To Bear an Iron Key (9 page)

Her mother sniffed and she flipped a card. “That is his problem.”

Bromwyn turned to gape at Jessamin. “This is more important than your petty hatreds, Mother!”

“
Petty
.” Jessamin spat the word. “You do not know that of which you speak.”

“Of course I do!” Bromwyn said, stomping her foot. “If he fails, all of Loren will suffer! And for what? To appease your wounded pride? To soothe your own hurts of long ago, whatever they were?”

Jessamin slammed her hand on her table, and her cards scattered.

Bromwyn did not flinch, nor did she tear her gaze away from her mother’s brooding eyes. They stared at each other, the air between them thick with unspoken words and emotions too complex to properly name.

It was Bromwyn who broke the silence first. “You must help us,” she said plainly. “You simply must, no matter how you feel about it.”

“I must do nothing of the sort,” her mother said, expertly gathering her cards. “This is
your
test, Daughter. Not mine.”

Bromwyn stiffened.

“So you thought I had no idea, is that it? You thought you could just leave that part out of the problem, did you?” Jessamin laughed, and her eyes shone darkly. “Your grandmother spoke of it to me, before she set off to Mooreston this morning. Your test is upon you. You must fend for yourself, Daughter.”

“That is just stupid,” Bromwyn growled. “It was not even I who stole the Key!”

“No matter. Your test has come.”

“Why? It makes no sense!”

Jessamin watched her for a moment, seemed to weigh something in her mind before she began to shuffle her cards.

“It does,” she replied softly. “Eighteen years ago, I was the Guardian during Midsummer. I was tested. And I failed.”

“You … ” Bromwyn closed her mouth, uncertain of what to say.

“Failed. Only your grandmother’s quick thinking kept the fey from overrunning the village. And I … ” Jessamin glanced down at her hands, which were trembling. She set down her cards in a neat pile, then folded her hands across her lap. “And I lost my magic.”

“Mother,” Bromwyn said softly, her voice more tender than it had been in a long, long time. “Please tell me—what happened?”

Jessamin lifted her chin. “I failed, and your grandmother tricked the fey and so kept them in line. That is all you need to know.”

Neither mother nor daughter said anything for a long moment. As the silence grew, Bromwyn felt sorry for Jessamin, for the girl her mother had once been and the woman she had never become. Jessamin had lost her magic, and too few years later, she had lost her husband.

The very least Bromwyn could do was make sure she did not lose her dignity as well. So Bromwyn bowed her head and murmured her apology for causing such distress.

Hasty words,
she thought as she turned away.
Again, I spoke hasty words.

Lately, it seemed all she did was shout or want to shout at her mother. Perhaps her curse would come again. Perhaps it already had, and that was why her test was upon her now, at the worst possible time she could imagine.

It is so unfair,
she thought bitterly. But as she was realizing more and more, even when things were unfair, life continued on. Nature had other concerns than the complaints of one witch.

She was halfway out the door before her mother cleared her throat and spoke.

“Your grandmother mentioned that you should teach your friend what you can about the fey. Take my books and help him study. I am certain that with you by his side, your friend will do quite well.”

Bromwyn turned to face her mother, dipping her head in acknowledgement of Jessamin’s offer. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. The books wouldn’t solve their problems, but they would at least be helpful—a handful of them would provide Rusty with the primer he needed to handle himself around the fey.

“And Daughter? You will do better at your test than I.”

Her voice a strangled whisper, Bromwyn said, “How can you know?”

Jessamin smiled, and her entire face softened as her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “Because you are my daughter, and I know what you are capable of. My girl, you can do marvelous things. Believe in yourself, for I believe in you.”

Then Bromwyn forgot about being sixteen and almost married, and she ran to her mother’s side and bent down to hug her tightly, as if that simple act of love could banish all her fears. When Jessamin hugged her just as tightly, everything was right with the world.

Then the moment passed, and the two broke away.

“Go, take what you need,” her mother said. “And take my blessing. And know that I love you.” Then she arched an eyebrow. “And know that it would not kill you to wash your feet before tonight.”

Bromwyn blushed and grinned in equal parts as she strode over to the bookshelf. She rummaged for books about the fey—legend and lore, true accounts and mysteries, poems and songs. As she gathered dusty tomes, she decided right then and there that Rusty, with her help, would be the perfect Guardian. And once Midsummer was done, and the fey were back in their land, and the World Door was once again closed and locked—and Bromwyn passed her test—they would have an entire year to convince Niove to take back the Key.

She nodded to herself. Really, it was quite simple. All she had to do was teach Rusty everything she knew about the fair folk, in roughly eight hours.

And no matter what, she would keep her temper.

Really she would.

MAKING READY

When the sun was an hour’s drop away from nightfall, Bromwyn and Rusty met on the outskirts of Master Tiller’s spelt fields. Some farming tools lay forgotten on the ground—hoes and sickles and spades, probably dropped in people’s haste to get to the center of Loren to take part in the village’s Midsummer Festival. If Master Tiller was like most adults, tomorrow he would have strong words with his workers, assuming that he himself wouldn’t drink so much ale today that he slept clear through tomorrow evening. Midsummer brews tended to be potent, or so Bromwyn had always heard.

The smell of wheat tickling her nostrils, she hefted her large pack and slung it over her shoulder. Then she grimaced. Fire and Air, the sack was heavy! And that was only with five books stuffed inside. Why did the truly important tomes have to be thick enough to crush bugs?

Well, no matter,
she told herself. Far more important than her sore back was the chance to review everything one final time before the World Door opened. Still, her back and shoulder ached miserably. She sighed, resigned. She had tried to spell the books to seemingly make them small enough to fit inside a closed fist, but her back had known the difference. No illusion would be strong enough to counter the weight of words. If only she were able to transport the books by using her magic …

But no, only those of fey blood could fold the air itself and push an object from one place to another by magic alone. The thought made Bromwyn mope.

Her voice curt, she asked Rusty, “You have the blanket?”

“Yes.”

“And the bread?”

“Yes.”

“And the cheese? And the berries? And the nuts? And the—”

“
Yes,”
Rusty said. “And everything you asked for, I’ve got. My mam even threw in some of those sticky buns you love so much.” He lowered his voice to mock-whisper: “I think she likes you!”

More likely, Mistress Baker was terrified of her, based on how the woman paled whenever Bromwyn visited the bakery. Before Bromwyn had been apprenticed to her grandmother, Rusty’s mother used to give her a packet of sugar cookies for no reason other than to make her smile. “You have a lovely smile, you do,” she’d say, handing Bromwyn the treats. But once the cartomancer’s daughter had become Lady Witch, the sugar cookies disappeared, as if by magic.

But Bromwyn didn’t want to think about how Mistress Baker feared her. “You did not get in trouble for stealing away during the Midsummer rush?”

“Well, yes,” he admitted. “Da’s threatened to do me in with his rolling pin after the big cleanup tomorrow, but I’m more than half certain he isn’t serious. Mam, though—she cried. Said I’ve broken her heart.” He sighed sadly, and then he perked up. “But once I told her of the things I needed, she was happy to help.”

Bromwyn frowned at him. “She did not ask any questions?”

Rusty’s teeth gleamed as he grinned. “Of course she did. She’s a woman, isn’t she? Questions are as natural to a woman as curiosity is to a cat.”

“Is that so?” she said dryly.

“Indeed. And it’s not like I could say to her, ‘Mam, I have to impress a bunch of fairy lords and ladies, so can you please fill my basket with any leftovers from this afternoon’s trays.’ What with fairies not being real, of course.”

“Of course.”

“So I did the only thing I could to get out of cleanup after the big Midsummer Festival and still get us what we needed.” He smiled, and Bromwyn saw a dimple in his right cheek.

Her face warmed as she stared at the tiny flaw. How had she never noticed it before? By Nature’s grace, he looked adorable when he smiled so …

And then he said, “I told her I was planning on wooing you away from Brend, so I needed to make a nice impression.”

Bromwyn choked.

“Hah! Gotcha!” Rusty doubled over from laughter. “You should see your face! Lady Witch, red as a beet!”

That horrid,
horrid
boy. “You,” she gasped. “You—!”

He cupped a hand to his ear. “What’s that? Can’t hear you over all the coughing and spluttering.”

Oh, so he couldn’t hear her, eh?

Bromwyn cast from the Way of Sound (a close cousin of the Way of Sight, which made it simple for her) and deftly wove a spell around Rusty. She did it so gently that he didn’t react to the soft nudge of her magic.

Once the spell was firmly in place, she murmured, “Perhaps I should speak up.”

Rusty shrieked like a child upon seeing a snake. Clamping his hands over his ears, he shouted, “Too loud! Too loud!”

“What?” she said innocently. “This, you mean?”

“YES!” He doubled over again, but this time there was no laughter, no guffaws at Bromwyn’s expense. He squealed, “Damn me, MAKE IT STOP!”

“As my boy requests.” With a swipe of her hand, she unraveled the casting, drawing the energy from the spell into the fertile ground beneath her bare feet. Smiling sweetly, she said, “Got you back.”

Rusty tentatively lowered his hands, then he glared at her so fiercely that she should have bled from his cutting gaze. “Masterful control of your temper, Lady Witch.”

“That? That was not temper,” she said demurely. “That was fun.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“I am. And besides, you started it.”

“It’s not my fault you’ve got no sense of humor,” he muttered, sticking one finger in his ear and wiggling it, as if he could shake out the last bits of echo.

“I have a fine sense of humor. See my smile?”

“You’re evil, Winnie. Absolutely evil.”

Her smile slipped as she said, “I am sure that some in the village would agree.” Including her future husband. “Come. We do not have that much time to set up and review.”

They walked in silence. At first, Bromwyn was too lost in her swirl of dark thoughts to strike up conversation, but then as the field gave way to the holly trees, silver birches, and rowans that marked the beginning of the woods, she became too enamored of the sights and sensations to even think of small talk. There were the smells, first and foremost—grass and leaf rot and the wild scent of hidden animals, that palpable tang of fur and fear that surrounded all prey, be they hares or squirrels or foxes. Next, the sounds—the churring of nighthawks and whippoorwills, the knocking of woodpeckers, the merry tunes of the skylarks. Beneath her bare feet, the leaf carpet was soft and damp, and more than a little cold, with rough sections of root tendrils threading across the path. Almost as an afterthought, the sights of the woods danced around her: the muted colors of orchid and heather, the bright bluebell and foxglove, all of the flowers winking in the patchy sunlight, ferns and bracken standing waist-high, and the trees, of course—towering above the birches and holly, mighty oaks stood proudly, indifferent to the deadwood of fallen limbs or to the passage of two people walking past them on the well-trod path, a dirt road kept clear of debris by rangers and witches alike.