To Bear an Iron Key (6 page)

After what felt like an eternity of burning alive, the pain subsided. Bromwyn sighed in relief. The she glowered. By Nature’s grace, she hated losing control of her magic! It made her feel like a child, to say nothing of the physical pain. Oh, her grandmother would have such words with her if she knew that Bromwyn’s concentration could slip when she cast even a basic spell. And Niove used her hands a lot during such conversations.

A bleak thought wormed its way into her mind: What if she could not cast properly during her test?

She took a deep breath and told herself not to panic. She had been studying the Ways of Witchcraft for nearly seven years. She would pass her test, and she would keep her magic. There was nothing else for it; without magic, Bromwyn was nothing. And she was too stubborn to ever be reduced to nothing.

Behind her, Rusty snorted. “No answer, Lady Witch? Truly, my feelings are hurt.”

She looked over her shoulder. There he stood, looking proud as a storybook peacock, and no matter that he was a beanpole of a boy in ill-fitting clothing, with a floppy brown hat that completely covered his auburn hair: Derek Jonasson, called Rusty, apprentice baker of Loren. Whenever she called him Sir Baker, he threatened to box her ears.

“A good morning to you, Rusty,” she said brightly, pushing aside her nerves over her upcoming test. “You know as well as I that your feelings are well protected by your infallible ego, so do not play the rogue with me. And true Midsummer is not until tonight.”

Rusty placed his hands over his chest. “Wounded to the soul!” he cried, and then he collapsed to the ground. His wide-brimmed hat fell over his face.

She giggled. “Your soul is equally protected by your ego, silly boy.”

“Boy?” Rusty stretched his legs long, and then he sprang to his feet with the grace of an acrobat. Standing tall, he plucked his hat from mid-air and placed it rakishly on his head. “I’m no more a boy than you are a girl.”

“I am sixteen,” she said with a shrug. “Village law clearly brands me a child until my seventeenth birthday.”

“You’re old enough to be married to hulking Brend come autumn.”

“When I will be seventeen.”

“If you’re old enough to be almost married, then you’re a woman,” Rusty insisted. “And as I’m a full thirty days your senior, that makes me a man. Boy, indeed!” He harrumphed, and ruined the effect with a laugh. “‘Boyish charm.’ Yes, you meant to say ‘boyish charm.’ Apology accepted!”

Bromwyn muffled another giggle. “As you say.”

“Indeed I do. Say, I didn’t mean to interrupt your witchy thing.”

She smiled fondly.
Witchy thing.
Those who didn’t cast magic couldn’t possibly understand the concentration it took, or how draining it was. At least he wasn’t awed by her power. To him, she was Winnie. Had anyone else attempted to call her by such an endearment, she would have spelled the offender’s clothing with imaginary fire ants.

“It was of no consequence,” she said. “Ending my practice early will harm me none.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said, extending a hand to her. “Magic makes me itch.”

Bromwyn placed her hand in his, allowing him to help her to her feet. “That would be all of the flour that found its way into your shirt. How did you escape the bakery, today of all days?”

He grinned hugely. “You’re assuming I was there in the first place.”

She groaned. “Rusty … ”

“Don’t you ‘Rusty’ me,” he said, wagging a finger at her. “I’ve had years and years of Midsummer Festival baking misery, and when I got up before dawn today to start hauling sacks of flour, I decided I’ve had quite enough of it, thank you. Besides, I’m sure my da is happy I’m not there. I accidentally burned the bread yesterday.”

“An accident, eh?”

“Truth,” he swore emphatically. “It stank up the shop something fierce. Customers walked out. Da was furious.”

Bromwyn thought of how she had so easily infuriated Jessamin earlier. “As you with your father yesterday, so was I with my mother today.”

“You burned the bread in your mam’s kitchen?”

“I said things I should never have voiced.” She let out a tired sigh. “It seems that both of us have been grave disappointments as of late.”

Rusty grabbed her hands and began to dance with her across the roof, ignoring her startled protest.

“My darling Winnie,” he crowed, “you’re far too serious for me!”

“I am
supposed
to be serious!” she screeched. “I am a witch!”

“So?” he asked as he dipped her. “When did you trade your sense of humor for magic?”

“Let me go!”

“Now? As I’m dipping you? Seems dangerous, if you ask me.”

“Rusty!” she spluttered. “Fire and Air, let me up! Now! Or I shall magic you into a toad!”

“That’s how it is, then?” He pulled her back up and continued to lead her in a dance. “Threatening poor villagers who don’t grasp your magical know-how?”

She twisted out of his arms and fumed at him as he continued waltzing.
Be calm,
she commanded herself.
Do. Not. Get. Angry.

She growled, “You make me forget myself.”

“Like that’s so hard.”

Her look should have killed him on the spot. “Rusty!”

“Tell me, Winnie,” he said as he danced, “what has your garters in a knot this fine morn? It has to be more than you and your mam pecking at each other like hens.”

Bromwyn took a deep breath and stilled herself to calmness. “I did poorly at my practice today. I must focus more, and keep better control of my temper.” Her voice raised a notch. “Which is difficult to do when you dance me across my mother’s rooftop.”

“So you are not allowing yourself to have any fun, eh? Fine then. I’ve just the thing to cheer you up. After my dance is done, I’ll show you what I’ve nicked.”

She frowned deeply at him. “You are still playing at being a thief?”

“Not playing, my darling,” he said as he turned. “I
am
a thief. A damn good one, too, I’m happy to say.”

“You are a lucky boy, but only a mediocre thief. It will cause you trouble.”

Rusty looked appalled as he bowed. “What?”

“I said—”

“Who’re you calling a boy?”

“You.” With a wicked grin, she darted behind him and kicked him lightly in the rump. “
Boy
.”

Off-balance, Rusty tottered. He pin-wheeled his arms, turned his sprawl into a cartwheel, and landed squarely on his feet.

“Masterful control of your temper, Lady Witch,” he said, picking up his hat.

“That was not temper,” she sniffed. “That was to emphasize my point.”

“What sort of point are you trying to make?”

“That you are a fool. Thieves get caught, Rusty.”

“Only the bad ones.”

“Exactly why I am worried about you.”

“Oh,” he said, clutching his chest, “the pain!”

She let her glare speak for her.

“No need for your worry, I’m happy to say. I’m a good thief.” He grinned at her, a lovely, lopsided grin, and it tried to chip away at the stone around her heart.

She lifted her chin as if that could deflect his charm. “So you say.”

“And so I am. I’ll be more than a baker’s son, and if that means I have to steal my way to do it, so be it.”

By Nature’s grace, he could be such a
boy!
“If you would only
work
for it, it would not seem such a stretch!”

“Spoken like someone who’s never broken her back hauling sacks or burned her hands when scouring ovens.” His grin remained, but it hardened until it looked brittle enough to break. “Don’t tell me how to live my life, Bromwyn Darkeyes. I don’t tell you how to live yours. I’m a thief, and I’m proud of it.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at him. Fire and Air, he was such an idiot! Did he not see the danger of flouncing about and picking pockets? How could he be blind to the ugly truths about thievery? Everyone knew that thieves, once caught, met the business end of a chopping block. If they were lucky, they lost only a hand.

Then again, Rusty was a lucky boy. At the very least, he had been lucky so far.

He let out a strained laugh. “Look at us, arguing about the way I spend my time. We sound like my folks. Good practice for when you marry Brend, eh?”

She tried to smile—she really did.

“Peace, Winnie,” he said, laughing for real this time. “You have too beautiful a face to ruin it with that scowl of yours. Here, this’ll make everything right as rain.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver marble. “I was going to give this to Jalsa, but it’s yours if you want it.”

Something gripped her heart and squeezed. “So you are still mooning over the serving girl?” she asked lightly.

“She’s no girl,” he said, his voice dreamy.

Bromwyn rolled her eyes. “So you are still mooning over the serving
woman?”

“You’re a woman, Winnie. But she’s a wench. And yes, I’m still mooning over her.” He sighed happily. “Same as most every man in Loren, not to mention five villages over. Poets worship Jalsa’s face. Minstrels worship Jalsa’s eyes. Dockworkers worship Jalsa’s—”

“So,” Bromwyn said, her knife-like smile neatly cutting off his voice, “a silver marble. How…” She struggled to find the word. “Unique.”

“Real beaut, eh?” He took her hand and placed it in her hand. “Figure it’s got to be worth at least ten silver. But if you want it, it’s yours. It could be your good luck charm!”

As soon as the cool orb touched her palm, her skin began to tingle.

Her voice tight, she asked, “You bought this?”

“Why would I spend good money, when things are there for the taking?” Rusty chuckled. “I relieved it from a crone so daft, she’s still combing her chin whiskers instead of knowing I’ve nicked her.”

“This has been spelled,” Bromwyn gritted. She stared at Rusty until he squirmed. “There is a powerful illusion on this.”

Rusty frowned. “You certain?”

“Yes.” Her Way of Sight meant that she easily saw when illusions had been placed.

“Now that’s just unfair.”

“Says the boy who steals.” She could almost see the true shape beneath the marble. Bromwyn touched it with her magic, but the ball resisted. Interesting—there was a ward around the illusion. This was no basic spell. She asked, “From whom did you take this?”

Rusty scratched his head. “She was an old lady, Winnie. Bent over, wrapped in a shawl. Like all old ladies, you know?”

And then she saw what lay beneath the magic, and she felt ice creep up her spine.

She hissed, “As I live and breathe, Rusty, you are the biggest fool I know!”

“She was an old woman, Win. What’s the danger?”

“You want to know what the danger is?” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “You stole this from my
grandmother
.”

Rusty went very pale. “Oh.” Then his legs buckled and he sat on the ground, hard. “Damn me.”

A STOLEN KEY

Bromwyn paced. “Now, the fact that you are still alive is troublesome. She should have stricken you down by now.”

“I didn’t know,” Rusty moaned. “I swear, I didn’t know!”

She paused to glare at him. “And what difference do you think that will make?”

“But,” Rusty stammered, “maybe she doesn’t know yet.”

“She knows. She knows almost everything.” Actually, Bromwyn was certain that her grandmother knew everything, always. But she didn’t want Rusty’s heart to stop out of fright. She began pacing again. “So you are not dead, which is a good thing. That means she wanted you to take the Key.” She froze. “That makes no sense. Why would she want that? It is
her
Key. She cannot just … just …
give
it away. That would be madness!”

“Key?” he asked weakly.

She blinked at him, her thoughts still whirling over the possibility—no, the probability—that her grandmother had just foisted one of the most important objects in all the realms to a boy thief with no sense of responsibility.

“Key,” she repeated. “I will remove the illusion. Hold out your hand.”

He did so, and Bromwyn dropped the marble into his open palm. Then she focused on the small orb and, murmuring words of power, she slowly began to peel away the layers of spelled light. First, the color corrected itself, dulling from a winking silver to a stormy gray, and then the shape lengthened and flattened until it finally settled into its true form: an iron key.

Once the spell was removed, Bromwyn swayed and closed her eyes. Her head throbbed, and she held her breath as she pushed her dizziness aside. Her grandmother’s strengths were in Ways other than Sight, so when Niove would cast an illusion, she tended to overcompensate.

A hand on her shoulder steadied her. Bromwyn opened her eyes to see Rusty looking sickly at her, his grin more like a silent scream.

He asked, “You feeling all right, Win?”

“Yes,” she replied. “It was a strong spell. Casting enough magic to unravel it drained me. I will be fine, thank you.”

“Good.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Worried?”

Rusty nodded.

A smile flitted across her lips, one that she quashed immediately. Of course Rusty had been concerned for her welfare; they were friends, and friends cared about each other. She should not feel … flattered … over such a thing. Emotions, she decided, were just stuff and nonsense—they interfered when casting spells, and they interfered when
not
casting spells.