I will keep you safe, she promised him, trying to push the thought into his head, as if she were able to walk the fabled Way of the Mind. If he heard her, she could not tell. The sound passes, she tried to think at him.
She was correct: Already the earth-shaking crash was abating, replaced with the sound of raucous laughter. It was loud and infectious, and as the mirth washed over her, Bromwyn had to fight to keep a smile from tugging the corners of her mouth. Peripherally, she saw Rusty lift his head up and lower his hands from his ears, a tentative grin on his face. She nodded, once, to herself; for the moment, her friend was all right. The day Rusty ignored laughter was the day he was doomed.
A swarm of bees surged through the painfully bright light of the stars on the stones. Rusty yelped and ducked his head, but Bromwyn kept her chin high and her gaze focused on the open Door. Buzzing with laughter, the bees spun drunkenly around her before moving past. Those that halted in front of her shimmered and sparkled—and grew. No longer insect-sized, Bromwyn saw that they were human-shaped, with gossamer wings fluttering wildly. Some remained tiny, barely the size of her small finger. Others swelled to adult-human size. Still others grew even larger. All were enticingly beautiful, almost too lovely to look upon. All had a mop of blond hair and piercingly blue eyes, and all were adorned with flowers. They danced in the air, laughing, pointing at her and Rusty, inviting them to come play.
She wondered if one of them was Nala from so long ago.
Bromwyn gritted her teeth and dug her heels into the ground. Tonight she was the Wise One of Loren, and she would not be tempted, not by pixies or any other fey creature.
As if a signal had been given, the fey sighed as one, and the sound was like the wind rustling through the trees. Then they parted, leaving a clear path from Bromwyn and Rusty to the Door.
Next to her, Rusty scrambled to his feet. She felt, more than saw, as he threw a glance at her, so she turned her head slightly, just enough to see him looking right at her, his mouth fixed in a huge grin. He winked at her, and then he looked straight at the Door.
Fire and Air, the boy could be so infuriating!
No time to think on that, though, for two figures were soaring through the Door. These two had no wings, yet they stepped on the air itself, and Bromwyn felt an old pang of jealousy surge through her. As it was when she had been eleven, so these two were now dressed: The woman was clothed in flowers and silk, and her long green hair shone with diamonds; holding her hand, the blond man wore blue silks and a cape of flowers, with a crown of silver glinting on his brow.
The Queen and King of the fey hovered before Bromwyn, amused smiles on their faces and something close to hunger in their eyes.
I am the granddaughter of Niove Whitehair, Bromwyn reminded herself. I am Bromwyn, called Darkeyes, and tonight I am the Wise One of Loren.
I am unafraid.
With that thought, she stood a little taller and she smiled, even though she wanted to run away as fast as she could.
THE LORD GUARDIAN
“My lord husband,” said the Queen, her sapphire eyes sparkling wickedly as she stared at Bromwyn, “it was my understanding that there would be a Guardian at the Door.”
“Mine as well, my lady wife,” said the King, whose own gaze was more like the icy skies of winter. “But instead of the ancient Whitehair, I see two children.”
“A boy child,” the Queen purred, “who sweats from nerves and grins so deliciously.”
“And young Darkeyes,” the King said. “What an unexpected surprise. Still a child, but on the cusp of adulthood.”
“For her kind,” said the Queen, with a sly look at her husband.
“Both of them, almost of age,” he replied, his smile pulling into something frightening.
Even though Bromwyn’s stomach rolled and her heart felt squeezed tight and her throat wanted to close up, she curtsied deeply and announced in a clear voice: “My lady and lord of the fey, welcome to the Allenswood.”
“She speaks,” said the Queen, bemused. “Perhaps she does other tricks as well. Perhaps she will come when called, or roll over for a good word.”
“Or beg.” The King grinned at Bromwyn, and what she saw in that grin and in his wintery blue eyes made her feel slightly sick. Or maybe that was because they were comparing her to a dog.
Keeping her smile locked on her face, Bromwyn said, “It is my pleasure to present to you the Key Bearer and Guardian of the Allenswood World Door, he who is also your host. Majesties, here before you is Derek Jonasson.”
And she thought, By Nature’s grace, please do not mess this up. Whether that thought was to herself or to Rusty, she could not have said.
Rusty stepped forward, removing his hat with one practiced gesture and bowing smoothly. “At your service,” he said to his belly.
The glade quieted, from the wind in the leaves to the fey horde in attendance, as the King and Queen considered Rusty. The two rulers didn’t move, save for the expressions on their faces. The Queen’s mouth slid from a surprised O to a delighted smile, and she actually clapped her hands together like a child receiving a wonderful gift. The King’s face seemed to move in reverse—his grin tightened, then slipped away altogether, and his eyes narrowed as he looked first at Rusty, then at Bromwyn. Those eyes seemed to frost with ice, leeching out the blue and leaving a scum of dirty white.
“You mean to say that the Whitehair is not coming at all?” The King’s voice dripped with scorn. “And in her stead, she sends us this whelp and this unworldly slip of a girl?”
Though she sensed the King’s building anger—he must have been insulted by Niove’s absence—it paled before Bromwyn’s own budding rage. Unworldly, indeed!
“My grandmother selected the new Guardian with great care,” she said politely, keeping her smile in place. “And she sends her regards.”
He snorted his derision. “I am less than impressed.”
Fury burned through Bromwyn, but she kept her face calm even as white-hot heat scalded her from within. Keep your temper, she told herself. Whatever else you do, keep your temper.
The Queen was moving now, gliding in the air to hover around Rusty, circling him as if he were a horse to be bought. Rusty held his bow, but Bromwyn saw the slight tremble along his arms.
“The boy is a fine one,” the Queen murmured. “He will look delightful in my Court.”
“The boy is too thin,” commented the King. “He will break in less than a fortnight.”
The Queen arched a brow at him. “Is that a wager?”
“Perhaps. What will you offer?”
“Majesties,” Bromwyn said tightly, “I understand your surprise. But it seems to this unworldly girl that your surprise now borders on rudeness. There is a decorum to be followed, should you wish to remain on our land for this Midsummer Festival.”
The sudden hush through the clearing was thick and suffocating, and if Bromwyn hadn’t been so furious from the King’s scorn and the Queen’s bemusement, she would have been terrified. Angering the fey was far from smart. But she couldn’t just stand there and let them insult her and Rusty. If she didn’t show them her spine now, they would walk all over her—and that would be only the beginning. Bromwyn didn’t want to think about what they would do after that. She held her chin high and waited for their response.
After what felt like a million years, the King said, “You are correct, witchling.” His voice boomed through the glade like summer thunder rumbling in the mountains. “My lady wife and I have overstepped, and for that we offer our apologies.”
Next to Rusty, the Queen said nothing, but she bowed her head ever so slightly.
Bromwyn opened her mouth, but it was Rusty who spoke first.
“Your apologies are most graciously acknowledged,” he said, standing tall once again. “But majesties, they are unnecessary. Of course your graces were surprised by our presence here. You are used to the dread power of our Wise One, Niove Whitehair. And I am but a young man, and the Lady Witch is not h
er grandmother. For causing such surprise, I most humbly offer our own apologies, which I sincerely hope you will accept in the manner in which they are offered: freely, with no ill intention.”
Bromwyn blinked at him, her mouth hanging open wide enough to swallow some of the tinier fey creatures buzzing near her. By Nature’s grace, what in all the realms was possessing her friend? He spoke the perfect words, far smoother than her own meager attempt at diplomacy. He …
… was quoting from one of the books they had studied earlier that day.
Bromwyn’s mouth snapped shut as she remembered the chapter from the massive tome on court etiquette that they had reviewed. Come to think of it, Rusty had taken longer with that book than he had with the others. And now Bromwyn knew why: He had been memorizing key phrases.
Well, assuming they both survived this encounter with the fey, perhaps she could convince him to pursue acting instead of thievery.
“Well spoken, young master,” the Queen said with a full-lipped smile. “How could we do other than as you request? My lord husband and I graciously accept your thoughtful apology, for you and the witch girl both.”
Bromwyn’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t care for how the Queen was smiling at Rusty. No, not at all.
“You are most kind, lady Queen,” said Rusty. “May I present to you my proof of office?” He pulled out the Key from his pocket and displayed it on his palm as if it were the greatest of treasures.
“It seems you are indeed the Key Bearer,” the King said flatly.
“My lord Guardian,” said the Queen, her voice breathy, and she even curtsied before Rusty. “For a young man to carry such a burden, there must be far more to you than meets the eye.” She looked up from her curtsey and smiled once again, her lips shining wetly in the starlight of the World Door. “I look forward to discovering your hidden talents, my lord Guardian.”
Bromwyn’s fists shook. The Queen was … flirting! With Rusty! Who was grinning like a fool! And blushing!
If his wife’s mannerisms bothered him at all, the King did not show it. “The Key to the World Door is many things,” said the King, “and one of them is iron. And so we must ask, Key Bearer, that you replace the Key in your pocket and keep it there until the time should come for it to be used.”
“Speaking of such a time,” said Bromwyn, glaring at Rusty, “we must state the rules of your visit this fine evening.”
“We must do no such thing, witchling,” the King said jovially. His eyes now sparkled as brightly as his lady wife’s; the anger that had danced there was gone. “Only the Key Bearer may act as the Guardian of your land. You are merely an amusement, nothing more.”
The words slapped Bromwyn. Eyes stinging with unshed tears, she gritted her teeth and said nothing as she silently raged.
“Thank you, my lord King, for reminding me of my responsibilities,” Rusty said smoothly. “Your lady Queen was so charming that I nearly forgot myself.”
“My lord Guardian is quite the flatterer,” the Queen said, lips curled in a smile that hinted at many things.
Bromwyn wanted to rip that smile off of the Queen’s face. Stop looking at him that way!
The Queen’s lips pulled wider, almost as if she could hear Bromwyn’s furious thoughts.
“Lady Witch,” Rusty said, “would you be so kind as to pour the wine?”
Bromwyn tore her gaze away from the Queen and met Rusty’s intense stare. His eyes implored her to please, please, please keep her temper.
“As the lord Guardian requests,” she said, her tone clipped.
Rusty dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Thank you.” He didn’t add “Winnie,” but Bromwyn could see the nickname on his lips.
Somehow, just sensing the shape of his pet name for her made her less angry, and it was with a tight smile that she turned her back on the fey royalty to open the cask of wine.
As she prepared the cups, Rusty made small talk with the Queen and King, and even with some of the watching fey folk. Bromwyn didn’t know how he could be so at ease. She’d nearly lost her temper more than once, and the fey had been there for not even five minutes. And yet, there was Rusty, holding his own, charming the Queen, even joking with the King. Thank Nature for small favors.
She filled the four goblets with the apple wine. The Guardian had to toast the fey King and Queen, but before the first taste of wine was sipped, the rules of decorum had to be clearly stated as well as agreed to by the fey. Once the wine was sipped, those rules—and only those rules—would be enforced. If the Guardian didn’t impress the King and Queen during their visit, there was the very real threat of them challenging the Guardian’s authority.
And that, as Rusty would have said, would be very bad.
Biting her lip, Bromwyn corked the bottle. No, she would not worry. Rusty knew what to do.
Carefully, she brought over all four goblets. Rusty took two from her, and then the two of them presented the cups to the fey sovereigns. The King and Queen exchanged a bemused look, and then they each selected a cup—the King from Bromwyn, the Queen from Rusty.
“I should like to wish you blessings and prosperity,” Rusty said, “but everyone knows that the fey are already blessed and prosperous. And so I wish friendship between our peoples on this Midsummer night. And in the name of that friendship, let no human child be stolen this night by the fey or otherwise marked by the fey, and let no human adult be taken for any reason by the fey.”
Perfect. Bromwyn smiled to herself. He said it just as they had practiced. The first rule, and by far the most important, had been stated. Now the fey had to accept the conditions Rusty had set forth.
“Well spoken,” the Queen murmured. “We do solemnly agree to your most reasonable request, my lord Guardian.”
One rule down, and only about a thousand more to go. But Bromwyn wasn’t daunted. They could do this.
Around them, the fey cheered. From somewhere, drums began to beat a wild rhythm, one that captured the feeling of a hunter chasing prey through the lush woods. Bromwyn felt the music’s effects on her body—the way her heart seemed to mimic the drumbeat, how her limbs wanted to move and caper and dance. She forced her feet to remain still.
“Our children celebrate,” the King said, his voice a rich bass that was a musical accompaniment to the music. “We should do no less. Come, witchling.” He plucked Bromwyn’s cup from her hand and thrust it and his own goblet to the Queen, who used her magic to float the additional cups gently in the air.
“My lord?” Bromwyn stammered. “What are you doing?”
“It has been far too long.” The King took Bromwyn by the elbow. “Let us fly once again and dance beneath the stars.”
Before she could say anything else, the King’s magic washed over her—and suddenly, Bromwyn was flying as the King held her aloft. Her stomach dropped to her toes and her heart thumped loudly in her chest. Bromwyn didn’t know whether the sound that escaped her lips was a groan or a giggle.
They danced.
“Five years ago,” the King murmured, “I offered you your heart’s desire. And you refused me.”
Bromwyn swallowed thickly before she replied. “It was a most generous offer, my lord. But the price was too high.”
“You would have had a place in my Court as my daughter. Was it so much to ask that you love me with all of your heart, young Darkeyes?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And now? At the cusp of adulthood, have you found another to whom you would give your heart?”
“I am betrothed, my lord.”
A smile played on the King’s lips, hinting at amusement. “You have learned how to reply to a question without actually answering it. Well done. Now answer me truly, witchling: Is there another to whom you have given your heart?”
For some reason, she briefly thought of Rusty, who even now was alone with the Queen and her charms, the Queen and her lush smiles.
She pushed thoughts of him aside; she didn’t have the luxury of being concerned for h
er friend, not when the King had charged her to speak the truth. She admitted, “I have been promised to someone, my lord. My heart is no longer mine to give.”
“You wear your sorrow like a scarf, witchling. It screams to be noticed, even as it strangles you. You are unhappy here, in this land that my kith and kin visit once each year.”
She found she could no longer meet his gaze.
“In my land,” he said gently, “you would have your pick of fey suitors. Any who would ask for your heart would be yours, with only a word of consent from you. In my land, you would never have to pledge your heart to another if you did not wish it.”
“Except to you, my lord.”
“Except to me,” he agreed, “and to my lady Queen. But I promise you this, Bromwyn Darkeyes: In my land, you would want nothing less. In my land, surrounded by all the joys and desires that magic provides, you would be content, and more than content. You would be happy.”
She thought of how peaceful she felt when she walked barefoot through the Allenswood, and she wondered, as she danced through the air with the fey King, what it would be like to walk in a place where magic and Nature had wed.
She bit her lip, and then in a small voice, she asked, “Are … are you offering me a place in your land, my lord?”
He leaned down, as if to kiss her cheek, but instead he whispered in her ear:
“No. You refused me, and I told you that I would never offer such a prize to you again. I am simply letting you know just how wrong your choice was. You will never be happy here, witchling, in your world where magic is looked at with suspicion. You will grow old with bitterness in your heart, knowing that you could have been happy forever in my land. You will die, wasted and alone, and all your potential will be gone, with nothing to show for it.”
To Bear an Iron Key Page 8