After a long pause, Niove said, “Well then, that is something, at least. Still, I expected better from you.” She snorted in disgust. “Look at them, romping about, frolicking as if this were their own personal playground. Makes me want to spit. You should have done better than this, girl.”
Blushing furiously, Bromwyn said nothing. She was too upset to even be angry at her grandmother’s words, for Niove was right. Bromwyn should have done better. And not because of the risk of losing her magic, but for the larger reason: The people of Loren were suffering for her oversight. She bit back a sob.
“Don’t talk to her like that.”
Bromwyn couldn’t have heard properly. Surely, she imagined Rusty coming to her defense. No one, not anyone, ever talked back to Niove Whitehair.
Her grandmother boomed, “Who are you, boy, to tell me how I may speak to my granddaughter?”
Fire and Air, Bromwyn thought. Rusty really did speak aloud! She wanted to kiss him and curse him, but she couldn’t bring herself to say or do anything, other than tremble before her grandmother and await judgment.
“I’m her friend,” Rusty said, his voice steady and not sounding at all scared. “And more than that, I’m the Key Bearer. It was my idiocy that got us into this mess, not hers.”
By Nature’s grace, her best friend was possessed. That had to be it. There was no other explanation for him being so pert to the village Wise One, or why her grandmother hadn’t stricken him down by now. Bromwyn’s temper was short; Niove’s was legendary.
“An honest thief,” her grandmother mused. “Who would have guessed?”
“Bromwyn Darkeyes is the one who saved Master Tiller’s fields,” said Rusty, sounding not at all like the boy Bromwyn knew—he sounded older, more confident. “And she’s the one who talked sense into the mudrats before they did something horrifically dumb, like follow the fairies up the Hill and through the Door. And she’s the one who talked the village adults out of a murder or two.”
“Really,” Niove said thoughtfully.
Bromwyn felt her grandmother’s gaze raking over her, and she desperately tried not to whimper. Witches never whimpered, not even when under the intense scrutiny of older, more terrifying witches.
“I’d say she’s got much to be proud of,” Rusty said, and now Bromwyn could hear a grin in his voice. “I’m proud of her. And I’m proud to call her my friend. That’s who I am, Wise One: the friend of Bromwyn Darkeyes.”
Then there was silence, thick as the baker’s festival bread.
Bromwyn couldn’t believe what Rusty had said, or that he had spoken at all. Talking back to Niove Whitehair? He must have gone mad indeed.
“Not many have the strength of character to speak their minds to me,” Niove said slowly, approvingly. It was a tone that Bromwyn had rarely heard, and almost never when it came to Bromwyn herself. “My granddaughter is lucky to have you as a friend, boy.”
“Thank you, Wise One.”
“But it seems to me,” she said, much sharper, “that your stint as Guardian is going less than well. Would you say that is accurate?”
“Yes, Wise One,” Rusty said, his voice shrinking until his words were tiny things. “It certainly could be going better.”
“And it could end up going significantly worse.”
Bromwyn heard the threat in her grandmother’s words, and she chewed her lip.
“Leave us, boy. Go to the cartomancer’s shop, and wait there for my granddaughter. She and I must have words now.”
“Yes, Wise One,” he squeaked. “Thank you, Wise One.”
Bromwyn heard him scamper away, leaving her to her fate. She couldn’t blame him for running; when Niove said frog, you hopped. Very, very high. She swallowed, and waited, and wondered if her grandmother was going to kill her now, or wait until after Midsummer.
“I know of your words to the children of this village,” Niove said once Rusty had gone. “Especially to that Jordan Rivers, who has not a lick of sense to him. I saw you hold your own in front of the mob, and speak to the fey King on his own terms. But I do not know what your thief friend meant by saying you saved Jason Deerborn’s fields. Explain.”
Doing her best not to stutter, and failing miserably, Bromwyn told her grandmother how she put out the fire in Master Tiller’s spelt fields. She still couldn’t bring herself to look Niove in the eye, so she addressed her own muddy toes.
When she finished, there was a long pause before her grandmother spoke, a pause filled with Bromwyn imagining the worst sorts of punishments Niove could dish out, many of which having to do with cleaning out the privy behind her grandmother’s cottage.
“And so.” Niove let out a sigh. “At least you did not burn yourself out. That counts.”
Bromwyn said, “Rusty doused me in water … ”
“I do not speak of your body, girl. Do not be daft; it ill-becomes you.”
Bromwyn gleeped and bit her tongue. She had not considered that calling Fire and Air might well have destroyed her ability to cast. Had she known, would she still have taken the chance?
“Well,” Niove huffed, “once this night is done and the World Door is closed, we will have much to discuss. Assuming, of course, the fey will not be returning for a year’s time. They have not challenged you, I take it?”
Bromwyn whispered, “They did, Grandmother. They challenged Rusty for the right to walk the world every night this year.”
“And you were going to tell me of this when, girl? After the King and Queen had enslaved the village? Wheel and want!” Niove spat loudly, and Bromwyn flinched. “Priorities, girl! You need to learn priorities!”
“I am sorry,” Bromwyn cried. “Truly! I was going to tell you. It is just … ” She took a deep breath, and then she said, “I was afraid to.”
“Why?”
Bromwyn admitted, “I thought you would kill me.”
“And I still might.”
Bromwyn screwed her eyes shut and tried not to die on the spot.
“Even so,” her grandmother said, “your duty is first and foremost to this village. You are to be a Wise One. Or have you forgotten that?”
“No, Grandmother,” she whispered.
“Stop putting yourself first, if you plan on ever filling my shoes. So to speak. Where in Nature’s nurturing earth are your shoes? You met the fair folk barefoot?”
There was a sudden sting by Bromwyn’s ear. “Ow!”
“Bromwyn Elmindrea Lucinda Moon,” her grandmother hissed, “the next time you are to represent this village as a Wise One, you will dress appropriately! You are not some mudrat!” She clouted Bromwyn’s other ear. “Do you hear me, girl?”
“Yes, Grandmother,” she said, rubbing her sore ears.
Niove spat again. “So, the boy is to be challenged. Well, that is a complication.” Then she let out a sigh, which to Bromwyn’s stinging ears sounded almost mournful.
“But you will help us,” she said to Niove, “now that you have returned. Right?”
“Of course not, girl,” her grandmother said. “This is your test, and I will not interfere.”
Niove’s words made Bromwyn forget to be embarrassed or scared or ashamed, and she met her grandmother’s dark gaze with her own. “What do you mean? You have to help us!”
“Perhaps your spell of Sound left some residual effects,” Niove said dryly. “Are you deaf? I said I will not interfere, and that is what I meant.”
Bromwyn spluttered, “But that is insane!”
“Call it what you want, girl.” Her grandmother’s eyes glowed fiercely, and her smile was a nightmare stitched onto her weathered face. “But I will not lift a finger to help you.”
“Fire and Air!” Bromwyn stomped her foot, and mud splattered on her skirt. “You take me to task for daring to place my own needs above those of the village, and yet when I ask you for help for the good of the village, you tell me you will not because of my test!”
“Exactly.”
“You are as selfish as you accuse me
of being! You helped Mother eighteen years ago. She said so herself. It was your quick thinking, she said, that kept the fey from overrunning the village!”
“Your mother failed her test,” Niove said, “and lost her magic. She needed my help.”
The words hung in the air between them, and Bromwyn gasped as she understood the meaning behind them. She said, “But I—”
“Have not failed. Not yet, anyway,” Niove added, “although the night is still young, and anything could happen, I suppose. Do you want to fail?”
Bromwyn’s mouth hung open, but since no words flew out, she quietly closed it and shook her head.
“Then do not. It really is as simple as that.” Her grandmother arched a white brow. “Now that you are done lecturing me, Granddaughter, I will be off. If I know the fey, they will have made a mess of the Allenswood. I mean to make them clean up after themselves.”
“Grandmother, I—” Bromwyn’s voice cracked, and she had to take a gulping breath before she could continue. “I am sorry.”
Niove snorted. “Apologies are as worthless as a hairpiece in a rainstorm. Do not apologize, girl. Pass your test. Show me that all the years you have spent studying with me have not been a waste of my time.”
Feeling very small, Bromwyn replied, “Yes, Grandmother.”
“Remember my advice to you, and you will be fine.” Niove Whitehair’s eyes shone, and for a moment, Bromwyn thought she saw something sparkling there beyond her grandmother’s power, something that hinted of love and pride. Then the moment passed, and all that was left was the quiet glow of magic. “When is the challenge?”
“Just before dawn.”
“The blue hour? Humph. So they mean to make it quick, before the sun’s full light shines and roasts them where they stand.” Niove snorted. “They underestimate you, Granddaughter.”
“If you say so,” Bromwyn whispered.
“I do. They are arrogant. Remember that.” Her grandmother scrutinized her. “I suggest you and the boy thief get some sleep. You look ready to drop, and if you plan on helping your friend with the challenge, you need your wits about you. The fey will do no great mischief, not this night at least. Not when they believe they may be returning every night for a year,” she added with a sniff.
“But then we should study, see what we can anticipate—”
“It would be a waste of time. You cannot prepare for a fey challenge. All you can do is try to outthink them. And for that, girl, you need to be sharp. And that means you need your rest.” Niove adjusted her black shawl, and then she turned away. “I suggest you set a cantrip to kick you out of bed ninety minutes before dawn. That will give you ample time to get the thief, and get yourselves to the Hill. And this time, girl, you had best dress appropriately. And for the love of Nature, wash those feet of yours.” Grumbling, she added, “Seeing the fair folk barefoot. Fire and Air, the girl is as heartblind as her mother ever was.”
“Grandmother?”
Niove glanced over her shoulder at Bromwyn.
“Thank you.”
Her grandmother smiled tightly. “Do not thank me yet, girl. First pass your test. Then we shall have words about what it truly means to be a Wise One, among other things.”
With that, Niove Whitehair walked up the street. One of the smaller fey dared to throw dirt at her, and Bromwyn watched first as the dirt slid off of Niove’s form, leaving her grandmother untouched, and then as the fey’s hair caught fire. The creature shrieked and zoomed away, leaving Niove to amble on, undisturbed.
“I will pass,” Bromwyn said softly. “Mark me on that. I will pass, and will do you proud.”
As she slowly made her way to her mother’s shop to get Rusty, Bromwyn realized that she didn’t know if she had made the promise to her grandmother or to herself.
BONDS THAT WILL NOT BREAK
Bromwyn rubbed her eyes as she waited for Rusty to come out of the bakery. Above her, the fey buzzed like gnats and swooped through the pre-twilight sky, but they left her alone. They did not taunt her or goad her on, did not acknowledge her in any way, not even to squat over her like a bird taking aim. Perhaps the King had told them to leave her alone. Or perhaps the fey that had crossed her grandmother’s path had served as fair warning. Bromwyn didn’t know, and she didn’t care. If the fey were giving her a wide berth, so much the better. She was too tired to properly growl at the creatures, anyway.
She’d gotten only a few hours of sleep, and now her eyes were burning and her mouth seemed fixed in a permanent yawn. Her mother had woken with her, and had drawn the water for Bromwyn’s bath, and had picked out her garments—which, sadly, had included shoes. Niove must have had words with Jessamin when Bromwyn was sleeping; her mother had not cared one whit about Bromwyn’s appearance yesterday, but this early morning, all Jessamin had been able to talk about was how Bromwyn would look the part of a Wise One. And her mother had hummed and laughed and smiled brightly as Bromwyn had bathed.
Just thinking about it now made Bromwyn gnash her teeth. In the face of her daughter possibly losing her magic, Jessamin had been happier than Bromwyn had seen her in a long, long time.
Then she rolled her eyes at her own foolishness. She knew that her mother was just being supportive, as a mother should be. And if she had taken pleasure out of helping her daughter dress, what of it?
For Jessamin clearly had enjoyed herself. Once Bromwyn had dressed, her mother had set about working her own sort of magic over her daughter’s long hair. Now there were so many pins and combs and … and things in her thick curly tresses that Bromwyn didn’t know how she would ever brush them out. And her head felt like it weighed a ton. No wonder storybook ladies always walked with their heads held high; if they dared to look down, the weight of their hairdo would send them crashing to the floor.
And that was why, thirty minutes before dawn, Bromwyn, yawning hugely, wore a flowing blue gown that had fancy beadwork by the sleeves and hem, and her hair was wrapped around and around itself in complicated coils and held in place with elaborate combs and pins (and other things that, as far as Bromwyn was concerned, had no names other than “hair glue”). A silver girdle disguised how the dress bagged over her lanky frame, and it also managed to play up her bosom in a grownup manner. An extremely grownup manner. The very thought of it made her uneasy. Her hand fluttered over her chest, her long fingers covering the rather daring neckline.
Simply put, she felt very much like an idiot.
“You look beautiful,” her mother had told her not even ten minutes ago, just before Bromwyn dashed out the door to go meet Rusty. “Much better than I ever did in that dress.”
Bromwyn hated it. Blue reminded her of the fey King, and the material felt much too smooth and delicate for a proper dress.
“You can have it back, if you miss it,” she had replied, scowling at her reflection in the mirror. Really, she looked so … so unlike herself. The fey were going to mock her. And Rusty would kill himself with laughter when he saw her. Yes, he would die laughing, and she would die from embarrassment, and they would both save her grandmother the trouble of killing either of them.
“Not at all. It looks marvelous on you.” Her mother had sighed happily, in the way that only mothers could do. “And the girdle flaunts your figure.”
In reply, Bromwyn had yawned hugely, and was flummoxed when her cleavage nearly burst free from her dress. Covering the exposed top of her bosom with her hand, she said, “I look like I should be working in the tavern.”
Jessamin had snorted, sounding in that moment exactly like Niove Whitehair. “You look nothing of the sort. Common girls work in taverns. You, my daughter, are far from common. And today, you look like a princess.” Her mother’s hand had smoothed away an errant lock from Bromwyn’s forehead. “You should fix your hair this way more often. Show off that beautiful face of yours.”
“It took you twenty minutes just to brush out the curls. I would rather spend the time doing other things.”
“Pish-tosh,” her mo
ther had replied. “A little time on your appearance should be as important to you as a little time on your studies.”
That was truly ridiculous, but Bromwyn did not say so.
Jessamin had smiled, perhaps taking her daughter’s silence as agreement. “I can only imagine what Brend would say, should he happen to see you looking so fetching.”
And now, waiting outside of the bakery in the darkest time before the blue hour, Bromwyn wondered not about her future husband’s reaction but about another boy’s. A boy with red hair, and a quick smile, and eyes that danced with mischief. A boy with a penchant for trouble and for taking what didn’t belong to him.
Stop, she told herself, but she couldn’t. She didn’t love Brend. She didn’t want to marry him, or to be with him for the rest of her life. Not Brend, who called her magic “deviltry.” Not Brend, who could barely stand to look at her. Not Brend, who was all too happy to go off with Jalsa to the tavern and yet couldn’t manage to say even a “thank you” to Bromwyn for standing by him in the face of his looming execution.
She remembered how, years gone, Brend had first turned away from her once she was no longer merely the cartomancer’s daughter but Lady Witch.
Her hands clenched into fists. Brend Underhill, apprentice blacksmith of Loren, was brawny and imposing, and he certainly would protect Bromwyn once they were wed; it was the duty of husbands to protect their wives, even as it was the duty of wives to side with their husbands, as Bromwyn herself had sided with Brend hours ago. But would Brend ever stand up to Niove Whitehair? Would he talk back to her grandmother and dare to tell her that he was proud of Bromwyn?
She could hear Rusty’s words even now, could hear the grin in his voice as he told her grandmother that he was Bromwyn’s friend.
Her eyes stung, and she blinked away sudden tears.
Enough, and more than enough. She sniffed loudly and brushed at her eyes. She didn’t have the luxury of lamenting her life. Not now. Once she and Rusty met the King and Queen’s challenge successfully and locked the World Door behind the fey, then she could lay about and mope and waste her time wishing for a rescue that would never come.
To Bear an Iron Key Page 12