bad.
Biting her lip, Bromwyn corked the bottle. No, she would not worry. Rusty knew what to do.
Carefully, she brought over all four goblets. Rusty took two from her, and then the two of them presented the cups to the fey sovereigns. The King and Queen exchanged a bemused look, and then they each selected a cup—the King from Bromwyn, the Queen from Rusty.
“I should like to wish you blessings and prosperity,” Rusty said, “but everyone knows that the fey are already blessed and prosperous. And so I wish friendship between our peoples on this Midsummer night. And in the name of that friendship, let no human child be stolen this night by the fey or otherwise marked by the fey, and let no human adult be taken for any reason by the fey.”
Perfect. Bromwyn smiled to herself. He said it just as they had practiced. The first rule, and by far the most important, had been stated. Now the fey had to accept the conditions Rusty had set forth.
“Well spoken,” the Queen murmured. “We do solemnly agree to your most reasonable request, my lord Guardian.”
One rule down, and only about a thousand more to go. But Bromwyn wasn’t daunted. They could do this.
Around them, the fey cheered. From somewhere, drums began to beat a wild rhythm, one that captured the feeling of a hunter chasing prey through the lush woods. Bromwyn felt the music’s effects on her body—the way her heart seemed to mimic the drumbeat, how her limbs wanted to move and caper and dance. She forced her feet to remain still.
“Our children celebrate,” the King said, his voice a rich bass that was a musical accompaniment to the music. “We should do no less. Come, witchling.” He plucked Bromwyn’s cup from her hand and thrust it and his own goblet to the Queen, who used her magic to float the additional cups gently in the air.
“My lord?” Bromwyn stammered. “What are you doing?”
“It has been far too long.” The King took Bromwyn by the elbow. “Let us fly once again and dance beneath the stars.”
Before she could say anything else, the King’s magic washed over her—and suddenly, Bromwyn was flying as the King held her aloft. Her stomach dropped to her toes and her heart thumped loudly in her chest. Bromwyn didn’t know whether the sound that escaped her lips was a groan or a giggle.
They danced.
“Five years ago,” the King murmured, “I offered you your heart’s desire. And you refused me.”
Bromwyn swallowed thickly before she replied. “It was a most generous offer, my lord. But the price was too high.”
“You would have had a place in my Court as my daughter. Was it so much to ask that you love me with all of your heart, young Darkeyes?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And now? At the cusp of adulthood, have you found another to whom you would give your heart?”
“I am betrothed, my lord.”
A smile played on the King’s lips, hinting at amusement. “You have learned how to reply to a question without actually answering it. Well done. Now answer me truly, witchling: Is there another to whom you have given your heart?”
For some reason, she briefly thought of Rusty, who even now was alone with the Queen and her charms, the Queen and her lush smiles.
She pushed thoughts of him aside; she didn’t have the luxury of being concerned for her friend, not when the King had charged her to speak the truth. She admitted, “I have been promised to someone, my lord. My heart is no longer mine to give.”
“You wear your sorrow like a scarf, witchling. It screams to be noticed, even as it strangles you. You are unhappy here, in this land that my kith and kin visit once each year.”
She found she could no longer meet his gaze.
“In my land,” he said gently, “you would have your pick of fey suitors. Any who would ask for your heart would be yours, with only a word of consent from you. In my land, you would never have to pledge your heart to another if you did not wish it.”
“Except to you, my
Biting her lip, Bromwyn corked the bottle. No, she would not worry. Rusty knew what to do.
Carefully, she brought over all four goblets. Rusty took two from her, and then the two of them presented the cups to the fey sovereigns. The King and Queen exchanged a bemused look, and then they each selected a cup—the King from Bromwyn, the Queen from Rusty.
“I should like to wish you blessings and prosperity,” Rusty said, “but everyone knows that the fey are already blessed and prosperous. And so I wish friendship between our peoples on this Midsummer night. And in the name of that friendship, let no human child be stolen this night by the fey or otherwise marked by the fey, and let no human adult be taken for any reason by the fey.”
Perfect. Bromwyn smiled to herself. He said it just as they had practiced. The first rule, and by far the most important, had been stated. Now the fey had to accept the conditions Rusty had set forth.
“Well spoken,” the Queen murmured. “We do solemnly agree to your most reasonable request, my lord Guardian.”
One rule down, and only about a thousand more to go. But Bromwyn wasn’t daunted. They could do this.
Around them, the fey cheered. From somewhere, drums began to beat a wild rhythm, one that captured the feeling of a hunter chasing prey through the lush woods. Bromwyn felt the music’s effects on her body—the way her heart seemed to mimic the drumbeat, how her limbs wanted to move and caper and dance. She forced her feet to remain still.
“Our children celebrate,” the King said, his voice a rich bass that was a musical accompaniment to the music. “We should do no less. Come, witchling.” He plucked Bromwyn’s cup from her hand and thrust it and his own goblet to the Queen, who used her magic to float the additional cups gently in the air.
“My lord?” Bromwyn stammered. “What are you doing?”
“It has been far too long.” The King took Bromwyn by the elbow. “Let us fly once again and dance beneath the stars.”
Before she could say anything else, the King’s magic washed over her—and suddenly, Bromwyn was flying as the King held her aloft. Her stomach dropped to her toes and her heart thumped loudly in her chest. Bromwyn didn’t know whether the sound that escaped her lips was a groan or a giggle.
They danced.
“Five years ago,” the King murmured, “I offered you your heart’s desire. And you refused me.”
Bromwyn swallowed thickly before she replied. “It was a most generous offer, my lord. But the price was too high.”
“You would have had a place in my Court as my daughter. Was it so much to ask that you love me with all of your heart, young Darkeyes?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And now? At the cusp of adulthood, have you found another to whom you would give your heart?”
“I am betrothed, my lord.”
A smile played on the King’s lips, hinting at amusement. “You have learned how to reply to a question without actually answering it. Well done. Now answer me truly, witchling: Is there another to whom you have given your heart?”
For some reason, she briefly thought of Rusty, who even now was alone with the Queen and her charms, the Queen and her lush smiles.
She pushed thoughts of him aside; she didn’t have the luxury of being concerned for her friend, not when the King had charged her to speak the truth. She admitted, “I have been promised to someone, my lord. My heart is no longer mine to give.”
“You wear your sorrow like a scarf, witchling. It screams to be noticed, even as it strangles you. You are unhappy here, in this land that my kith and kin visit once each year.”
She found she could no longer meet his gaze.
“In my land,” he said gently, “you would have your pick of fey suitors. Any who would ask for your heart would be yours, with only a word of consent from you. In my land, you would never have to pledge your heart to another if you did not wish it.”
“Except to you, my
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