To Bear an Iron Key

by Kessler, Jackie Morse

  Bromwyn couldn’t help but grin. “Many years ago, it was a pixie who had taught me a most important rule. And that rule was this: Magic always has rules. My lady, I thank you for sharing freely with me the rule of your own magic.”

  The Queen snarled her fury.

  “So,” the King said, laughing softly. “Your little game has come back to haunt you, my lady wife. Your ploy to trick the witchling out of the safety of the Whitehair’s home worked too well. Instead of us taking her humanity, you gave her knowledge.”

  “I gave her no such thing!” the Queen thundered.

  “You were careless, and she was clever.”

  Bromwyn’s eyes widened as she understood the meaning behind their words: That long ago Midsummer when she had escaped her grandmother’s cottage, it hadn’t been a simple pixie who had helped her in want of a playmate.

  It had been the fey Queen in disguise, seeking to do mischief upon Niove Whitehair’s grandchild.

  Bromwyn curtsied to hide her smile. “Your generosity is boundless, my lady,” she said, “even as your beauty is legendary.”

  “As is my anger.” The Queen’s grin was a monstrous thing of fangs, and Bromwyn felt the air charge with magic. “I will pull the skin from your body and use it for my bed gown! I will break all of your bones to suck out the marrow within! I will bathe in your blood!”

  Bromwyn would have been terrified if she hadn’t seen the King’s face. She had won; it was all but written on his features. She had beaten them at their own game. And she had learned something nearly as valuable as the Key itself: If the fey went back on their word, they lost their power.

  So instead of casting her magic in anger or flinging out hasty words to see if they scored, Bromwyn smiled and waited.

  The Key was heavy in her palm.

  “My lady wife,” the King murmured, “that is quite enough.”

  Bromwyn met the Queen’s terrible gaze, and for a moment she saw the monster beneath the woman’s guise. It rippled beneath her skin like a sea serpent undulating beneath the waves, and when she spoke, it became a kraken’s growl. “She is her grandmother’s kin, no doubt!”

  “And her mother’s daughter,” the King said with an ugly smile. “We accept your gift of the Key, Bromwyn Darkeyes. As agreed, we release our claim on this boy and on this land. For the next year, at least. My lady wife, let the boy go.”

  The Queen glowered at Bromwyn, but she said, “As my lord husband requests.”

  There was a flash of magic, and a white light flared over Rusty’s head. Then he crashed to the ground, a puppet with its strings cut.

  Bromwyn didn’t dare go to his side; she was too busy staring down the raging Queen.

  “As we cannot touch your gift,” said the King, “we must ask that you hold it for us in good faith, and that you present the Key to us next Midsummer.”

  Bromwyn swallowed thickly, but her voice was steady when she replied, “I most graciously accept your charge as Key Bearer.”

  “Thank you, my lady Guardian.” The King’s smile was mocking, but it lacked its earlier cruel edge. His eyes, however, held little mirth; instead, they were hooded and cunning.

  Oh, Bromwyn was in so much trouble. Thankfully, she had a full year to figure out how to best work her way out of it.

  “By your leave,” the Queen snarled. Without waiting for a reply, she spun on her heel and leapt through the World Door.

  “You have proven to be quite entertaining, witchling.” The King smiled slyly. “The same as your mother before you, albeit for different reasons.”

  Bromwyn felt her anger stir, but she allowed it to bubble without letting it run over. She had learned that much, at least. She replied, “My grandmother had hoped that I would provide you with some alternative entertainment this year, my lord. The last thing she wants is for you and your lady wife to be bored.”

  “Indeed,” he said, snorting. “She is a clever one, for her kind.”

  “She has been called that.”

  “Among other things, I imagine.” The King stared at Bromwyn, his eyes alight with magic and mischief and rage. “Know that we shall issue a different challenge next Midsummer, witchling, one that will not be nearly so lenient.”

  Bromwyn’s heart froze in her chest, but she said, “I thank my lord for fair warning.”

  “All of the time in the world will not help you.” The King bowed low. “Build your strength. Cast your spells. Pray to your gods. It matters not. Nothing shall save you.” He stood tall, a dangerous smile on his face. “Next Midsummer, your life will belong to me. This promises Aeric, King of the fey and lord of all in the timeless lands.”

  Bromwyn bit back a gasp. His name. He had just given her his name.

  His smile stretched to inhuman proportions. “Until that time, Bromwyn Darkeyes, farewell.” With those words, he stepped through the World Door and vanished.

  “Well now,” Rusty said weakly from the ground. “They certainly do know how to make an exit.”

  THE WORLD DOOR CLOSES

  Bromwyn rushed over to where Rusty lay, nearly tripping over the hem of her gown in her haste. His hat had flown off, and he was sprawled in the grass, all beanpole length and a tangle of limbs, his red hair seeming to catch fire in the dawn. His face was blanched, and shock danced in his eyes.

  She paused before him, terrified that something inside of him had broken, whether in spirit or mind or body.

  “Rusty—” Her voice cracked, and she had to fight back a sob. “Are you well?”

  He lifted his head up to look at her, grinned like a madman, and then dropped his head back down.

  “Ouch,” he said. “I feel all sorts of strange.”

  “You look even stranger.” Stumbling to her knees before him, she grabbed him by his jacket lapels and hefted him up until he was in a sitting position, and then she crushed him to her chest in an embrace that would have impressed mother bears. She hugged him tightly, never wanting to let him go.

  And when he managed to wrap his arms around her in return, so much the better.

  Bromwyn laughed, feeling lighter than air. He was all right! They had survived the encounter with the fey, and the World Door would soon be closed and locked, and then they were free!

  For a year, anyway.

  She bit her lip as the wonderful floating feeling was replaced with a steel ball in her gut. No, an iron ball.

  And even without the Key, she and Rusty were still bound to their obligations in Loren: his to the bakery and his parents, hers to Brend and her magic.

  Had she really thought they were free?

  Well, never mind all of that, she decided, hugging Rusty all the harder, until he complained about his ribs creaking. Later, there would be time to fret over how they were still trapped by their responsibilities. Later, they could rage against the world, or even plot to steal away in the cover of night and escape to some remote land, where they would be left alone to do whatever they wished, whenever they wished.

  Silly thoughts, she knew, but she figured that she was allowed a little silliness. For a little while longer, they could bask in simply being alive.

  “Winnie?” Rusty’s voice was soft, and loving, and altogether perfect. “Are you laughing? Or crying?”

  “Laughing, of course,” she said, sniffling hard. “Witches never cry.”

  “And they live in candy houses. I’ve read the stories.” He wheezed out a chuckle. “Damn me, I hurt. What happened?”

  “You lost the challenge, but I tricked them into giving you back to me, and going away for the year.” She frowned, and then she clouted the back of his head.

  “Hey!” He pulled away from her, rubbing the sore spot. “What was that for?”

  “For not picking correctly.” She crossed her arms. “How could you possibly think that fey girl was me?”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “Of course I am serious! She looked nothing like me!”

  He gaped at her.

  “And do not
think I did not hear you as you dismissed the others. I distinctly recall you saying something about wishing one of them actually was me.” She glared at him. “Why? Did she have more … wenchly assets?”

  The corners of Rusty’s mouth flitted up in a smile, and his right cheek dimpled. He said, “‘Wenchly’?”

  “Was she prettier? What was better about her than me?”

  Rusty chuckled softly, and he reached out to stroke Bromwyn’s cheek. Try as she might to be indignant, she found herself leaning into the touch.

  “Winnie,” he said, smiling warmly, “there’s no comparison. Nothing could be better than you.”

  She blinked away sudden tears. “So why did you say such a thing?”

  “Well, it was either try to joke, or vomit out of sheer nerves. And that would have gotten all over my boots.”

  Bromwyn giggled, and then she stared deeply into his eyes. Just looking into them made it seem like anything was possible.

  “I was so worried for you,” she said, her voice full. “Rusty, if you had gone with them, I would have died.”

  “Your granny does have a temper, doesn’t she?”

  She clouted the back of his head again. “No, you foolish boy. I would have died of heartbreak.”

  “And I’ll die from your backhand,” he said, grinning hugely. “Help me up, if you please.”

  As she pulled him to his feet, twilight gave way to sunrise. The last breaths of gray evaporated into gold-tinted daylight. Over the flat stones, the stars shimmered, dazzling Bromwyn as they sparkled in all colors and none, pulsing with the magic that was the reality between all worlds. And then the clearing shook with a thunderous BOOM!

  Bromwyn couldn’t help but smile when Rusty wrapped his arms around her as if to shield her from the sound. He was such a boy.

  And if she snuggled into his arms as the booming echoed around them, well, what of it?

  After all was silent, Bromwyn gently pulled away and turned to face the World Door—or, more accurately, where the Door had been. Closed once again, all that was left were the large stones forming a circle on the Hill, their flat surfaces catching the rays of the morning sun, suggesting the faintest hint of starlight twinkling.

  Holding the Key by its oval base, Bromwyn approached the stones. Slowly, walking widdershins, she bent down and tapped the Key against each stone, dead center, exactly once. After each tap, the stone’s light winked out, and at the end, Bromwyn was standing outside a ring of ordinary flat stones that once a year became an extraordinary gateway.

  “That’s it?” Rusty called out. “It’s locked now?”

  “Yes.” With one last look at the Hill, Bromwyn walked back to Rusty, who was now standing at the far end of the glade. His foppish hat was once again perched atop his head, the brim down at a rakish angle. Bromwyn thought he looked wonderful. She said, “Grandmother used to complain about locking the Door.”

  “Why? Did she hate to see the fairies leave?”

  “The bending was murder on her back.”

  Rusty grinned. “No wonder she’s always in such a foul mood.”

  “No,” Bromwyn said, slipping the Key into her pocket, “that is just her temperament.”

  “You shouldn’t keep that in your pocket. It could fall out.”

  “Or get stolen,” she said dryly.

  “Oh, no worries about that. If there’s one person’s pockets I avoid, it’s yours.”

  “I always suspected that you were smart.” A huge yawn cracked her jaw.

  “Don’t do that,” Rusty scolded, yawning in return. “Damn me, I could sleep for a week.”

  She smiled tiredly. “Saving the village is exhausting work.”

  “You’re right. Let’s not do it again.” Rusty offered his hand to her. “Come on, let’s head back. Maybe there’s time for a nap before everything returns to normal.”

  Normal. The word didn’t seem a good fit for her life any longer. She had so many questions that flitted in her mind, half-formed and ticklish like will o’ the wisps. The King and Queen had said unsettling things, disturbing things that made Bromwyn’s skin turn cold just thinking about them.

  Fey magic courses through your veins.

  The fey lied, but they also told the truth. The problem was determining which was which.

  And then there was the small matter of being in love with a boy who was decidedly not the man to whom she was promised to marry in a few months’ time.

  The only saving grace was that she was too tired to think properly, let alone fret. At the moment, the only concern she had was getting home before she fell asleep standing up.

  So she entwined her fingers around Rusty’s, and the two of them slowly made their way back to the village.

  TO FAIL A TEST

  Bromwyn slept fitfully. Dreams plagued her, causing her to twitch and mutter, and when she awoke a bare few hours after she had returned home, she felt as if she’d been run down by one of Master Tiller’s oxen. Her head throbbed mercilessly, and it was much too heavy for her neck. With a groan, she swung her legs off of her straw-filled mattress, fighting the blankets that had tangled around her limbs. When she pulled herself to her feet, the room began to sway.

  If there was no rest for the wicked, as she’d heard it said, then those of good intent fared little better.

  She didn’t understand why she felt as if she were still wrestling with her sheets until she looked down, and nearly lost her balance from the effort. Fire and Air, her head really was too heavy! As she steadied herself, she realized that she was still wearing her mother’s blue dress, and she vaguely recalled being too exhausted to strip out of it. The garment was rumpled, possibly even ruined, and the girdle that had done such interesting (and rather embarrassing) things to her bosom had loosened and now was slung around her hips. When she raised her hand to brush away a snarl of hair, it felt as if a wet cat had taken up residence atop her head, and she moaned as she recalled all of the pins and combs and nameless things that had been glued into her thick tresses.

  At least she’d had enough sense to kick off her shoes before she’d fallen into her bed.

  Eyes stinging, head pounding, she pushed aside the curtain that separated her room from the main part of the dwelling. Her mother had not yet set up shop for the day—no fine cloth covered the large table in the center of the floor, and no candles had yet been lit. Indeed, Jessamin’s cards were nowhere in sight.

  Bromwyn could not recall the last time her mother did not have the shop that was their home ready for a customer’s visit.

  Jessamin stood by the fire pit in the corner, filling a teapot with water from the cauldron. She glanced over at Bromwyn as the curtain settled back into place, and she smiled fondly at her daughter.

  “Good morning!” she said brightly. “Yes, it is still morning, albeit barely. Today I would have let you sleep until tonight. You deserve to sleep in, after your activities overnight. Why are you up so soon? You have barely been abed for four hours!”

  Bromwyn opened her mouth to reply, but her mother continued:

  “Poor girl. Last night’s finery is this morning’s misery. Let me help you get untangled. Just as well, for the tea needs time to steep. There are three things that simply cannot be rushed: childbirth, cooking, and steeping tea.”

  Bromwyn could barely keep up with her mother’s words. She blinked sleepily and said, “What—?”

  But Jessamin had already set the teapot onto the table and hurried over to her daughter, clucking over the state of her dress. “The girdle may be saved, but the gown is fit only for burning. The shoes—please tell me you brought back the shoes? Yes? Good—clearly, the shoes left their marks on your feet, if there are indeed feet somewhere beneath all the dirt. By Nature’s grace, Daughter, how do you get yourself so filthy? Is it some innate talent of yours, or do you practice at it? And your hair—well. Let us start with that, shall we?”

  It took the better part of an hour for her mother to loosen the thick tresses of hair from thei
r prison. Then she helped her daughter free herself from her clothing and filled the large tub for her to bathe, being sure to include herbs to soften the skin and perfume the air. When Bromwyn protested that she would simply get dirty again when she helped the villagers clean up after the destructive Midsummer night, Jessamin threatened to scrub her like a baby.

  So Bromwyn bathed. And she pondered.

  When the water cooled, she stepped out of the tub and dried herself, first her body, which was quick, and then her hair, which was not. Soon she was dressed and once again in the large room. Her mother offered her a cup of tea, which she gratefully accepted. It tasted like wildflowers and sugar, and for a moment, she remembered the overwhelming scent of honeysuckle after a spring rain.

  Do you think, the Queen had asked idly, that she will follow in her mother’s footsteps?

  Bromwyn sipped her tea and looked at her mother, who sat across from her. Fine lines had been etched upon Jessamin’s brow, and deeper ones crinkled at the corners of her eyes. Her black hair, pulled into its numerous braids that didn’t quite reached her shoulders, was peppered with white.

  It had begun to turn two years ago, right after Bromwyn had used her magic in anger.

  Shadows bruised the skin beneath Jessamin’s eyes, and though she was smiling, Bromwyn saw that her smile was just a pantomime of happiness. Beneath it, her pain was all too clear. The years without her magic and her love had left their mark upon her.

  “I am afraid I have lost your books,” Bromwyn said sheepishly. “As everything happened last night, I accidentally left them in the Allenswood. By dawn, they were gone. I am truly sorry.”

  Jessamin waved off the apology. “Pish-tosh. I do not care to think of the fey, so their absence does me a favor. So, you have passed your test.” She smiled proudly, though there was a touch of sadness at the corners. “I knew you would pass. You are a better witch than I ever was.”

  Embarrassed, Bromwyn murmured, “Thank you.”

  “Well.” Jessamin clapped her hands once. “You must speak with your grandmother as soon as your tea is finished. She will tell you what is to happen next with your studies.”