Bromwyn’s fingers closed over the Key, and she shoved it into the pocket of her gown just before the fey swarmed around her and Rusty, darting near her face and hair, mocking them and jeering at them.
“The challenge!” one of the fey shouted happily.
Bromwyn blew out a nervous breath. At least the fey had not seen that Rusty had given up the Key; that would have been extremely bad. Bromwyn knew enough of fey etiquette to understand that for the Key Bearer to relinquish the symbol of office while he was officially acting as the Guardian would have been a grave insult to the King and Queen. And if one wished to survive an encounter with the fey, one absolutely, positively did not insult them. At least, not to their faces.
“The challenge!” the fey shouted, their voices filling the clearing even as more of their brethren joined them. “The challenge!” Fists pumped, they screamed their demand and their delight, with bloodlust in their eyes and saliva glistening on their lips. Still more of them arrived, hundreds now, adding their voices and banging drums, their words and music blending into a thrumming beat that screamed violence. “The challenge!” they chanted, they sang, they whooped like a battle cry. “The challenge!”
Bromwyn and Rusty stared at each other, wide-eyed, trapped in a crystalline moment of pure terror.
Please, Bromwyn thought desperately, calling out to Nature. Stay with us. Guide us. Help us. Help him, she prayed, thinking of Rusty and hoping against hope that he would manage to walk away from this with his mind, body, and soul unscathed.
To help give him strength, she looked deep into Rusty’s eyes and said, “We can do this.” Her words and tone made her sound far more confident than she actually felt, and for that reason, she smiled.
“We can,” Rusty said.
And then he kissed her.
It was a moment that stretched on forever, and though the kiss was just a soft pressing of his lips upon hers, with only the faintest hint of a far deeper passion, to Bromwyn it was more powerful than even the strongest magic. It was perfect.
Too soon, far too soon, he pulled away.
Bromwyn’s mouth tingled from his touch, and she thought she still tasted him on her lips. Rusty stroked her cheek, and she leaned into his touch.
He whispered, “For luck.”
“For luck,” she agreed, her voice breathy. She would have agreed to anything at that moment. She would have done anything for him. She would have given him the world. Around them, the fey shrieked and whooped, but Bromwyn no longer cared. Rusty was right there, smiling at her, and they were together. And that was all that mattered.
But then his gaze left hers to dart upward, and he froze. The smile slid off of his face, and Bromwyn saw him take a deep breath, and then another. They were frightened breaths, the sort one took to keep from screaming.
The King and Queen were coming.
Bromwyn sensed them before she saw them; a cold feeling of utter terror that stole her breath and made her head swim. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she looked up to see two bright dots, like fireflies alight, soaring through the air high above her. Their brightness sliced through the royal blue of the sky as if they fought the impending arrival of the sun.
Around Bromwyn, the fey horde shrieked and capered about, screaming their glee as their sovereign rulers descended. She ignored them as she watched the King and Queen dance in the air. As she did yesterday, Bromwyn again felt a stab of jealousy in her gut. The thought of flying away, of having the freedom to soar through the sky and tickle the treetops, was enough to make her grind her teeth. How she wanted to dance in the breeze, to forget the promises made by others that she herself had to keep, and just go wherever the wind took her.
How she wanted to be free.
I want to tell the woman I love that I love her, Rusty had said, and I want her to run away with me so that we can spend our lives together.
Could she do that? If she and Rusty survived the challenge, could she walk (not fly, no, never fly) away from her responsibilities, from her life, and start afresh with him by her side? Could she be something more than Mistress Smith, something other than the next Wise One of Loren?
Could she turn her back on everything she knew, all for the sake of one boy?
Watching the fey sovereigns slowly approach—still dancing and laughing, celebrating their final minutes before the dawn claimed the sky—Bromwyn bit back a sob. Bleakness shrouded her heart, so much darker than resentment, so much sharper than bitterness. So much colder than fear. It was a suffocating thing, a despair so thick that she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything other than watch the King and Queen float down to meet them.
She didn’t want to be here. But she had no choice; she couldn’t let Rusty face them alone.
She never had a choice.
Now anger churned quietly through her, absorbing the bleak chill and slowly setting her blood to boil. This was her curse, her own personal doom, brought about not by her grandmother’s magic, or even by Bromwyn’s own hasty words, but by promises and power. To be a Wise One meant never being free to live her own life, never to dance carelessly until she was too dizzy to stand. Never to be with the one who loved her for herself. Never able to choose anything without giving thought to what others needed first. Bromwyn understood, right then and there, that no matter how her grandmother had framed the words, Bromwyn’s was a curse that could never be broken.
She clenched her fists. Is it so much for me to want something for me? Not Bromwyn Darkeyes, granddaughter of Niove Whitehair; not Bromwyn Moon, the cartomancer’s daughter, but me?
All of these feelings and thoughts assaulted her in less than four heartbeats, and she rode the emotions, allowed herself her resentment.
Then she shed her tumultuous feelings like snakeskin. She was Bromwyn, called Darkeyes, and she stood proudly as the magic of Nature resonated through her. Stone settled around her heart. Holding her chin high, she waited for the worst as the King and Queen landed in front of her.
The lord of the fey smiled at her and Rusty, a dark smile full of hidden meaning, and Bromwyn caught his scent: a heady aroma that made her think of spring rain on grass, of flowers blooming, of wild things doing what wild things did. Next to him, his lady laughed, a merry sound like wind chimes tinkling, and Bromwyn smelled honeysuckle—sweetness, like nectar and berries, with an underlying scent of something far sweeter, far wilder. The aromas mixed and caressed her like the most tantalizing perfume, making her feel giddy.
She bit the inside of her cheek.
With the sudden flare of pain, the smells diminished until they were just scents on the wind, enticing without being intoxicating. Though Bromwyn kept her stoic expression, her heart hammered in her chest and she barely restrained a shiver. Even now, just standing there plainly, the King and Queen called to her. And part of her longed to respond.
I am no fey creature, Bromwyn told herself. Her face was utterly calm, and it gave away none of her internal struggle. I am a witch, a human witch, and I will not be swayed by fey magic.
Her determination gave her the strength she needed: The longing dissipated, and she quashed the mad urge to dance before the King and Queen.
“Greetings to our host,” the King said to Rusty, his voice echoing in the glade. He slid his gaze to Bromwyn. “And to his loyal and faithful companion.”
He was calling her a dog, right there, to her face. Last night, she had been overwhelmed when the fey had insulted her so. Now, at this moment, fury seared her, white hot and insistent. Bromwyn pressed her lips together tightly and said nothing as she raged.
The King’s grin pulled into something wicked. He’d noticed her reaction, and even now was all but laughing at her.
Rusty, either oblivious or intent on moving forward, swept off his hat and bowed low. It was picture perfect, right out of a storybook.
Bromwyn quickly followed suit and curtsied deeply. It wasn’t as smooth as Rusty’s bow, but at least it gave her an excuse to break eye contact.
“Greetings to the lord and lady of the fey,” Rusty said. “Welcome back to the Allenswood.”
“And to the World Door,” added Bromwyn, still curtseying.
“You are prompt,” said the King. “Here it is, the blue hour, and you are before my lady Queen and me, awaiting your challenge. How refreshing that we did not have to hunt you down.”
“Like a cur,” the Queen said sweetly, smiling at Bromwyn.
“And you are dressed appropriately!” said the King, motioning toward Rusty. “A little short in the sleeve and tattered by the ankle, but for a man-child, it is acceptable.”
“He does clean up nicely,” the Queen murmured, eyeing Rusty with clear appreciation. She was looking at him as if she wanted to savor him, feast on him … and not in a culinary way.
Bromwyn wanted to rip the Queen’s eyes out.
“Such a pretty boy,” said the Queen. “Yes, I would have the perfect place for him in my Court.”
“My lady wife,” said the King with a chuckle, “how many pages do you need?”
“As many as suits me.” The Queen’s words were light and yet sharp, like a blade so honed that you didn’t feel it slice you, and Bromwyn wondered whether there was some anger between husband and wife. But then the Queen turned her gaze to Bromwyn. “And look at the witch girl, playing at being a lady.”
Bromwyn blushed, but she held her curtsy.
“Indeed,” the King purred, and Bromwyn felt his gaze sweep over her. “She looks like her mother.”
Holding her skirt wide, Bromwyn’s fingers clenched.
“Her mother?” The Queen pealed laughter. “I think the witch girl looks too innocent to be of her mother’s blood. Her dress is baggy where her mother’s was tight, and she is untouched where her mother was far too accessible.”
Bromwyn’s head snapped up, and her vision narrowed into a circle of red as she glared at the Queen.
“Still, she favors her.” The King chuckled once again—a low, warm sound that made Bromwyn think of hungry monsters with very sharp teeth. “Her mother was far prettier, though. And much less restrained.”
“For all the good either did her.” The Queen smiled, her lips shining by the starlight of the World Door. “She lost her magic that very night, among other things. Remember, dearest?”
“I do. Like mother … ”
“ … like daughter.”
Bromwyn’s head pounded as she fought to control her temper. She had to keep her wits about her. She couldn’t risk losing everything in a bout of hasty words and an ill-timed curse.
“Yes,” the King said, his smile showing far too many teeth. “So very alike.”
“Do you think that she will follow in her mother’s footsteps?” the Queen asked idly.
The King’s eyes gleamed. “That remains to be seen.”
“Strange,” Bromwyn said, no longer curtseying. “Here I thought that we were gathered to be challenged, not to make allusions to my mother’s character. I had heard that the fey were better mannered than this.”
The Queen’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“What Lady Witch means to say,” Rusty said quickly, “is that time grows short, and unless the fair folk mean to extend their nighttime visit into daytime hours, we should get on with the business at hand. Right, Lady Witch?” He shot Bromwyn a look that was half-pleading, half-fury.
“Yes.” Bromwyn blew out a calming breath, and then she fixed a bland smile on her face. “Please accept my apology for my hasty words.” And please, she begged silently, let my curse remain quiet.
“You were rude,” said the Queen.
Bromwyn inclined her head. “To my deepest regret.”
“So you will forfeit a year of your life for your transgression.”
She blanched. “My lady—”
Rusty cleared his throat. “I’m afraid, majesty, that Lady Witch is unable to meet your most reasonable request. In our land, she is still considered a child, and as such, she is in no position to offer any of her life to the fair folk. You see, because she is a child, her life belongs to her mother, rather like a favorite garment. And human women get so finicky about their possessions.”
Bromwyn glared at Rusty, who completely ignored her. She turned back to face the fey rulers, deciding that when this was all done, she’d kill Rusty. Slowly.
The Queen cocked her head as she appraised Rusty, a bemused smile on her face. “And if I wait until she is no longer considered a child, my lord Guardian?”
“Then her life will belong to her lord husband,” Rusty said, most apologetically. “You would have to ask him. But given his selfish worldview, I don’t think he would be willing to release his lady wife to your good graces. He’s a moron, you see.”
The Queen laughed, and even clapped her hands in delight. “Well spoken, my lord Guardian! I accept the witchling’s apology as it stands, with no other recourse.”
Rusty bowed. “Your majesty’s kindness knows no end. Thank you.”
Bromwyn grated out her thanks as well, which the Queen completely ignored. She was too busy making eyes at Rusty. The Queen smiled mischievously, and her gown of flowers shifted—and suddenly the lady of the fey was as exposed as any tavern wench, the tops of her bosom heaving as she purred, “You are quite the charmer, my lord Guardian.”
“I thank you, my lady,” Rusty said to the Queen’s chest. “But I do not hold a candle to your own charms.”
Yes, Bromwyn would kill him. Or better, she would have her grandmother kill him, then resurrect him, and then Bromwyn would kill him.
“You would make a most handsome page,” the Queen murmured, sounding demure and yet completely wanton. “I offer this to you as a gift. Come with us through the World Door before the sun rises completely. You would be most happy in our land, Key Bearer.”
“I am sure I would,” Rusty replied smoothly. “But I am afraid I am bound to Loren. I am the only child to my parents, and as such, I must help them earn their lot in life. It is a son’s duty, and I cannot ignore that commitment, not even to know the delights of your land. Though it pains me greatly, I must refuse.”
Oh, no. Bromwyn opened her mouth to interject, but the Queen was faster.
“Well and good.” The Queen’s voice was lighthearted, and her smile was wicked, and Bromwyn understood that Rusty had made a grave mistake. “But if you lose the challenge, you lose your choice in the matter as well. Understand this, Key Bearer: Should you fail in your challenge, you will join us in our land.”
Sweat popped on Rusty’s brow. A nervous grin on his face, he said, “How’s that now?”
“Well played, my lady wife,” said the King, applauding.
Bromwyn felt like she would faint or throw up. Rusty had refused a fey gift flatly, instead of offering something of equal or better value.
“My lady,” she said, “forgive my ignorance, for I am just a girl, and not schooled in the ways of the world. But it was my understanding that the challenge is for the right to keep the World Door open for a year’s time, with no mention of the Guardian at all.”
“It was,” the Queen said, all traces of amusement gone. Her voice was regal, and altogether cold. “But that was before the Key Bearer insulted me by not accepting my most gracious gift. Now the challenge is both for the right to leave the World Door unlocked for one year, as well as for the right to claim the Key Bearer’s soul. Or,” she said, smiling a chilling smile, “if this does not please you, our two peoples can go to war.”
CHALLENGED
“This,” Rusty said, “is really bad.”
The King’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Are you suggesting that living in our world is unappealing?”
“No, my lord,” Rusty stammered. “Not at all. It’s just that my mam and da, see, they’ll never understand how their only child went to live with the fairies.”
The Queen’s eyes darkened, and the King’s face tightened.
“Which is how the common folk of our village refer to fair folk,�
�� Bromwyn threw in, desperate to save the situation from getting any worse. Calling the fey “fairies” to their faces—Nature have mercy! Her head was spinning, and her palms had begun to sweat. She had known that Rusty’s life, and her own, would be on the line while entertaining the fey, but in her heart of hearts, she hadn’t really thought it would come down to this. Now Rusty had to meet the challenge successfully not just for the good of Loren but also for his own soul.
They had to best the fey.
“Well and good.” The King clapped his hands once, and the sound thundered through the clearing. “The sun moves ever skyward, and our time here grows short. Let us begin the challenge.”
Bromwyn waited for the executioner’s axe to fall.
“You have proven yourself to be a smooth talker,” said the Queen to Rusty, “one who knows the value of flattery. But have you learned to appreciate the value of truth?”
“Can you see what is plain before you?” asked the King.
“Or,” said the Queen, “are you fooled by illusions that are more appealing?”
“And so, Key Bearer,” the King said, “your challenge will be one of Sight.”
Sight. Bromwyn knew Sight. She had an intimate understanding of it.
“My lord and lady,” she said breathlessly, “I wish to take the challenge!”
An excited buzz resonated around her as the fey horde repeated her declaration to one another. Through hints of spring rain and honeysuckle, Bromwyn thought she smelled something else wafting from the King and Queen: anticipation.
The Queen arched an amused brow at her, but the King was looking at Bromwyn with something close to appreciation.
“Winnie,” Rusty hissed in her ear, “are you mad?”
She shook her head. She couldn’t tell him, not with the King and Queen staring at her so, but she would do anything to keep him out of harm’s way. So she would take the challenge in his place. This was her test, and it was one of Sight. And she would not only rise to the challenge—she would pass her test, and keep her magic, and save both her friend and her village.
She could do it. Especially with Rusty right there, she could do it. She was his Lady Witch.
To Bear an Iron Key Page 14