one little life matter to you so very much?”

“He is my friend,” Bromwyn said, her voice cracking on the last word.

“Her
friend
,” the Queen scoffed.

Bromwyn could no longer meet the King’s bemused gaze, so she looked at her hands. “Yes, my friend. And more than that,” she admitted softly. “So much more. I love him.”

She loved him.

She felt it deep in her heart, knew it in her soul: She loved him. Derek Jonasson, the baker’s son; Rusty, the thief prince. Whatever name he went by, however he saw himself, she loved him. She wanted to be by his side, whether on mad adventures around the world or on the most tedious of errands for their mothers. She wanted to shout her joy to the skies and declare herself before all of Nature, and by Fire and Air, she didn’t care whether others agreed. She loved Rusty, and she would do anything for him.

She
loved
him.

Her heart seemed to swell, and her mouth opened so that she could cry out, could gasp, could say something, say
anything
, for there was a bubble in her chest, a feeling of intense pressure, and she was certain that she was about to die.

And then she felt it: a gentle pop, a tiny
pfft
that was the release of magic back into the fabric of Nature itself. Her hair and gown rippled in a sudden breeze, and the very air around her glowed as she sat there, beneath the Hill, and even the stars of the World Door paled in comparison. A shiver ran through her, and she breathed in—truly breathed, like she hadn’t for years. Her skin thrummed with power as her grandmother’s curse unraveled, and then, finally, she was free.

“I love him,” she said again, her voice no longer a whisper.

She rose gracefully, feeling so very alive, thrilling from the power of life dancing through her, dancing in her, life as strong as magic itself, connecting her to Nature and to all living things. Bromwyn Elmindrea Lucinda Moon, called Darkeyes, companion to the Guardian of the World Door and next in line to be the Wise One of Loren, stared into the mocking eyes of the fey King, and she smiled.

“I love him,” she said a third time. “That is my claim.”

THE PRICE OF A SOUL

“Love.” The Queen smirked, and Bromwyn thought it an ugly thing on such an enchanting face. “We know of love, witch girl.”

“Why else would we steal human children?” asked the King.

“Truly, my lord,” said Bromwyn, lifting her chin, “I do not know, other than to cause unceasing pain to their parents.”

The King snorted. “We are not so crass as that. We steal them so that they can become our children.”

“We love human children as if they were our own,” said the Queen, taking her husband’s hand.

“And in our land, they become our own.”

“And so the fey survive.”

“And thrive.”

“Forever and always,” the Queen said, smiling at her husband, who kissed her hand as he gazed lovingly upon her.

Bromwyn wondered whether it was the King or the Queen who could not have children in the traditional sense, but she knew better than to ask such a delicate question. So instead she said, “You say you know of love. Well and good. But do you respect my claim?”

The King gave his wife’s hand a final kiss before releasing it. “I have little doubt that you love him,” he said, motioning to Rusty. “But that does not change the fact that the Key Bearer lost our challenge.”

“And as per the rules that both parties agreed to,” said the Queen, “that means he is ours.”

Bromwyn wanted to scream, wanted to cast her magic wide and grab Fire and roast them alive. But no—she would not cast out of anger or fear. She had to keep her wits about her.

“Do not fret,” said the Queen, smiling lushly. “He will make a lovely addition to my Court.”

Fire and Air, Bromwyn had not broken her grandmother’s curse only to have the boy she loved taken from her! But how could she fight the King and Queen? Their magic was far stronger than hers. She could not defeat them in terms of sheer power.

Then how?

“And who knows?” the King said, his grin a thing of horrors. “Perhaps in a few years, we will allow him to return to his homeland, just to pay you a very special visit.”

Her voice tight, Bromwyn replied, “I have not the words to convey my lord’s kindness.”

You cannot prepare for a fey challenge,
her grandmother had told her.
All you can do is try to outthink them.

But how could she outthink the fey, who were such sticklers for rules and agreements?

“Come, my page.” The Queen held out her hand, and Rusty took it, smiling and unaware. With a laugh, the Queen drew him close, and she petted his shoulder. “It will be quite fun to housebreak you.”

The world threatened to tunnel down to red, and Bromwyn’s head throbbed with the effort of schooling her face to impassivity. She refused to give the fey the satisfaction of seeing her impotent fury. Her fingers itched to cast, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she could cast from Sight—blind them, grab Rusty, and run. But no, that was pure foolishness; her magic was worse than useless when compared to the power of the fey King and Queen. Bromwyn’s hands trembled from the need to do something. Helpless, she shoved them into the pockets of her dress.

Her fingers brushed against the iron key.

“We shall see you tonight, witch girl,” the Queen said happily, turning to face the World Door. “But perhaps you should consider finding a new place to call your home. Starting tonight, you will find your charming village to be undergoing the first of many changes.”

Bromwyn cried out, “Wait!”

“What now?” the King said impatiently. “You have nothing that we want, and our time here is done. For today, at least.”

“But I do,” said Bromwyn, her thoughts whirling. “I have something that you want very much.”

The King arched a brow, and the Queen paused, with Rusty in tow.

“Well?” the Queen demanded. “What is it?”

Remember what the fey value most.

“I offer a trade,” Bromwyn declared. “A gift, in exchange for the lord Guardian here and now. Unmarked, unharmed, soul intact. What say you?”

“What sort of gift could it possibly be?” the Queen scoffed. “You have nothing to offer.”