lord.”
“Except to me,” he agreed, “and to my lady Queen. But I promise you this, Bromwyn Darkeyes: In my land, you would want nothing less. In my land, surrounded by all the joys and desires that magic provides, you would be content, and more than content. You would be happy.”
She thought of how peaceful she felt when she walked barefoot through the Allenswood, and she wondered, as she danced through the air with the fey King, what it would be like to walk in a place where magic and Nature had wed.
She bit her lip, and then in a small voice, she asked, “Are … are you offering me a place in your land, my lord?”
He leaned down, as if to kiss her cheek, but instead he whispered in her ear:
“No. You refused me, and I told you that I would never offer such a prize to you again. I am simply letting you know just how wrong your choice was. You will never be happy here, witchling, in your world where magic is looked at with suspicion. You will grow old with bitterness in your heart, knowing that you could have been happy forever in my land. You will die, wasted and alone, and all your potential will be gone, with nothing to show for it.”
Bromwyn squeezed her eyes shut, but still the tears came.
The King’s laughter was cruel and cutting, and as they floated back down to the forest, Bromwyn felt something vital inside of her slowly bleed away.
Once her feet were on the ground, she pulled away from the King and sank to her knees, sobbing. Her body shook as she cried, and soon her sobbing gave way to coughing. She tried to calm herself, but she found she could not take a proper breath.
Around her, the fey horde laughed and danced to the beat of wild drums.
A hand pressed down upon her shoulder.
“Here, Winnie.” It was Rusty who spoke, his voice filled with concern. “Drink this.”
Something was put into her hand—a cup. Coughing, she drank. She swallowed apple wine.
Her coughing vanished, as if by magic.
Eyes wide, she stared at the ritual cup. Oh no, she thought. No no no no no…
“My children,” the King said, raising his arms high. “The only rule is that which you heard: No human child may be stolen this night or otherwise marked, and no human adult may be taken for any reason.”
The fey buzzed with malicious glee.
Bromwyn’s goblet slid from her numb fingers. Wine splashed at her feet and stained her dress.
“Clothe yourselves properly,” the Queen declared. “After all, we must blend in if we are to make mischief.” With a wave of her hand, two images appeared.
Bromwyn gasped as she gazed upon the likenesses of Brend and Jalsa, both of them grinning wickedly, as if they longed to do evil things.
The Queen said, “These are the images in the forefront of the lord Guardian’s mind. Wear them.”
The fey shimmered and rippled, and then the glade was filled with hundreds of copies of Brend and Jalsa.
Bromwyn shoved her fists into her mouth to keep from crying out.
“I don’t understand,” Rusty said to her, sounding panicked. “What’s happening here? What are they doing?”
“The evening is yours,” the King announced. “Enjoy the night! And know that at the blue hour, we will see our Key Bearer answer our challenge. Fly!”
Spewing laughter, the fey burst from the clearing and scattered in the night, leaving Bromwyn and Rusty with the King and Queen.
“I don’t understand,” Rusty said again, this time sounding angry as well as scared.
“We were most impressed by your honeyed words, my lord Guardian,” said the Queen, turning the honorific into a mocking title. “But we do not believe you have any power behind them.”
“We thank you most humbly for leaving the fey to their own devises in matters of conduct,” the King said with a laugh, taking the Queen’s hand in his own. “Barring, of course, stealing children and luring adults.”
“Which comes as little surprise. Anyone would know to place those restrictions upon us,” said the
“Except to me,” he agreed, “and to my lady Queen. But I promise you this, Bromwyn Darkeyes: In my land, you would want nothing less. In my land, surrounded by all the joys and desires that magic provides, you would be content, and more than content. You would be happy.”
She thought of how peaceful she felt when she walked barefoot through the Allenswood, and she wondered, as she danced through the air with the fey King, what it would be like to walk in a place where magic and Nature had wed.
She bit her lip, and then in a small voice, she asked, “Are … are you offering me a place in your land, my lord?”
He leaned down, as if to kiss her cheek, but instead he whispered in her ear:
“No. You refused me, and I told you that I would never offer such a prize to you again. I am simply letting you know just how wrong your choice was. You will never be happy here, witchling, in your world where magic is looked at with suspicion. You will grow old with bitterness in your heart, knowing that you could have been happy forever in my land. You will die, wasted and alone, and all your potential will be gone, with nothing to show for it.”
Bromwyn squeezed her eyes shut, but still the tears came.
The King’s laughter was cruel and cutting, and as they floated back down to the forest, Bromwyn felt something vital inside of her slowly bleed away.
Once her feet were on the ground, she pulled away from the King and sank to her knees, sobbing. Her body shook as she cried, and soon her sobbing gave way to coughing. She tried to calm herself, but she found she could not take a proper breath.
Around her, the fey horde laughed and danced to the beat of wild drums.
A hand pressed down upon her shoulder.
“Here, Winnie.” It was Rusty who spoke, his voice filled with concern. “Drink this.”
Something was put into her hand—a cup. Coughing, she drank. She swallowed apple wine.
Her coughing vanished, as if by magic.
Eyes wide, she stared at the ritual cup. Oh no, she thought. No no no no no…
“My children,” the King said, raising his arms high. “The only rule is that which you heard: No human child may be stolen this night or otherwise marked, and no human adult may be taken for any reason.”
The fey buzzed with malicious glee.
Bromwyn’s goblet slid from her numb fingers. Wine splashed at her feet and stained her dress.
“Clothe yourselves properly,” the Queen declared. “After all, we must blend in if we are to make mischief.” With a wave of her hand, two images appeared.
Bromwyn gasped as she gazed upon the likenesses of Brend and Jalsa, both of them grinning wickedly, as if they longed to do evil things.
The Queen said, “These are the images in the forefront of the lord Guardian’s mind. Wear them.”
The fey shimmered and rippled, and then the glade was filled with hundreds of copies of Brend and Jalsa.
Bromwyn shoved her fists into her mouth to keep from crying out.
“I don’t understand,” Rusty said to her, sounding panicked. “What’s happening here? What are they doing?”
“The evening is yours,” the King announced. “Enjoy the night! And know that at the blue hour, we will see our Key Bearer answer our challenge. Fly!”
Spewing laughter, the fey burst from the clearing and scattered in the night, leaving Bromwyn and Rusty with the King and Queen.
“I don’t understand,” Rusty said again, this time sounding angry as well as scared.
“We were most impressed by your honeyed words, my lord Guardian,” said the Queen, turning the honorific into a mocking title. “But we do not believe you have any power behind them.”
“We thank you most humbly for leaving the fey to their own devises in matters of conduct,” the King said with a laugh, taking the Queen’s hand in his own. “Barring, of course, stealing children and luring adults.”
“Which comes as little surprise. Anyone would know to place those restrictions upon us,” said the
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