APPRENTICED NO MORE
Bromwyn found her grandmother outside of her cottage, deadheading the lilacs.
Niove, wearing a wide-pocketed apron over her black dress, snipped the old blooms quickly, using her shears with a barber’s precision. The discarded petals fell on the grass and streaked the vibrant green with shades of purple. When Bromwyn was younger, she hadn’t understood why lilacs needed to be pruned; to her, it had seemed as if her grandmother was maliciously killing the flowers. It was only once she had become Niove’s apprentice that she learned about gardening in general and pruning in particular. Cutting away dead things helped make live things grow. When Bromwyn had asked if that meant one day, her mother’s hair would grow long again and she’d find her magic, Niove had replied, “No amount of tending will help that particular garden. Dead is dead.”
And of course, her grandmother would know all about that.
Now, in her garden, Niove spoke idly to the flowers that she snipped. “Some children are taught not to speak unless spoken to. I think that is a ridiculous custom, although one can learn to appreciate the quiet. Do not just stand there, girl. Make your manners.”
Bromwyn rubbed her ear as if her grandmother had just clouted it. “Grandmother, I—”
“And that is what you call ‘manners,’ I suppose.” Niove sighed. “Then again, I should expect no less from one who greets the fey rulers while barefoot.”
“Good afternoon, Grandmother,” Bromwyn said loudly, fixing a smile on her face.
“And now she thinks I am deaf. Wheel and want.” Niove shook her head and finally glanced at her granddaughter. “I expected you sooner.”
“Mother insisted that I bathe.”
“And you actually listened?”
“She threatened to scrub me herself.”
“Heh.” Niove turned back to the flowers. “So you passed your test. Congratulations.”
Bromwyn shifted her feet. “You do not sound pleased.”
“Oh, I am quite pleased. It shows that you were not a complete waste of my time. Though based on you forgetting more than you remembered last night, it also shows that your head is not as big as you think it is.” She slid Bromwyn a glance. “How many called you ‘Wise One’ today? And how many did you correct?”
Bromwyn blushed.
“I thought as much. It is fine for the villagers to think you are above your station and act accordingly. But do not forget where you truly stand.”
“And where is that, Grandmother?”
“In my garden, at the moment.”
Bromwyn bit her lip. “What I meant to say was, what happens now? Am I still your apprentice, now that I am a full witch of the Way of Sight?”
Her grandmother cut off another bloom. “You are no such thing.”
Bromwyn’s mouth worked silently.
“Close your mouth, girl.” Niove put her shears into her apron pocket, and then she turned to face her granddaughter. “Tell me this: What was your test?”
“I helped the Guardian—”
“Do not be daft. I did not ask what you did. Tell me exactly how you were tested.”
“I … I do not know,” she said meekly.
Niove let out a long-suffering sigh. “At least you admit when you do not have an answer. You broke your curse.”
At first, Bromwyn didn’t know what that had to do with her test—and then she understood. “Breaking the curse was my test!”
“I just said that. What did you offer the fey before you finally realized why you were offering it in the first place?”
“Myself,” she said, frowning as she remembered what had happened in the shadow of the World Door. “I begged them to take me instead of Rusty.”
“The boy failed the challenge? And here I thought he actually had a brain somewhere beneath that ridiculous hat of his. Well. You offered yourself to the tender mercies of the fey. Yes, that would indeed be self-sacrifice. Well done.” Niove smiled, then—a proud smile that Bromwyn had rarely seen.
“Thank you,” Bromwyn murmured, pleased and embarrassed and not quite knowing how to react.
“So you are the Guardian now, eh? The Queen must have pitched a fit. That one does not care for it when those she has her eye on manage to slip away.”
“She was quite angry,” Bromwyn said, allowing herself a smile. Then she remembered the King’s final words to her, and her smile fell away from her face. “The King as well. He has promised to challenge me next year.”
Niove waved her dismissal. “That one is more than full of himself. He challenged me more times than I can count, for all the good that did him.”
Bromwyn remembered the hunger in the King’s eyes, and his promise that next Midsummer, her life would be his. She swallowed, and she told herself to stop being a fool. To bolster her courage, she said, “He told me his name, Grandmother.”
“Did he? You must have made quite the impression. Very good, Bromwyn.”
She grinned.
“Did the lady Queen share her name as well?”
The grin faltered. “No.”
“Well, there you go: You have a goal for next Midsummer. The Key is safe, I take it?”
She took the iron key out of her pocket and showed it to her grandmother.
“Nature’s grace, girl—do not carry the thing with you all the time!” Niove sniffed. “I hear there are thieves in the village.”
Bromwyn sighed. “Indeed.”
“So what did they tell you? Do not look so surprised; those two always prod and poke, telling half-truths mixed with lies, just to get a reaction. What did they say to you?”
“They made horrible insinuations about Mother, even going so far as to say I had fey blood in my veins.” Bromwyn laughed uneasily. “I should not have given the lie any thought at all, but I admit, they made me doubt.”
“Oh, that was no lie.”
Bromwyn’s eyes nearly popped out of her skull.
“An exaggeration, maybe. But no lie.” Niove mumbled words from her Way, and the ground answered her with a rumble. A tree stump erupted, blackened and shedding soil, and she slowly eased herself onto it. “Ah, much better. Has your mother told you the truth of it about your father?”
“Just … just this morning,” Bromwyn stammered.
“Oren Moon was a fool and a dreamer,” Niove said, “but his heart was good, and that matters more than the first two things combined. When he vanished, I thought that might be the death of your mother.” She rolled her eyes. “That girl was as heartblind as they come. Her Way’s fault, I suppose. Me, I do not have any patience for the Way of the Heart. Emotions are messy, even when magic does not come into play. She begged me to bring him back from the dead when everyone thought he had drowned.”
“Would you have?” Bromwyn asked softly. “Had he been dead, I mean. Would you have returned him to her?”
Niove eyed her. “Dead is dead, and not meant to breathe among the living. But he was not dead. He had been lured into a waygate in the river, and he was taken to the fey lands.”
“Mother told me.”
“Indeed? Did she also tell you what happens to mortals when they walk beneath the cold sun of the fey lands?”
Bromwyn’s brow crinkled. “No.”
“They become fey themselves. It is a slow process, and a painful one. By the time your father returned through the World Door, fey magic had burrowed into his blood. His time there changed him.” Niove grimaced. “Mortals are not meant to walk the immortal lands.”
“Then—” Bromwyn’s voice cracked. “Then they told me the truth. I am fey.”
Her grandmother snorted. “You are as human as I am, girl. But the magic that flows within you, that is a little stronger than that of most other witches. A little wilder. It lets you walk paths that others could not, not without burning out.”
Bromwyn thought of what she had done with Master Tiller’s fields, thought of how she had accidentally spelled her mother years ago and caused Jessamin to age. “So … do
es that mean I am not a witch of the Way of Sight?”
“Every witch is more than just her specific Way.”
“But you are a witch of the Way of Death.”
“I am also the Wise One of Loren, and the mother of Jessamin Moon, and your grandmother, and so much more.” Niove chuckled. “Granted, most people hear the part about ‘death,’ and that is as much as they are willing to hear. Perhaps you thought you were bound to the Way of Sight, and if I gave you that impression, well, that was to help keep you from experimenting with magic too strong for you to handle.” Niove arched an eyebrow. “Which, of course, did not stop you from doing exactly that. Spelling your clothing to keep cool in the summer and warm in the winter? Have you never heard of dressing appropriately for the weather?”
Bromwyn’s cheeks burned, and she bit her lip.
“You are a witch, and suffice it to say that you are no longer an apprentice. There will be time enough for you to declare your Way of Witchcraft; that time is not now. Do not fence yourself in, not when you are first about to explore.”
“I do not want to be fenced,” Bromwyn said, seeing her chance. She steeled herself, and she said, “Grandmother, I do not want to marry Brend Underhill.”
“This again?” Niove rolled her eyes. “I have heard this tale before. Tell the bard to sing another.”
“Please, Grandmother—I do not love him.”
“Yes, I know, you love your friend who thinks himself a thief; otherwise, the curse would not have broken. What of it?”
“Mother has agreed to call off my engagement, as long as you give your consent.”
“The blacksmith boy is a better match for you than your thief.”
Bromwyn’s chest tightened. “Grandmother … ”
“Granted, the blacksmith does not have much sense to him, but who needs sense to swing a hammer? Not that the thief is any better. He should know that sticky fingers can be easily chopped off.”
Bromwyn felt her freedom slipping away. She whispered, “Please.”
“Humph. You and your mother both, so easily swayed by love.” Niove stood, and the tree stump sank back into the ground, which filled in until there was no hint of where the stump had been. “And look how well that turned out for her.”
Bromwyn blurted, “Please! Do not force me to marry the wrong man!”
“Who is forcing you to do anything? Is there some knife at your throat that I cannot see?”
“I am bound by Mother’s promise to the Underhills,” Bromwyn cried. “As you well know!”
“Are you? Why do you not simply run off with that thief boy you claim to love?”
Bromwyn blinked. “Why … because I am to be the Wise One of Loren. I cannot simply run away.”
“So you do understand responsibility. For a moment, I was not so sure.” Her grandmother glanced up at the sky. “The rains are coming. Just as well. The land could use a scrubbing after Midsummer.”
“Grandmother … ”
Niove adjusted her black shawl. “So. Your test is done. You are an apprentice no longer. Now you are a journeywoman, ready to travel different paths until you find the one that will lead you to becoming a master of a Way of Witchcraft.”
Bromwyn clenched her teeth. “But what of the engagement? You would leave me trapped in a marriage I do not want?”
“Listen to the girl, saying she is trapped.” Niove shook her head. “Your problem, Bromwyn, is that you are seeking to escape, when all you need to do is walk out. You of all people should have learned that particular lesson very well,” she said dryly.
“But … ”
“Who has been insisting that you are trapped?”
Flustered, Bromwyn replied, “I have been promised—”
“I am not speaking of promises made in your name,” Niove said tersely. “Answer my question, girl: Who says that you are trapped?”
Bromwyn paused. “I do.”
“Then do not be trapped. It is as simple as that.”
Do not be trapped.
She remembered that Midsummer night from long ago, when a pixie had told her how to leave the cottage. She remembered her hand over the doorknob, remembered saying out loud that she was not trying to escape, which would have tripped her grandmother’s spell—she was simply walking out. And so she had. After all of her sulking and screaming and seeking escape, it had come down to declaring her intention, and then doing what she said she would do.
She had decided, and then she had acted upon that decision.
Thoughts whirling, Bromwyn thought back to all of the times she had argued with her mother over the past year. She had constantly told Jessamin that she did not want to marry Brend, that she did not want to be in a loveless marriage, that she did not want her mother to make this decision for her. She had complained and moped and fretted and cried, but she had gone along with her mother’s promise.
Not once had she said she would not marry Brend.
Not once had she actually refused.
“Bromwyn,” her grandmother said idly, “I believe you have something to say to me. I would very much like to hear it before the rain begins.”
Bromwyn lifted her chin. “Grandmother,” she said firmly, “I will not marry Brend Underhill.”
“Finally! Wheel and want, girl, it took you long enough. Whatever else happens, you must always be responsible for yourself. Consider that your first lesson as a journeywoman.”
Bromwyn’s heart raced, and her breath caught in her throat. “Then … you agree? You give your consent for Mother to end the engagement?”
“Yes.”
Grinning like a fool, Bromwyn bowed her head. “Thank you, Grandmother!”
“And look: The girl has found her manners. Wonders never cease.” Niove laughed softly, the sound like autumn leaves scraping underfoot. “I expect you back here tomorrow to begin your work as a journeywoman.”
Still grinning, Bromwyn said, “Yes, Grandmother.”
“And come early. No more sleeping in for you when there is work to be done.”
“Yes, Grandmother.”
“The rest of today is yours. Take it, and do with it what you will.”
“Thank you, Grandmother!”
Niove Whitehair placed her hands on either side of Bromwyn’s head, and then she gently kissed her brow. “Go back to your thief,” she said. “You should run; the stories say that witches melt in the rain.”
THE LORD THIEF
By the time Bromwyn returned to the village, the rain had begun, a shower with aspirations of a summer storm. The villagers were undaunted by the weather; some had put up their hoods, but most simply allowed themselves to get wet as they continued their work of cleaning up after the fey rampage. The rain grew stronger as she crossed through the Village Circle, and the ground, still half-mud from the night before, attempted to grab her bare feet as she walked. The first peal of thunder sounded as she reached the bakery.
A small crowd had gathered outside the shop, perhaps lured there by the mouth-watering scent of freshly made cookies. Mistress Baker stood framed by the ruins of the doorway, and she held a large basket that overflowed with rolls and loaves and pastries. People shouted their choices, and the baker confirmed whether she had a particular item in her basket. One at a time, each customer put coins into the baker’s free hand; the baker examined the coins, put them into a large pocket in her apron, and gave the customer the food just bought.
Bromwyn waited off to the side. Once the customers had all had their turns, a child with a dirty face and large hopeful eyes stepped up to the baker and piped, “Mistress Baker? I haven’t got any money, but the cookies smell really good and I’m awful hungry.” As if he had practiced it, his belly let out a large gurgle.
The baker sighed. She fished inside the basket and pulled out an oversized cookie. “My cookies are good indeed,” she declared. “Best in Loren, and that’s no joke. They’re also the only bakery cookies in Loren, and for that, I’m grateful. Here. And if you tell any of your mu
drat friends that I give out free cookies, I’ll deny it loudly. Don’t make a liar out of me.”
The child squealed with glee, stuffed the entire treat into his mouth, and ran.
“And not even a ‘thank you,’” the baker muttered. Then she saw Bromwyn, and she paled. “Lady Witch,” she said breathlessly. She bowed her head and stammered, “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I meant to say, Wise One.”
“Hello, Mistress Baker,” Bromwyn said kindly. “I am still just Lady Witch. Or, if you please, Bromwyn.”
“I wouldn’t dream of being so familiar! I’m just the baker, and you’re … ” She floundered. “You’re the one that stopped murder from happening in the Circle!”
“Your son played just as important a role as I.”
“My son,” the baker said, and color returned to her cheeks as she smiled broadly. “So proud of him! Standing up to the mob last night—did you see him? Of course you did,” she said, smacking her head, “you were right there! That was my boy, not afraid to speak his mind!”
Bromwyn grinned. No, Rusty had never been afraid to speak his mind.
“Before last night,” Mistress Baker admitted, “I feared he’d never grow up. Hiding when there’s work to be done. Dreaming about faraway places instead of being in the here and now. He’s a bit of a scamp, that one. But then he went and did what he did. I’m proud of him, and that’s no lie. My boy’s on his way to becoming a man.”
“He was very brave,” Bromwyn said. “And not just in the Circle. Last night, he held his own with the fey King and Queen.”
The baker pressed a hand to her ample chest. “My boy? He did that?”
“He did.”
“Oh,” the baker said, dazed. She smiled and blushed and smiled again. Then she frowned. “But look at you, getting soaked. Come inside this very minute. Careful of your step, though—the floor’s still a fright, and the counter’s been destroyed. Damned fairies. A menace, they are. Not the King and Queen, I’m sure, but the smaller ones, common fairies, I suppose you’d call them: nothing but trouble. They all but ruined our store, and they didn’t even eat what we left for them on the stoop. Ingrates!”
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