Bromwyn bit back her anger and said nothing.
Her mother sighed. “It is not as bad as all that. Marriage can be a wonderful thing.”
Bromwyn nearly choked on her tongue to keep from saying something she would dearly regret. What did her mother know of marriage? Jessamin’s husband had died when Bromwyn was just a baby. Jessamin and Oren Moon had only a bare handful of years together; no one in the village even recalled that Mistress Cartomancer had ever been married. That, too, seemed to help her reputation as an esteemed card reader, for some reason that Bromwyn couldn’t fathom.
“Brend is strong,” her mother continued, “and he will do what is right. He will keep you safe.”
“Safe from what?” Bromwyn blurted. “The ignorant people here who worship their invisible god?”
Jessamin frowned deeply. “Those ignorant people, as you call them, will be yours to care for, once your grandmother deems you worthy of the title ‘Wise One.’ Whether they are awed by your power or fear it, they are yours. Do not belittle them.”
Bromwyn simmered.
“And even among the sheep, there can be a wolf lurking,” her mother warned. “There are those even here who think that a witch is unnatural.”
Bromwyn sniffed her derision. “That is ridiculous.”
“It is also true. Those few small-minded villagers do not know any better, and they do not care to learn. They are to be pitied,” Jessamin said. “But even as you pity them, you must take precaution. For now, you are safe; not even the smallest-minded man or woman here in Loren would willingly harm a child, not when the penalty is the Village Justice’s axe. All they can do is look upon you with mistrust.”
In her bridal gown, Bromwyn squirmed. Since she had become her grandmother’s apprentice, she had felt such gazes upon her almost every day.
“But once you are seventeen and an adult, those same people might not think twice before they let you know just how unnatural they consider you to be. Witches can bleed like anyone else. You need protection. You need Brend’s strength.”
“Then let him be my consort,” Bromwyn said, exasperated, “with no restrictions, no oaths that will bind us together for the rest of our lives!”
“Bromwyn—”
“Or let me choose my own consort, one whom I love!”
Her mother’s face darkened. “You are to marry on your seventeenth birthday, and that is final.”
“Then if I must marry, let me at least love the one sworn to my side! Or have you forgotten what love means?” Bromwyn clamped her mouth shut, hoping that her hasty words would not be enough to stir her grandmother’s curse to life once again.
Jessamin whispered, “How dare you.”
Bromwyn opened her mouth, then closed it when she saw the fury in her mother’s eyes.
On her lap, Jessamin’s hands balled into fists, and she lowered her voice as her knuckles whitened. “Do you truly think I have forgotten love? Do you think I prefer to be without your father? Do you think my life has been better with him gone all these years?”
Bromwyn’s mouth went dry. “Mother, I—”
“Perhaps you have forgotten your father, Daughter, but I have not!” Jessamin’s shout echoed in the small room. “Do not presume to lecture me about love! It is no longer my Way, but I have not forgotten its touch!”
Bromwyn swallowed thickly. Her mother never spoke of her lost Way of the Heart.
Jessamin looked down at her hands, which shook more than usual. “You do not know how devastating love can be. When you love someone, you give up part of your soul.”
“Forgive me,” Bromwyn whispered, “I did not mean—”
“Of course you ‘did not mean,’” her mother spat, glaring at her daughter. “You never mean. You speak your mind before you think your words through. You stab with your tongue, and when you cause pain, you offer your apologies as you watch the blood flow. Well, I am done with this.”
Jessamin stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her woolen dress. She lifted her chin high, and the numerous thin braids of her short black hair brushed her shoulders. Tall as Bromwyn was for her age, Jessamin was taller, and she stared down her nose at her daughter. “You think that being in love with the one you marry would make any difference? Life is cruel, Daughter. And fate is crueler still.”
“I am sorry,” Bromwyn said, her voice small and full of sorrow.
Jessamin took a shaky breath. “I know. In time, I will forgive you. But not now. Not yet.”
Bromwyn bowed her head, forcing her tears to stay within her eyes. She would not cry. As much as she hated disappointing her grandmother, which seemed to be a daily occurrence, disappointing her mother was far worse. She loved her mother, and yet she lashed out at Jessamin more and more, for reasons she didn’t understand.
Why am I full of such rage? Bromwyn swallowed, desperately trying to remain calm, impassive, in the way that was expected of witches. Why do I hurt someone I love, and so easily?
Why am I so inhuman?
“I must prepare for my readings,” her mother said coldly. “And you must perform your studies.” She sniffed. “It is quite obvious that even with your grandmother’s curse upon you, you still do not master your emotions. And unless that happens, you will not pass your test.”
Bromwyn bit her lip. She didn’t know which caused her more distress: her upcoming marriage or her dreaded test of Witchcraft. Bromwyn had no idea what her test would actually be, let alone when it would occur; whatever the test was, it would happen sometime during her apprenticeship. Neither her mother nor her grandmother would speak of it, other than to tell her it would be soon, and that Bromwyn would have only one chance to pass. If she failed, she would have to cut her hair and lose her magic.
Like her mother.
“Go,” Jessamin said. “You may not have lessons with your grandmother today, but between your studies and your errands, you have much to fill your time. You will be stopping by the forge, yes?”
Not trusting her voice, Bromwyn nodded.
“Good. Do give Brend my regards.”
With that, Jessamin parted the curtain that separated Bromwyn’s bedroom from the front of the shop and walked out.
Bromwyn stared at the cascading fabric, which once again fell into place, dividing mother from daughter. With a heavy sigh, she began to shrug out of her wedding gown.
FAR FROM COMFORTABLE
The sun glared at Bromwyn as she strode down the main avenue of Loren. She felt the heat on her head and back, but she did not sweat. One of the first things Bromwyn had taught herself (quietly, of course; her grandmother was a firm believer in not experimenting with magic until you were old enough to undo the damage you would undoubtedly cause, so much of Bromwyn’s early years as a witch had been spent working the fun part of magic on the sly) was to spell her clothing to keep her body cool in the summer and warm in the winter. So she walked now, her thick black hair curling down to her knees, her dress heavy and proper, her feet bare, and though the sun did its best to have her bake in her garments, Bromwyn was untouched by the heat.
She knew such comfort was merely an illusion, for her Way was of Sight, and so she could not actually prevent herself from feeling the weather’s touch. Her comfort was a lie. Even so, she was happy to believe in that lie, if it meant not sweating through her dress.
Walking the Loren streets this summer morning, Bromwyn was not alone. But none of the passersby engaged her in conversation other than the barest whisper of a “Good morning.” She pretended, as always, that it did not sting. So she walked with her chin high and kept her mouth fixed in a smile. It was the polite thing to do, especially considering that one day she would be the Wise One of Loren. The villagers grudgingly had learned to accept her—and never mind that until she had become apprenticed at the age of ten to her grandmother, they had happily acknowledged her as the cartomancer’s daughter—but the people of Loren were far from comfortable with her. At least they didn’t outright fear her, as they did her grandmother
.
Then again, everyone was afraid of Niove Whitehair.
Bromwyn walked, and around her, Loren thrived in the way that villages did. The sounds of daily life rang out: the bustle of people talking and walking, of pigs squealing, of dogs barking and carthorses clomping. She ignored them all, just as she ignored the ever-present mud and clutter and the stench of manure piles. Background noise; background smells. Bromwyn had too much on her mind to be bothered by such mundane things.
She crossed the great circle at Loren’s center, keeping her gaze straight ahead, as she always did, instead of glancing down the street that led a winding path to the large church. No matter how kind-hearted the village priest was—and indeed, he was a gentle soul who always had a good word for Bromwyn—she would never set foot inside that place of hollow worship, not even on her wedding day. Those who practiced magic and were connected to Nature made all vows outdoors. Even though Bromwyn did not want to marry Brend, she would take her oath of wedlock seriously, as she would for any promise made in her name. That meant she would wed beneath the stars with the moon bearing witness, no matter how much her betrothed might insist otherwise. And whether any god chose to listen to their wedding vows was no business of Bromwyn’s.
Wind blew around her, hot and restless, as if in anticipation of the afternoon’s Midsummer Festival. Silly stuff, Bromwyn thought, for true Midsummer was not until that night, at sunset. But those who did not work with magic tended to observe celebrations in the daylight.
And now that Bromwyn thought about it, it was safer for the common folk to do exactly that. They considered the fey to be nothing more than storybook fairies, tales to delight their children and to frighten them into behaving “lest the boggies get them,” as many Loren parents threatened—which was pure foolishness, because all the ballybogs would do if they caught human children was get them filthy from head to foot, which Bromwyn suspected most children would thoroughly enjoy.
If the villagers knew just how dangerous most of the fey truly were, and how close Loren was to one of the World Doors that connected to the magical land of the fey, she suspected there would be a mass exodus that would leave the village husked out, barren. So even though it frustrated her, she allowed the people of Loren their illusion of safety.
Being a Wise One, her grandmother often said, meant knowing when to remain silent.
Around her, the breeze picked up strength. The wind carried with it the smells and sounds of Loren, and Bromwyn closed her eyes as she breathed deeply, pushing aside her uneasy thoughts and wrapping herself in the scents of life. Over the underlying smell of the village itself—stone and earth and wood and refuse, their odors blending and tickling in the back of her throat—she caught the tantalizing aromas of cinnamon and sugar. And then her mouth began to water.
She hurried over to her favorite shop, and she paused there, hoping for a whiff of apple pie or, better yet, sugar cookies. Jessamin was a fine cook, and Bromwyn herself was no stranger to the ways of the kitchen, for food carried its own sort of magic. But neither of them could hold a candle to Mistress Baker and her renowned pastries.
People crowded inside the bakery and loitered outside, waiting for their morning breads and other such foods. Bromwyn knew that because today (well, tonight) was Midsummer, customers would purchase more than usual, both for the afternoon celebration in the Village Circle and for the ritual of leaving fresh bread, ripe fruit, and clotted cream on their doorsteps for their storybook fairies to take at night. Bromwyn wondered, as she glanced at the rows filled with cooling pies, why the villagers bothered with such meaningless gestures; they must have suspected that vermin ate the bread and berries, and stray cats took the cream. To the good people of Loren, Midsummer seemed nothing more than an excuse to be festive and waste food.
Bromwyn knew that the true reason for Midsummer Festival was to entertain the fey on their annual visit to the land. And that enjoyment had nothing to do with bread or berries or milk. Their hunger was for something else entirely.
Enough, she told herself. She shouldn’t be thinking dark thoughts on such a bright morning.
Bromwyn peeked inside the baker’s door, looking for a glimpse of red hair. But no—if Rusty was in the shop at all, he was out of her view. If anything, he was probably running ingredients from the basement storehouse to the ovens in the back, judging by the line of customers waiting their turn. Bromwyn smiled as she imagined Rusty covered in enough powdered sugar to turn his hair pink.
As she walked past the bakery, she felt a soft nudge against her back.
Her hand whipped out behind her, and she grabbed hold. There was a yelp as she yanked her arm forward, and now in front of her was a mudrat of a child, whom she held by one skinny arm.
He blinked wide brown eyes at her, looking like quite the waif as he obviously prepared to give her a sad tale of parents lost and an empty belly forcing him to steal. Then something passed over his dirty face, and his eyes became glassy with fear.
“Lady Witch,” he stuttered. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know it was you! I swear it!”
She released him, but he stood rooted to the spot. Maybe one day, she would appreciate people’s fear of her, as her grandmother insisted again and again. But right now, all it did was make her feel tired, and uneasy, and very much the monster.
“Usually the long hair is a dead giveaway,” she said with a smile that she hoped was soothing.
But the child paled, and she realized her mistake. She could have kicked herself for the poor choice of words.
“I,” he said. “I. I.”
“You,” she prodded gently.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean! Here!” He thrust something at her—a small roll of bread, probably snatched just moments ago from one of the bakery shelves.
“Please,” she said, “this is not necessary … ”
“Take it,” he shrieked, dropping it into her hand.
She closed her fingers around the roll and he took off, fleeing down the dirt-packed street and rounding a corner that would eventually lead toward the docks, as if he could outrun her magic had she chosen to lay a curse on him.
She sighed. Stupid mudrat.
Breaking off a small piece of the roll, she popped the morsel into her mouth. The bread was indeed fresh, and still warm, and she enjoyed the snack as she walked on. As she chewed, she thought about turning back toward the bakery to say hello to Rusty.
She smiled wryly. Had she seen him, he would have made a joke about her bare feet, or about how he was thinner than she was, or about her hair being so long that it was practically a dress. Rusty always teased her. If it were anyone else saying such things to her, Bromwyn would have gotten angry—not that the others in the village treated her like an ordinary girl, but if they had, she was certain she would have scolded them until her tongue bled. But with Rusty, she didn’t get angry. Instead, she teased back. True, there were times when she threatened to turn him into a toad, but that was only when he was being particularly thickheaded. He couldn’t help himself; after all, he was a boy.
Lost in thoughts of the red-haired apprentice baker, Bromwyn also lost track of where she was until a clanging sound jostled her. She blinked, and her nostrils flared. The reek of charcoal overwhelmed the scent of fresh bread, and when she swallowed the last bite of her roll, the food tasted faintly of ashes.
She had arrived at the forge.
There stood Brend, soot-covered and sweaty, forcing metal to his will as he hammered some weapon or other against an anvil. He had eschewed his shirt, as usual, and beneath the leather apron that covered his chest, his muscles bulged. Brend was a strong man of eighteen, and Bromwyn had no doubt that he would become even stronger as he grew older. He cut an imposing figure, and if she had truly been concerned about her own protection, then she would have looked no further than Brend Underhill, apprentice of Nick Ironside.
But she did not want protection. She wanted love, eventually. For now, she wanted freedom.
No matter;
she was not to have either.
The familiar bitterness welled up in her belly, and she forced it down. Brend had been one of the village children she had grown up with, all of them playing together and filling the streets with shouts of laughter. But once she had become apprenticed to her grandmother, those children, including Brend, looked the other way when she would walk by. Out of all of them, only Rusty had remained true; only Rusty still laughed with her and teased, not caring that she was a witch who could spell him into a toad.
Out of all of them, Brend had been the first to walk away.
At the age of ten, Bromwyn had learned how easy it was to be hurt by those she cared about, and how quickly friends could become strangers.
But none of that mattered now. Standing in the doorway of the forge, her eyes already watering from the charcoal dust riding the air, Bromwyn stretched her mouth into a proper smile. Perhaps this morning, Brend would be civil. Most of the villagers let their grudges and prejudices pass on a festival day, and today (well, tonight) was Midsummer.
Nostrils crisping from the fumes and the heat, she called out, “Good morning, Sir Smith.”
Brend stiffened, then glanced over his shoulder to regard her. At least now he met her dark gaze; when they had first been betrothed a year ago, he had barely been able to glance in her direction. Either he had grown bolder regarding her, or he simply was too busy to bother with showing his unease around her. Bromwyn didn’t mind either possibility. Anything was better than being feared by the one she was supposed to marry.
Her stomach pitched from the thought of her upcoming wedding, and she ground her teeth together to keep smiling.
After an indeterminable amount of time passed, he acknowledged her and said, “Lady Witch.” As always, his tone was proper, and cold, and completely out of place with the heat of the hearth fire in its pit. He gripped his hammer tight enough to whiten his knuckles, and the set of his shoulders showed he was ready for violence. Beneath him, his anvil gleamed as it caught the firelight. Voice tight, Brend asked, “What brings you to the forge this morning?”
To Bear an Iron Key Page 3