To Bear an Iron Key (4 page)

Driven by equal parts fury and fear, Bromwyn had wrestled the wild magic and finally bested it, dispelling it into harmless wisps of smoke that soon evaporated. The mirror shattered, and Jessamin was restored to herself, unmarred … except for the tremor that possessed her hands even now, two years later.

Her mother had long since forgiven her. Though Jessamin herself was no longer a witch, she had told Bromwyn that she remembered the temptations of youth. “The only things that mix more poorly than magic and youth,” Jessamin Moon liked to say with a knowing smile, “are oil and water.” But since that fateful day, there were times when Bromwyn would catch her mother glancing at her with something close to fear in her eyes.

Bromwyn did not like to think about that; mothers should not fear their daughters.

But Niove Whitehair—whom Bromwyn was convinced had never been young, let alone known the temptations of youth—was not one to overlook such a terrible trespass. Casting magic in anger? And against her own mother? Unspeakable.
Unforgivable
.

To emphasize her point, she had cursed her granddaughter.

Over her sixteen years in the village of Loren, Bromwyn had heard the residents speak in hushed tones about gypsy curses, how they were the worst things that could ever be set upon a person; that was why, she was sure, the villagers always welcomed the traveling folk whenever they visited to entertain and peddle their wares. But she knew that the gypsies had learned the art of the curse from witches.

Now, as Jessamin put the final touches on the hem of her daughter’s wedding gown, Bromwyn recited the words of the curse to herself, once again looking for a way to unravel its power and rid herself of it once and for all.

When anger rages within your heart

And you speak words in haste

Those very words will prompt events

That will serve to give you a taste

Of resentment and bitterness and icy fear

Until you are ready to mend

The rift of rage with self-sacrifice:

Love brings this curse to its end.

Love. Fire and Air, how was she supposed to find love when she was forced to marry against her will?

But that, too, was her fault. She was certain that she had brought about her own upcoming marriage when she’d accidentally evoked the curse last year. Her temper had once again gotten the better of her, and once again with her mother. It had been over Bromwyn’s tendency to walk barefoot everywhere—which, as her mother had pointed out, was something only children did, and never mind the filth that seemed to be permanently etched onto Bromwyn’s feet. Jessamin had gone on about it being “unbecoming for a witch” and so forth, and Bromwyn, exhausted from a grueling day of magical study with her grandmother, had shouted: “What would
you
know about being a witch?”

The very next day, Jessamin announced that Bromwyn was to marry Brend Underhill, Nick Ironside’s apprentice blacksmith, upon her seventeenth birthday.

Even now, as Bromwyn stood shrouded in her bridal gown, the thought of her impending wedding in a few months’ time sent tendrils of cold rage through her body. She did not fear the thought of marriage, nor did it make her bitter. But she had never resented anything more in her life.

“There now,” her mother said, pulling Bromwyn out of her dark thoughts. Jessamin sat back on her knees and looked critically at the white dress, which Bromwyn thought still fit her like a sack. “The length is right. Now if only you would be so kind as not to grow any taller until after your birthday, I would be most pleased.”

Bromwyn bit back her anger and said nothing.

Her mother sighed. “It is not as bad as all that. Marriage can be a wonderful thing.”

Bromwyn nearly choked on her tongue to keep from saying something she would dearly regret. What did her mother know of marriage? Jessamin’s husband had died when Bromwyn was just a baby. Jessamin and Oren Moon had only a bare handful of years together; no one in the village even recalled that Mistress Cartomancer had ever been married. That, too, seemed to help her reputation as an esteemed card reader, for some reason that Bromwyn couldn’t fathom.

“Brend is strong,” her mother continued, “and he will do what is right. He will keep you safe.”

“Safe from what?” Bromwyn blurted. “The ignorant people here who worship their invisible god?”

Jessamin frowned deeply. “Those ignorant people, as you call them, will be yours to care for, once your grandmother deems you worthy of the title ‘Wise One.’ Whether they are awed by your power or fear it, they are yours. Do not belittle them.”

Bromwyn simmered.

“And even among the sheep, there can be a wolf lurking,” her mother warned. “There are those even here who think that a witch is unnatural.”

Bromwyn sniffed her derision. “That is ridiculous.”

“It is also true. Those few small-minded villagers do not know any better, and they do not care to learn. They are to be pitied,” Jessamin said. “But even as you pity them, you must take precaution. For now, you are safe; not even the smallest-minded man or woman here in Loren would willingly harm a child, not when the penalty is the Village Justice’s axe. All they can do is look upon you with mistrust.”

In her bridal gown, Bromwyn squirmed. Since she had become her grandmother’s apprentice, she had felt such gazes upon her almost every day.

“But once you are seventeen and an adult, those same people might not think twice before they let you know just how unnatural they consider you to be. Witches can bleed like anyone else. You need protection. You need Brend’s strength.”

“Then let him be my consort,” Bromwyn said, exasperated, “with no restrictions, no oaths that will bind us together for the rest of our lives!”

“Bromwyn—”

“Or let me choose my own consort, one whom I love!”

Her mother’s face darkened. “You are to marry on your seventeenth birthday, and that is final.”

“Then if I must marry, let me at least love the one sworn to my side! Or have you forgotten what love means?” Bromwyn clamped her mouth shut, hoping that her hasty words would not be enough to stir her grandmother’s curse to life once again.

Jessamin whispered, “How dare you.”

Bromwyn opened her mouth, then closed it when she saw the fury in her mother’s eyes.

On her lap, Jessamin’s hands balled into fists, and she lowered her voice as her knuckles whitened. “Do you truly think I have forgotten love? Do you think I prefer to be without your father? Do you think my life has been better with him gone all these years?”

Bromwyn’s mouth went dry. “Mother, I—”

“Perhaps you have forgotten your father, Daughter, but I have not!” Jessamin’s shout echoed in the small room. “Do not presume to lecture me about love! It is no longer my Way, but I have not forgotten its touch!”

Bromwyn swallowed thickly. Her mother
never
spoke of her lost Way of the Heart.

Jessamin looked down at her hands, which shook more than usual. “You do not know how devastating love can be. When you love someone, you give up part of your soul.”

“Forgive me,” Bromwyn whispered, “I did not mean—”

“Of course you ‘did not mean,’” her mother spat, glaring at her daughter. “You never
mean
. You speak your mind before you think your words through. You stab with your tongue, and when you cause pain, you offer your apologies as you watch the blood flow. Well, I am done with this.”

Jessamin stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her woolen dress. She lifted her chin high, and the numerous thin braids of her short black hair brushed her shoulders. Tall as Bromwyn was for her age, Jessamin was taller, and she stared down her nose at her daughter. “You think that being in love with the one you marry would make any difference? Life is cruel, Daughter. And fate is crueler still.”

“I am sorry,” Bromwyn said, her voice small and full of sorrow.

Jessamin took a shaky breath. “I know. In time, I will forgive you. But not now. Not yet.”

Bromwyn bowed her head, forcing her tears to stay within her eyes. She would not cry. As much as she hated disappointing her grandmother, which seemed to be a daily occurrence, disappointing her mother was far worse. She loved her mother, and yet she lashed out at Jessamin more and more, for reasons she didn’t understand.

Why am I full of such rage?
Bromwyn swallowed, desperately trying to remain calm, impassive, in the way that was expected of witches.
Why do I hurt someone I love, and so easily?

Why am I so inhuman?

“I must prepare for my readings,” her mother said coldly. “And you must perform your studies.” She sniffed. “It is quite obvious that even with your grandmother’s curse upon you, you still do not master your emotions. And unless that happens, you will not pass your test.”

Bromwyn bit her lip. She didn’t know which caused her more distress: her upcoming marriage or her dreaded test of Witchcraft. Bromwyn had no idea what her test would actually be, let alone when it would occur; whatever the test was, it would happen sometime during her apprenticeship. Neither her mother nor her grandmother would speak of it, other than to tell her it would be soon, and that Bromwyn would have only one chance to pass. If she failed, she would have to cut her hair and lose her magic.

Like her mother.

“Go,” Jessamin said. “You may not have lessons with your grandmother today, but between your studies and your errands, you have much to fill your time. You will be stopping by the forge, yes?”

Not trusting her voice, Bromwyn nodded.

“Good. Do give Brend my regards.”

With that, Jessamin parted the curtain that separated Bromwyn’s bedroom from the front of the shop and walked out.

Bromwyn stared at the cascading fabric, which once again fell into place, dividing mother from daughter. With a heavy sigh, she began to shrug out of her wedding gown.

FAR FROM COMFORTABLE

The sun glared at Bromwyn as she strode down the main avenue of Loren. She felt the heat on her head and back, but she did not sweat. One of the first things Bromwyn had taught herself (quietly, of course; her grandmother was a firm believer in not experimenting with magic until you were old enough to undo the damage you would undoubtedly cause, so much of Bromwyn’s early years as a witch had been spent working the fun part of magic on the sly) was to spell her clothing to keep her body cool in the summer and warm in the winter. So she walked now, her thick black hair curling down to her knees, her dress heavy and proper, her feet bare, and though the sun did its best to have her bake in her garments, Bromwyn was untouched by the heat.

She knew such comfort was merely an illusion, for her Way was of Sight, and so she could not actually prevent herself from feeling the weather’s touch. Her comfort was a lie. Even so, she was happy to believe in that lie, if it meant not sweating through her dress.

Walking the Loren streets this summer morning, Bromwyn was not alone. But none of the passersby engaged her in conversation other than the barest whisper of a “Good morning.” She pretended, as always, that it did not sting. So she walked with her chin high and kept her mouth fixed in a smile. It was the polite thing to do, especially considering that one day she would be the Wise One of Loren. The villagers grudgingly had learned to accept her—and never mind that until she had become apprenticed at the age of ten to her grandmother, they had happily acknowledged her as the cartomancer’s daughter—but the people of Loren were far from comfortable with her. At least they didn’t outright fear her, as they did her grandmother.

Then again, everyone was afraid of Niove Whitehair.

Bromwyn walked, and around her, Loren thrived in the way that villages did. The sounds of daily life rang out: the bustle of people talking and walking, of pigs squealing, of dogs barking and carthorses clomping. She ignored them all, just as she ignored the ever-present mud and clutter and the stench of manure piles. Background noise; background smells. Bromwyn had too much on her mind to be bothered by such mundane things.

She crossed the great circle at Loren’s center, keeping her gaze straight ahead, as she always did, instead of glancing down the street that led a winding path to the large church. No matter how kind-hearted the village priest was—and indeed, he was a gentle soul who always had a good word for Bromwyn—she would never set foot inside that place of hollow worship, not even on her wedding day. Those who practiced magic and were connected to Nature made all vows outdoors. Even though Bromwyn did not want to marry Brend, she would take her oath of wedlock seriously, as she would for any promise made in her name. That meant she would wed beneath the stars with the moon bearing witness, no matter how much her betrothed might insist otherwise. And whether any god chose to listen to their wedding vows was no business of Bromwyn’s.

Wind blew around her, hot and restless, as if in anticipation of the afternoon’s Midsummer Festival.
Silly stuff,
Bromwyn thought, for true Midsummer was not until that night, at sunset. But those who did not work with magic tended to observe celebrations in the daylight.