Read Online To Bear an Iron Key by Jackie Morse Kessler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jackie Morse Kessler
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would be more than just her own magic at stake. If she and Rusty made a wrong move beneath the watchful gaze of the fey King and Queen, the results would be devastating for all of Loren. The fey would return every night for a year—and they would steal away all of the village’s children, among other things.
And who could say whether they would limit themselves to one small village?
She pressed her lips together. Rusty couldn’t fail. She wouldn’t let him.
And she would pass her test, whatever it was. Somehow.
“Come,” she said, shoving the crumpled note into the large pocket of her dress. “We have to return to the village.”
“For what?”
“To speak to the only other person I know who has had any interaction with the fey.”
“Who’s that?” He smiled hopefully. “I don’t suppose it’s Jalsa, by any chance?”
She returned the smile, showing far too many teeth. “Sorry, my boy. We need to speak to my mother.” Bromwyn was certain that Jessamin would help them.
* * *
But her mother had other ideas.
“There is nothing I can do,” Jessamin insisted.
Her mother sat at her cloth-covered table, ready to smile at anyone who entered her shop. Her cards were laid out in a pattern before her, their vivid colors winking in the candlelight. On a bright day such as today, she didn’t need the additional illumination; all the candles really did was make the shop even warmer. But Jessamin swore that her customers expected such trappings when they came to seek their fortune or her advice. Bromwyn thought it was pure foolishness; her mother might as well wear the gaudy shawls and heavy kohl liner of the gypsies if she really wanted to make such an impression. Bromwyn had no patience for such pretense.
She had even less patience for her mother’s dismissal. She said, “But you must help him. I have heard Grandmother mention in passing that you have spent time with the fey—”
“As have you, Daughter.” Jessamin narrowed her eyes at Bromwyn, and when she spoke again, her voice was sour. “You danced with the King and even refused a gift from him, and you lived to tell the tale. You are more of an expert on such matters than am I.”
“That was years and years ago,” Bromwyn said angrily. “I do not remember the event properly.”
“Such things happen. Memories can be treacherous.” Her mother’s gaze hardened. “Besides, even if I could help you, I would not. I do not like to think of the fey.”
“If you will not help us,” Bromwyn implored, her voice low, “then Rusty will fail as Guardian tonight.” She darted a glance through the open door. Outside, Rusty was watching one of the mudrats shilling villagers in a shell game. The red-haired boy slouched against her mother’s shop wall, his large hat perched over his eyes as if he were dozing, but Bromwyn knew that he was keenly attuned to every move of the street child’s hands. Learning. Scheming. Determined to be a thief, no matter what the consequences.
Her mother sniffed and she flipped a card. “That is his problem.”
Bromwyn turned to gape at Jessamin. “This is more important than your petty hatreds, Mother!”
“ Petty .” Jessamin spat the word. “You do not know that of which you speak.”
“Of course I do!” Bromwyn said, stomping her foot. “If he fails, all of Loren will suffer! And for what? To appease your wounded pride? To soothe your own hurts of long ago, whatever they were?”
Jessamin slammed her hand on her table, and her cards scattered.
Bromwyn did not flinch, nor did she tear her gaze away from her mother’s brooding eyes. They stared at each other, the air between them thick with unspoken words and emotions too complex to properly name.
It was Bromwyn who broke the silence first. “You must help us,” she said plainly. “You simply must, no matter how you feel about it.”
“I must do nothing of the sort,” her mother said, expertly gathering her cards. “This is your test,
And who could say whether they would limit themselves to one small village?
She pressed her lips together. Rusty couldn’t fail. She wouldn’t let him.
And she would pass her test, whatever it was. Somehow.
“Come,” she said, shoving the crumpled note into the large pocket of her dress. “We have to return to the village.”
“For what?”
“To speak to the only other person I know who has had any interaction with the fey.”
“Who’s that?” He smiled hopefully. “I don’t suppose it’s Jalsa, by any chance?”
She returned the smile, showing far too many teeth. “Sorry, my boy. We need to speak to my mother.” Bromwyn was certain that Jessamin would help them.
* * *
But her mother had other ideas.
“There is nothing I can do,” Jessamin insisted.
Her mother sat at her cloth-covered table, ready to smile at anyone who entered her shop. Her cards were laid out in a pattern before her, their vivid colors winking in the candlelight. On a bright day such as today, she didn’t need the additional illumination; all the candles really did was make the shop even warmer. But Jessamin swore that her customers expected such trappings when they came to seek their fortune or her advice. Bromwyn thought it was pure foolishness; her mother might as well wear the gaudy shawls and heavy kohl liner of the gypsies if she really wanted to make such an impression. Bromwyn had no patience for such pretense.
She had even less patience for her mother’s dismissal. She said, “But you must help him. I have heard Grandmother mention in passing that you have spent time with the fey—”
“As have you, Daughter.” Jessamin narrowed her eyes at Bromwyn, and when she spoke again, her voice was sour. “You danced with the King and even refused a gift from him, and you lived to tell the tale. You are more of an expert on such matters than am I.”
“That was years and years ago,” Bromwyn said angrily. “I do not remember the event properly.”
“Such things happen. Memories can be treacherous.” Her mother’s gaze hardened. “Besides, even if I could help you, I would not. I do not like to think of the fey.”
“If you will not help us,” Bromwyn implored, her voice low, “then Rusty will fail as Guardian tonight.” She darted a glance through the open door. Outside, Rusty was watching one of the mudrats shilling villagers in a shell game. The red-haired boy slouched against her mother’s shop wall, his large hat perched over his eyes as if he were dozing, but Bromwyn knew that he was keenly attuned to every move of the street child’s hands. Learning. Scheming. Determined to be a thief, no matter what the consequences.
Her mother sniffed and she flipped a card. “That is his problem.”
Bromwyn turned to gape at Jessamin. “This is more important than your petty hatreds, Mother!”
“ Petty .” Jessamin spat the word. “You do not know that of which you speak.”
“Of course I do!” Bromwyn said, stomping her foot. “If he fails, all of Loren will suffer! And for what? To appease your wounded pride? To soothe your own hurts of long ago, whatever they were?”
Jessamin slammed her hand on her table, and her cards scattered.
Bromwyn did not flinch, nor did she tear her gaze away from her mother’s brooding eyes. They stared at each other, the air between them thick with unspoken words and emotions too complex to properly name.
It was Bromwyn who broke the silence first. “You must help us,” she said plainly. “You simply must, no matter how you feel about it.”
“I must do nothing of the sort,” her mother said, expertly gathering her cards. “This is your test,
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