To Bear an Iron Key (3 page)

“Make your manners, girl,” Niove hissed, clouting Bromwyn on the shoulder. “You stand before the King and Queen of the fey.”

Bromwyn curtseyed awkwardly. “Greetings, rulers of the fair folk,” she said, and she was proud that her voice didn’t catch. “May Nature bless you always.”

The King roared laughter, which echoed in the mouths of the watching fey.

Bromwyn felt heat rise in her cheeks, and she nervously bit her lip.

The Queen smiled. “A lovely wish, witch girl.” Her voice was enticing, and it made Bromwyn think of sugar cookies. “Of course, Nature already blesses the fey, so your appeal was unnecessary. But you are young. You will learn the proper etiquette among our Court.” The Queen glanced at Niove slyly, as if she knew something and was not going to tell.

Niove said, “Now that she has made herself known, it is time for my granddaughter to return home. The girl needs her rest.”

“The girl needs to have some fun before she takes her leave of our esteemed company,” the King said, extending his hand to Bromwyn. “Come, witchling. Do me the honor of a dance.”

Her heart beating wildly, she was about to reach out to him when her grandmother murmured, “If you go to him, girl, I cannot protect you.”

But Bromwyn was a witch. She didn’t need protection.

With a grin that was half joyous and half fearful, she took the hand of the fey King. Her body tingled, and for a moment she saw an amber glow around her hand. Then her feet left the ground. Held aloft at the King’s side, she floated, her hair a curling curtain that rippled down to the backs of her thighs.

Smiling, the King pulled her close, then took her other hand in his.

Stepping on nothing, they began to dance.

Feeling her breath stick in her throat, Bromwyn tried to swallow. But as she moved with the King, her fear gave way to rapture. She was flying! With each step, she felt the air itself cushion her feet, embracing her body with gentle care. The King led her along the sky, and with a grin that ate her face, she followed step for step.

Far below them, the Midsummer Festival continued.

“You are quite the witchling,” the King said. His eyes shone like sapphires, and his smile was warm, inviting. On his brow, his crown caught the moonlight. “You need not stay under the confines of your grandmother. The Whitehair places so many restrictions upon you. I can sense your darkest heart. You wish to be free.”

Giddy from her magical dance, Bromwyn agreed.

Smiling, the King said, “I could give you your wish, young Darkeyes. Come with me and my lady Queen. Join us as we go through the World Door at dawn to return to our land, where you would be our daughter. In our land, you will have no rules. In our land, you may run and play and dance among the stars as much as you wish. What say you?”

She wanted to say “yes,” more than anything.

But even through the joy of her air-swept dance, she saw something hungry poking at the King’s smile. And she remembered Nala’s words, which had been so mournful at the time and now seemed to be a warning:

We have rules, too, witch girl. Magic means rules.

Always there are rules.

Carefully, Bromwyn said, “But there are rules to magic. And you, my lord—you
are
magic. How could I have no rules in your land? How could there be nothing expected of me?”

“I am King,” he said firmly, “and if I say you would have no rules, that would be truth. In return, I would require only one thing: You must love me with all of your heart.”

No rules. No one telling her what she could or could not do.

No one telling her “no.”

No one—except the King.

He tipped her backward. Dipped in his arms, she again saw the hunger in his smile.

“Thank you, my lord,” she finally answered after he raised her back upright. “But I must say no.”

His eyes darkened. In a voice like the silk he wore, he asked, “Are you certain, witchling? Once refused, this offer will never be made again. Think carefully.”

Bromwyn did not need to think carefully—the rage that stormed in the King’s eyes was all the confirmation she needed.

“I am sorry if I have angered you,” she said politely. “But I still must say no.”

The King’s hands tightened around hers, and she felt how easily he could crush her bones.

“Others have given their souls to dance with the fey,” he said. “Others have sacrificed their lives for just a hint of the wonders of my land. And you refuse me?”

“Yes, my lord,” Bromwyn whispered.

Sapphire eyes glinting coldly, the King said, “If you tell me why you have refused, and if I accept your answer, then I will give you your life. If you do not answer, or if your answer displeases me, I will release your hands and watch you fall to your death.”

Bromwyn bit her lip as she realized just how high up they were. If the King dropped her, she would die.

Her grandmother had been right: A witch needed protection after all.

Trying not to sound as scared as she felt, she said, “With my grandmother, I know what the rules are. I know when I am breaking them.” She took a deep breath and continued: “But if I followed you back to your land, my lord, I would never know what the rules would be. Because, my lord, if I loved you with all of my heart, your wish would be my command. I would not be able to say no.”

The King stared at her long and hard, and Bromwyn thought that he was going to drop her.

“I am sorry, my lord,” she said in a small voice. “But no thank you.”

There was a long pause. Finally, the King barked out a laugh.

“Well spoken, witchling. I have offered you my land, which you have refused. In return, you have offered me your life, which I have refused. The scales are balanced. Come. Let us return to the Whitehair.”

Bromwyn didn’t understand his words; she had never offered him her life. Then again, grownups rarely made sense. Besides, she knew enough to keep her mouth shut.

They floated down, and down, and finally Bromwyn’s feet touched the ground. One look at her grandmother told her just how furious Niove was with her. That was fine. Bromwyn would rather face her grandmother’s wrath than the King’s displeasure. Her grandmother was powerful, and she was strict, and she could be scary. But the King was scarier.

Bromwyn hugged her grandmother fiercely, and when she felt Niove’s hands press gently on her shoulders, she nearly sobbed in relief.

“My lord King,” said Niove, “my granddaughter must take her leave. She is tired.”

“Indeed,” the King replied. “I believe my dance has exhausted her.” He laughed like summer thunder. “She is clever, Whitehair. You have your hands full.”

“I know,” Niove said darkly. “Make your manners, girl, and go back to the cottage. No arguments.”

“Yes, Grandmother,” Bromwyn answered as meekly as she could. Turning to face the King and Queen, she curtsied deeply. “My lord and lady of the fey, good night to you. And thank you especially, my lord.”

“Never let it be said that the King of the fey is not generous,” he said with a wry smile. “Good night, witchling. I am certain we will meet again.”

The Queen laughed softly. “If my husband the King is certain, then it will be so. Until next time, Darkeyes.”

“Go,” Niove said to Bromwyn. Lower, she added, “And you had better believe that we will be discussing this in the morning, girl.”

Bromwyn ran home. No fey creature, pixie or otherwise, followed her.

In the morning, shortly after the World Door had closed and the Midsummer Festival ended, Bromwyn and her grandmother had a very lengthy discussion. Niove punctuated her points with swift-handed swats. After, Bromwyn was so sore that she knew she wouldn’t sit comfortably for a week, and her tongue had been spelled to silence—for how long, her grandmother had refused to say.

But even tender-bottomed and mute, as well as once again trapped inside her grandmother’s cottage, Bromwyn had never more appreciated that she had rules.

As Nala had told her, rules were easy to follow if you were certain of the words.

And,
Bromwyn thought with a smile,
once you are certain of the words, you can figure out how to bend the rules without breaking them.

And
that
promised to be a lot of fun.

HASTY WORDS

“Bromwyn, stand still!”

“I
am
standing still.”

“Restless feet,” her mother warned, “make my fingers nervous. I would prefer not to stick you with a pin. Blood would stand out horribly against the white.”

Bromwyn forced her feet to stop fidgeting.

Her mother continued hemming the billowing silk dress that hung from Bromwyn like a sack; she was thin and gangly, and clothing preferred to swim on her rather than to be worn properly. Atop her head, her heavy curls of black hair towered in piles and braids, threatening to spill down her back and legs. Her mother had insisted that Bromwyn pin her hair back. The last thing she needed, Jessamin had said, was for thick tresses to be sewn into her daughter’s wedding gown.

“Witches are not supposed to marry,” Bromwyn said for the millionth time. By her feet, her mother continued working with the hem as her daughter complained. “Witches are supposed to have consorts.”

“Witches,” said Jessamin, “are supposed to listen to their mothers.”

Bromwyn felt her temper flare, and she attempted to catch and cage it before it flew away. When her rages came upon her, nothing good happened. Two years ago, she had gotten very angry over something either real or imagined—she did not recall what it was, which really didn’t matter; the result had been the same. Bromwyn had used her magic in anger.

Worse, she had used her magic against her mother.

Even now, Bromwyn could see the aftereffect of her rash deed. Her mother’s hands, which used to be so deft and certain, held a slight tremor as she carefully hemmed the white silk gown. And when Jessamin read her cards to the villagers, there were times she would tremble so badly, it was as if her hands had a stutter. Usually, she was able to use the impediment to her advantage; customers tended to believe that Mistress Cartomancer was overcome by the power of her reading, and they would lean closer to catch her words of wisdom and guidance as Bromwyn, unnoticed in the corner, would watch, half disgusted by their gullibility, half dismayed that her mother was forced to play such a demeaning role.

It is your own fault,
she told herself, staring at her mother’s shaking hands.

Two years ago, Bromwyn had enchanted Jessamin’s looking glass. She had done so quickly and quietly, barely needing to whisper the words from her Way of Sight. Her mother, who had been so furious with her, hadn’t noticed. Or perhaps she had noticed, but had also assumed that her daughter would not do something so rash.

And yet, Bromwyn had.

When her mother had turned and caught her own reflection in the spelled glass, she had seen herself as a crone, old and bent. Held rapt by the image of her decaying body, Jessamin had frozen, transfixed by the illusion.

Bromwyn remembered smiling at that moment. Her mother had always been a proud one, and seeing herself defeated by time would do her good. Bromwyn remembered thinking that too.

And then the unthinkable had happened: Illusion transformed into something with substance. The magic, unsettled on the mirror, leeched onto and into her mother, and Bromwyn had watched in horror as Jessamin’s body began to age—slowly, at first, and then with alarming speed.

With a defiant cry, Bromwyn had quickly unraveled the spell before it could take effect on Jessamin completely. But the magic, once cast, needed to go somewhere; in her panic, Bromwyn channeled it into her own body. That had been a mistake. She should have directed it into the dirt floor, or into the embers in the stone hearth, even into the air itself—any of the elements of Nature would have sufficed. But she’d reacted without thinking; all she had known at that urgent moment was that she had to do
something
.

All of her grandmother’s lessons and warnings about the untamed strength of unraveled magic could not have prepared her for the wrenching pain she had felt as raw power racked her body—and that pain was nothing compared with the terror stitched onto Jessamin’s weathered face.