To Bear an Iron Key (23 page)

“In that, my lady, you are incorrect.” Bromwyn smiled, and it felt sweet on her face. “I have something in my possession that is more than equal to the value of one human’s soul. In fact,” she added slowly, “it is so much greater that I would be a fool to accept only the lord Guardian, safe and sound.”

“She is mad,” the Queen said. “Driven to the point of insanity over losing her love and earning her grandmother’s ire. Oh,” she purred, “the Whitehair will destroy you, witch girl. Come, my husband. Let us go.”

“My wife, hold.” The King gazed at Bromwyn as if trying to seek out the truth behind her smile. “I admit, I am most curious. I would know what she believes to be of equal value to a human soul.”

“Of
greater
value, my lord.” Bromwyn inclined her head. “Even an unworldly girl such as myself recognizes the importance of such a prize.”

“How much greater?” asked the King, and Bromwyn heard the hunger in his voice.

Her fingers wrapped around the Key. “Significantly.”

“She lies,” the Queen said impatiently. “Do you not see that? The sun rises. We must go.”

The King stared long and hard at Bromwyn before he finally spoke. “I propose this: Should you be correct, witchling, I will not only relinquish our claim to the boy but also to your land. We would allow you to lock the World Door, and we would not return for a year’s time. But,” he said, “if you are wrong, and your gift is of lesser value, then the Door remains unlocked for the year, the boy remains with us, and your life will be mine. No feeble claim of protection by your village’s laws would save you, just as your friend was not saved. If you are wrong, you will lose everything.”

There was a pause, filled only by the Allenswood slowly waking in the coming dawn.

“Unlike my lady wife, I myself have little use for pages. But I do so enjoy blood that is spiced with magic.” The King stared at Bromwyn, his gaze as biting as winter frost. “What say you, witchling? Do you still boast to hold something worth all of that?”

Her heart thumping madly, her breath ragged, Bromwyn said, “I do.”

“Then are we agreed?”

“Yes, my lord. Agreed.”

He smiled triumphantly, and once again Bromwyn smelled springtime rain. But instead of a heady, overwhelming scent, she found it merely pleasant, like a favorite memory.

The King asked, “What do you have in your possession that you insist is of greater value than this boy’s soul?”

With a small smile of her own, Bromwyn pulled out the Key from her pocket. “My gift to you is the Key to the World Door.”

There was silence in the glade as the stars twinkled over the stones of the Hill and the Door edged that much closer to shutting.

Bromwyn’s heartbeat galloped, and her head felt oddly light. Giddy, she watched the King’s face slowly darken, and the whiff of spring rain transformed into the stink of a sudden storm. Bromwyn felt as if she were drowning—or, perhaps, that she was the one holding the King’s head beneath the water.

“You are not the Key Bearer,” he said coldly. “It is not yours to give.”

Bromwyn smiled even more. “It came into my possession just before we met you for the challenge, my lord. It was given to me freely by the lord Guardian.”

“She tells the truth,” the Queen spat. “I see it in her heart, as clearly as the diluted magic that rushes through her body. The boy gave her the Key.”

“And it is my offering to you, most noble of the fair folk. Is it not at least equal to the life of one human boy?” Bromwyn pressed on, encouraged by the looks of anger that passed between the fey sovereigns. “What is one boy’s soul, compared with the force that opens pathways of reality?”

“A most impressive gift,” the King said, voice flat.

“Quite,” the Queen agreed, murder shining in her eyes.

“But the Key is made of iron,” said the King.

“We cannot touch it.”

“Nor can we wield it with our magic.”

“It is completely useless to us.”

“A most vexing gift,” the King said, nostrils flaring.

Bromwyn dipped her head in the smallest of bows, acknowledging their points. “That is unfortunate, my lord, my lady. Be that as it may, is the Key of equal or greater value than one boy’s soul?”

The Queen hissed, “Impertinent girl!”

“She is,” the King said quietly. “Oh, indeed, she is. Well played, witchling.”

“Leave open the World Door,” snarled the Queen, “and we will release our claim on the boy!”

“No, my lady.” Bromwyn stood tall, felt the power of that simple word resonate through the clearing. “I have offered you a trade that is worth far more than the lord Guardian’s soul. I have met your demands. And now you will meet mine. Unless,” she added, “you wish to renege.”

The word hung in the air, festering like disease.

“You
dare
,” the Queen spat. “You think we would ever relinquish our power over the fate of one human boy?”

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.