To Bear an Iron Key (10 page)

This was the heart of the Allenswood, home to one of the World Doors, and it was here that Bromwyn, called Darkeyes, felt most at home.

“Creepy,” Rusty muttered, as if he were afraid to disrespect the trees.

Bromwyn slid him a look. “If you wish to be a thief, Sir Baker, you should make your peace with the forest.” Ignoring his glower, she smiled as she said, “From all the stories, this is where bandits and other lawless fellows make their headquarters.”

“I’m more of a rooftop thief.”

“And what will you do in towns and villages with thatched roofs?”

“Pass through until I settle in a city with sensible buildings of stone and wood.”

“A thief, uneasy in the woods,” she said, shaking her head.

“A witch,” he sighed, “uneasy with shoes.”

“If you worked with Nature, you would not think it odd.”

“And if you looked at the state of your feet, you would understand why non-witchy types prefer boots. How far are we going, anyway?”

“A little farther. The clearing is up ahead.”

Soon they came to a break in the woods. The glade stretched in an irregular grassy circle, large enough to hold the entirety of Loren’s Village Circle and then some. Shrubs and moss dotted the clearing, along with the occasional sapling. The open ground drank the fading sunlight greedily, the greenery shining like emeralds and the grass beneath Bromwyn’s feet pleasantly warm after the chill of the forest proper. At the center of the glade stood the Hill with its circle of flat stones.

“We are here,” Bromwyn said, gratefully dropping her pack to the ground. “Based on the sun, I would say we have twenty minutes to make ready.”

“Plenty of time.” Rusty was already unearthing the contents of his sack: a large checkered blanket, bundles of pastries and breads, assorted cheeses, a mixture of nuts and berries, a bottle of apple wine, clay plates for serving, and four copper goblets. He and Bromwyn set out the platters in a pleasing manner (at least, pleasing to Bromwyn’s critical eye), and then she murmured a small spell from the Way of Sight that changed the appearance of the plain clay and copper to a delicate silver that she considered more appropriate for fey royalty. The fey would see through the illusion, of course, but she thought they might appreciate the effort. At least, they would be amused by it. That done, she slapped Rusty’s hand away from the cheese.

They had perhaps ten minutes to go.

Bromwyn rustled through her pack. “We should review the lore one more time. First, your name will be presented as a matter of course, but neither the King nor Queen will give theirs; they would share something that important only with those they consider their equals. Keep in mind that the fey are not divided by their temperament or by the seasons, as the stories say, and that they all bow to the King and Queen, whose power is without peer. Here, this scholar discusses the various revelries and processions.” She flipped through one of the books. “We should reread what he says about Midsummer specifically … ”

“I don’t know,” Rusty said. “I think that reviewing everything again right now would just make me more nervous than I already am.”

“ … actually, no, this is foolish. Wearing one’s shirt inside-out will do nothing to offer protection, and if we were to carry any iron tools or wards, they would be gravely offended, and what good would that do?” She tossed aside the book and pulled out another.

“Winnie.”

“Here, this one is better.” She skimmed, and she spoke as her fingers skipped over the pages. “We do not have enough time to make any charms to help protect us from the fey—the least of those sorts of talismans would take a month to create—but we still should know enough to be polite, and that really is what it comes down to, being polite and not letting them trick us into any agreements—”

“Winnie.”

“—because fey bargains are tricky things, and they rarely work out to anyone’s advantage other than the fey’s.” She looked up from the book to met Rusty’s gaze. “And even if they seem friendly, they are quick to take offense for the smallest of slights, and their temper is something to be feared. They have been known to go to war for the most trivial of reasons.”

“Winnie,”
he said yet again, but she was not to be stopped; no less than Rusty’s life was at stake, not to mention the entire village’s existence. And so, Bromwyn continued reviewing the pertinent points.

“Accept nothing from them,” she insisted, “no food or drink or treasure, for their gold is charmed and their sustenance will trap you in their land, but neither can you bluntly refuse anything. You must always offer something in return so that no slight is taken. Never offer or accept a fey kiss, lest you be marked for their land, and nothing in this world would keep you healthy and happy until you walked with them through the World Door, and then you would be lost. Never—”

“Never allow a witch to review procedure before a ritual,” Rusty said loudly, “lest you be bored to death before the festivities begin.”

Bromwyn’s mouth hung open for a long moment before she snapped it shut. She distinctly felt the blood pounding in her head as she forced herself to count silently to ten before she responded. The last thing she needed was to have her curse come crashing down upon her; with her luck, it would entail the fey challenging them for the right to walk the world every night for a year.

“Merciful silence.” Rusty smiled. “See, this is how it should be.”

“Do not tell me how things should be,” she said through clenched teeth. “You are this close to having me do something I am certain to regret.”

He chuckled softly. “Ah, Winnie. Such sweet things you say. Brend will be swept off his huge feet.”

“This close, I tell you.”

“Will you threaten him on your wedding night? Will you scare him so much, he won’t come out of the privy?”

“I should turn you into a toad.”

“Again with the toad threat. Doesn’t it get old? What about turning me into a something else, like a salamander?”

“A toad,” she said. “A fat, warty toad. See if your beloved Jalsa will ever kiss those lips when they are covered in warts.”

Rusty cocked his head as he seemed to think about it. “If she thought I’d turn into a prince, she probably would.”

The two of them stared at each other, and then they both burst out laughing. Bromwyn laughed until her cheeks hurt, and then she laughed even more. The image of the buxom serving girl bent over to kiss a toad was the perfect thing to soothe Bromwyn’s frayed nerves. So what that the fey would soon arrive, and that they might bring about the destruction of Loren? So what that Bromwyn’s test was upon her, and she still didn’t know how she was supposed to pass? So what that she and Rusty were in very real danger of losing their lives—or worse—to the fey? Jalsa kissed the toad-prince, and Bromwyn laughed until her sides ached.

Eventually, laughter gave way to hiccoughing giggles, and then the two friends sat down on the blanket. Smoothing her skirt, Bromwyn wondered if Brend would ever make her laugh the way that Rusty did.

It didn’t matter, though. She was promised to the smith’s apprentice, and she would marry him.

Bromwyn’s eyes stung. She, like her mother, would lead a loveless life. And Rusty, like his father, would simply be a baker, no matter where his heart longed to go. Children didn’t have the option of choosing their life’s work—at least, not in Loren. Perhaps in other villages, in other lands, they did. But here, their destinies were laid out for them in the forms of their fathers and mothers.

“Copper for your thoughts, Winnie.”

She forced herself to smile. “I was thinking that I wish we could change things.”

“Ah, don’t you fret,” Rusty said, patting her hand. “We’ll be fine. This is but the first of our many adventures.”

This time, the smile wasn’t forced at all. “Really?”

“Sure. Why, soon enough the whole world will spin the tales of Lord Thief and Lady Witch.” Grinning, he launched into the story of their next heroic saga: After conquering the fairies, they would run away and steal a ship, then make their way to the castle of the merfolk and go on to become fabled pirates.

Bromwyn listened, and laughed, and applauded when his tale was done. As much as she wished they could just run away, Bromwyn knew she was as bound to Loren as Rusty was. No matter how much they wanted it, they could not change their place in the scheme of things. So though she smiled, her heart was as heavy as the immobile stones that marked the World Door—stones that had begun to shimmer in the fading light.

The fey were coming.

THE WORLD DOOR OPENS

Bromwyn let out a shaky breath. On the Hill, the large, flat stones of the fey ring seemed to wink as they reflected the golds and reds of the setting sun.

“We have a few minutes more,” she said. “Do you know what to do?”

Rusty grinned, but clearly it was to hide a scream. He was sweating through his collar, and there was a nervous sheen to his eyes. “Besides pray that we won’t get killed too badly, you mean?”

She smiled in an attempt to calm his nerves. It didn’t help that she was sitting on her hands to keep from wringing them. “Besides that.”

“The three double-yous, right? Words of welcome, words of warning, words of wisdom.”

“Right,” she said, nodding. “And then?”

“The fourth double-you. The wine.”

“Yes. And?”

“Er.” His brow furrowed, and he removed his hat to rake his fingers through his unruly red hair. “‘And?’ There’s an ‘and?’”

Of course he’d miss the most important bit. Sometimes, Rusty could be such a
boy
. “You need to present them with the Key.”

He rolled his eyes, and then he jammed his hat back onto his head. “Well, of course. That’s part of the welcome, isn’t it?”

“It is separate from the welcome,” she said patiently. Or as patiently as she could, when what she wanted to do was smack the side of his head. “You need to show them the proof of office.”

“What proof of office?”

“The
Key
, Rusty! You are the Key Bearer, so you need to show them the Key!”

Rusty blinked. “That’s a stupid way of calling it. ‘Proof of office.’ It’s proof of no such thing.”

“It is proof that your so-called luck has finally turned southerly,” Bromwyn said, and when Rusty rolled his eyes at her again, she added, “It is proof that perhaps you should consider another profession for when you finally grow up!”

She didn’t realize that she was shouting until she heard her own voice echoing through the clearing.

“Much obliged, Mistress Smith,” Rusty said dryly. “Pray tell, did you give out such advice when you were merely Lady Witch, she of the filthy feet and overbearing manner?”

She glared at him, and never mind how she peripherally saw that the flat stones of the Hill now seemed to glow. “If I did not care about you so much, I would cast a spell to make you bald!”

“So? My hat would still cover my head.”

“And instead of ‘Rusty,’ you would be ‘Baldy.’ Or … something even worse!”

“So you care about me, eh?”

Bromwyn stared at him, her mouth agape, before she regained her composure. “Of course I do,” she said. “You are my friend.” A true friend. And, truth be told, her only friend.

“Aw.” He grinned at her, showing far too many teeth. “I think you like me!”

“And I think you are an idiot.” She sniffed. “You need my help, so I am helping.”

“Lady Witch is too kind.”

“As you say.” She took a deep breath. “Come. It is time.”

His face paled, but he stretched his grin tighter upon his face. “All right. Let’s show these fairies there’s a new Key Bearer at the Door.”

He held out his hand to her, and she took it; his hand was damp, but his grip was strong. Her heart thumped hard enough that her chest ached—but as scared as she was for Rusty and for herself, she was also the teensiest bit excited. They would do this. Rusty would be the perfect Guardian, and she would pass her test. The fey would leave them no worse for wear, and Loren would be none the wiser. It was better than knowing the juiciest secret about the most proper village elders.

Fire and Air, Rusty’s wicked ways were rubbing off on her.

Grinning back at him, she said, “As you say, Lord Guardian.”

Together they stood and faced the Hill. The stones sparkled now, and stars twinkled over them in a line, shaping the impression of a door. Or, in this case, a Door: a path between realities.

Pulling her hand from Rusty’s and keeping her gaze on the brightening portal, she said, “Do you have the Key?”

“Yes.”

“And you know what to say?”

There was a pained sigh, and he said, “Yes.”

“And you know what to do?”

“
Yes.
Damn me, Winnie, you’re not starting this again, are you?”

“Sorry.”

As the Door became more solid, she prayed to Nature that she would do her mother and grandmother proud. Or, she amended, at least not get killed. To face her grandmother after Niove resurrected her would literally be a fate worse than death. And Bromwyn would never hear the end of it.

Rusty whispered, “Winnie?”