To Bear an Iron Key (2 page)

But nothing had stopped the fey from coming to greet
her
.

She grinned with delight. A real pixie was right there, outside the cottage! Bromwyn ran to the window and pressed her face against it.

Separated by glass and magic, the two stared at each other. The tiny creature stroked the window as if she could touch Bromwyn’s cheek. The girl tried the window latch, but her hand was slapped away by her grandmother’s spell.

Rubbing her sore fingers, she cried, “Let me out!”

The pixie cocked her head. “Big ward,” she said, her voice clear even from the other side of the window. “Too big for Nala.”

Bromwyn uttered a very un-witchlike word.

“Let Nala in,” the pixie said. “The Whitehair is no fun. You would be fun, yes? We could play together. Let Nala in, witch girl. Let Nala in.”

“If you could get in,” Bromwyn said reasonably, “then I could get out. And I cannot get out.”

“The Whitehair forces you to stay?”

Frustrated, Bromwyn nodded.

“Why?”

“She says that I need boundaries, that I need
protection
.” She stamped her foot once again. “She thinks that I am still a baby!”

“A babe?” Nala pursed her lips as she floated. “You still suckle milk?”

Bromwyn wrinkled her nose. “Of course not. But Grandmother treats me like a baby. She will keep locking me up until I am as old as she is, and I will live my life without having any fun at all!”

“But why do you need protection? Are you not a witch like the Whitehair?”

“Thank you, yes, I am! And no, I do
not
need protection. But that does not matter to Grandmother. She decided that I cannot get out. And in
this
house,” Bromwyn said, mimicking her grandmother’s voice, “you obey Niove Whitehair’s rules!”

“Rules.” Nala sighed mournfully. “Always there are rules.”

“Always rules,” Bromwyn agreed with a sigh of her own. “And the most important rule is ‘Never argue with Grandmother.’”

“We have rules, too, witch girl. Magic means rules. You and Nala, we are quite alike.” Then the pixie brightened. “But your granddam, the Whitehair, she is not here at the moment.”

Bromwyn pouted. “No. She is with your kin in the woods, having all sorts of fun.” Then, with a touch of pride, she added, “My grandmother is the Guardian, you know.”

“Oh, Nala knows. Often the King and Queen bespeak her name with much color and venom. Nala thinks,” she added in a whisper, “that
they
think the Whitehair an equal, though they never say this, and certainly not to Nala.”

Bromwyn considered Nala’s words, then nodded. “Grandmother is the Wise One of our village. So I suppose she could be the equal of the King and Queen.”

“Strong as she is,” Nala said, her gemstone eyes twinkling with mischief, “she is not here at the moment. You cannot argue with her if she is not here, no?”

Bromwyn smiled in anticipation. “No.”

“What was her rule to you tonight, witch girl? What were her exact words that are keeping you bound within the abode?”

“Exact words … ” Bromwyn frowned as she remembered. “She said that nothing could enter the cottage without her leave, and that I could not escape.” She spread her arms wide, taking in the entire room. “And I cannot. I tried the windows, the doors, the chimney, even the trap door under the floorboard in the kitchen, the one she thinks I do not know about. Everything is stuck tight.”

“Stuck tight,” Nala said, nodding. “Nala cannot enter: that is a rule. You cannot escape: that is another rule. But you
can
simply leave.”

Bromwyn blinked. “I can?”

Nala grinned. “Surely. She did not say you could not
leave
the abode. She said you could not
escape
the abode. So do not try to escape. Just walk out. The rule is not broken, and the ward remains intact.”

Biting back a premature cry of hope, Bromwyn walked out of her small bedroom and into the kitchen, heading for the door that led out into the backyard. By the wooden door, Bromwyn paused, her hand hovering over the knob as Nala had hovered by her window.

What would happen if she broke her grandmother’s ward? The name Niove Whitehair was spoken in whispers by even the bravest of souls. Her magic was powerful, and she was feared by most and respected by all. And she had no sense of humor.

Swallowing, Bromwyn tried not to think of possible consequences. Instead, she focused on the pixie’s words.

Aloud, she said, “Grandmother did not say I could not leave the cottage. She said I could not escape. I am not breaking her rule. I am not trying to escape. I am simply leaving.”

Taking a deep breath, Bromwyn turned the knob and opened the door.

With a laugh, she leapt outside. Her long hair billowed around her like a cape as she turned in circles, thrilling in the feel of the wind on her face, of the spongy grass beneath her bare feet. Her dress fanned out as she spiraled across her grandmother’s lawn, and her delighted giggles filled the air, momentarily drowning out the chortles from the Midsummer Festival deep within the woods.

The sound of clapping brought her to a halt. Nala continued applauding as she darted by Bromwyn’s head. “You are free, witch girl!”

“I am! Thank you, friend Nala! Thank you for your help!”

“Rules are easy to follow,” the pixie said with a shrug, “if you are certain of the words. This is why you must always be careful of what you say. Now come! Let us play! Catch Nala if you can, witch girl!”

So Bromwyn gave chase, laughing as she ran after Nala’s tiny flying form. They darted through the Allenswood, Nala flitting between branches heavy with green foliage and Bromwyn capering after her on foot, skirting roots and other obstacles as best she could. After tripping for a third time, Bromwyn used her magic to create globes brighter than any candle and peppered them among the trees. She did not worry about accidentally setting the leaves afire; these were merely illusions of light, giving off brightness but no heat. That was the Way of Sight, and it was Bromwyn’s path of magic.

“The witch girl cannot see in the dark?” Nala asked, fluttering near Bromwyn’s head.

“The witch girl is not a cat,” Bromwyn declared. “Though she is about to catch you!” She swatted at Nala, barely missing the pixie’s wings.

Laughing, the two set off once again, Nala buzzing around trees and Bromwyn chasing after. It didn’t matter that they went deeper and deeper into the woods; where Nala went, Bromwyn would follow. She would catch the pixie, and then it would be Nala’s turn to catch her. They would spend the night playing tag, Bromwyn decided, and it would be the beginning of their own annual tradition. Let her grandmother have the rest of the fey; Bromwyn would have Nala. Soon they would become the best of friends, and over the years, they would share secrets and stories, and they would discover new things together. Bromwyn knew that she had made a lifelong friend this night.

Magic could be lonely, but now that didn’t matter. Bromwyn had found a kindred spirit.

Exuberant from her stolen freedom and new friendship, Bromwyn didn’t realize that she had stumbled upon the Midsummer Festival until she nearly careened into the stoic form of her grandmother.

A WISH FOR A WITCH

Skidding to a halt, Bromwyn stared up at Niove Whitehair.

Taller than almost everyone, and older than anyone, her grandmother loomed like a dead tree—frightening, bent, radiating menace. Like Bromwyn’s, her hair was uncut, and it draped over her shoulders and down her back to her ankles, thicker than any cloak could be, like cold moonlight against the severity of her black shawl and dress. Her gaze bore into Bromwyn, and the young witch flinched from the combination of rage and disappointment she saw simmering there.

“Bromwyn Elmindrea Lucinda Moon,” Niove hissed, her voice like death, “what are you doing out of the cottage?”

Upon hearing her full name, Bromwyn knew that she was in more trouble than she could have ever imagined. In a blink, the globes she had created disappeared. Yet there was still ample light; her grandmother had seen to that. Pinpoints of luminescence twinkled in the trees, as if stars had been caught in the boughs. It was a beautiful effect, and under other circumstances, Bromwyn would have clapped her hands in pleasure.

Instead, she bit her lip. Then she admitted, “I was playing with a pixie.”

Now Bromwyn clearly heard the shouts and laughter and buzzing of the fey. She risked a glance past her grandmother to the clearing behind her, and her gaze fixed upon the Hill, standing with its circle of stones at the top.

Even with the looming danger of her enraged grandmother, Bromwyn couldn’t help but think:
I am here! Midsummer is dancing around me, and I am here in the center of it!

Above the stones on the Hill, the outline of a door—or, more accurately, a Door—shimmered with fey magic. The World Door was open, as it always was during the Midsummer Festival, and swarming around it were hundreds of flying creatures. Some were as small as Nala, flitting between leaves and plants, playing hide-and-go-seek with the birds. Others were human-sized, flying heavily with their thin wings. Some were frighteningly large. But no matter their size, each of them looked the same: a mop of blond hair, shockingly blue eyes, swathed in flowers instead of clothes. Some were men and some were women—and some looked rather like both—but all of them were alike. A few of them pointed at her; others waved, beckoning her to come play with them. She tried to find Nala, but it was impossible to spy one pixie amid the fey horde.

“Bromwyn,” her grandmother snarled, “pay attention!”

Bromwyn gasped, then looked at Niove. It was one thing to ignore her grandmother’s ire. It was another thing altogether to get caught doing so. Bromwyn’s cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“You are not ‘playing with a pixie.’” Niove’s eyes narrowed. “What you are doing, girl, is disobeying me.”

Disobeying. In other words, she was breaking the rules.

Bromwyn chewed her lip as she looked down at her bare feet. Around her, she could hear the fey whispering, and they seemed to say:

Rules. Your granddam is full of rules. You will never be free of them.

You will never be free of her.

Bromwyn’s nostrils flared. By Fire and Air, she was sick of all of the rules. “Do not do this.” “Never say that.” “Grandmother is always right.” Well, enough. No matter how her grandmother treated her, she was not a baby—she could make her own decisions.

She lifted her chin boldly. “I am
not
disobeying. You forbade me to escape the cottage. And I did
not
escape. I walked out.”

“You,” Niove said, “are being insolent. And I will not have it, girl. Not from you, and not now. Get back to the cottage before they notice you.”

“No!” Bromwyn folded her arms across her chest. “I want to stay!”

Her grandmother’s eyes flashed fire, but Bromwyn refused to look away. Let Niove be angry; Bromwyn was angry too. And when she wished, Bromwyn could outstare a stone. So she held her grandmother’s fierce gaze with the dark eyes for which she was called.

But as she looked into her grandmother’s eyes, Bromwyn saw a gleam there that had nothing to do with rage or disappointment. What she saw was fear.

Stuff and nonsense; what could possibly scare Niove Whitehair?

Quietly, urgently, her grandmother said, “Go. We will discuss this later, you and I. But for Nature’s sake, girl, go.
Now
.”

Her grandmother’s words were a command, and Bromwyn started to obey before she forced her feet to remain still. Her heart beating much too fast, she whispered, “No.”

“Hail, Whitehair!”

The voice that called was deep and booming, and it thundered through the woods.

Niove stiffened, and Bromwyn heard her mutter a curse that should have burned off her ears. The girl turned to see who called.

Fascinated, she watched as two figures floated toward them. The smaller one, a woman, was clothed in flowers and silk, and her long green hair shone with diamonds. Holding her hand, the other figure, a blond man, wore blue silks and a cape of flowers, with a crown of silver on his brow. They came to a halt in midair, hovering over Bromwyn. Unlike the other fey, these two did not have wings. Around them, the other fey creatures, large and small alike, settled down to watch the encounter.

Bromwyn felt hundreds of pairs of eyes upon her, and it was all she could do not to squirm.

“Pray tell, my lady Guardian,” the man said with a smile, “who is this girl child by your skirts?”

“My lord and lady of the fey,” her grandmother answered tightly, as if the words cut her mouth, “I present to you my granddaughter Bromwyn, called Darkeyes.”

The woman laughed, and her voice would have made nightingales jealous. “She is yours, this witch girl? What delight! I thought it would be a human’s age before we saw another Guardian.”

“She is too young to be a Guardian,” the man said, his blue eyes brimming with mirth. “She is too young to be a proper witch, for that matter. A witchling, perhaps.”