To Bear an Iron Key Read Online Free PDF

good word for Bromwyn—she would never set foot inside that place of hollow worship, not even on her wedding day. Those who practiced magic and were connected to Nature made all vows outdoors. Even though Bromwyn did not want to marry Brend, she would take her oath of wedlock seriously, as she would for any promise made in her name. That meant she would wed beneath the stars with the moon bearing witness, no matter how much her betrothed might insist otherwise. And whether any god chose to listen to their wedding vows was no business of Bromwyn’s.
    Wind blew around her, hot and restless, as if in anticipation of the afternoon’s Midsummer Festival. Silly stuff, Bromwyn thought, for true Midsummer was not until that night, at sunset. But those who did not work with magic tended to observe celebrations in the daylight.
    And now that Bromwyn thought about it, it was safer for the common folk to do exactly that. They considered the fey to be nothing more than storybook fairies, tales to delight their children and to frighten them into behaving “lest the boggies get them,” as many Loren parents threatened—which was pure foolishness, because all the ballybogs would do if they caught human children was get them filthy from head to foot, which Bromwyn suspected most children would thoroughly enjoy.
    If the villagers knew just how dangerous most of the fey truly were, and how close Loren was to one of the World Doors that connected to the magical land of the fey, she suspected there would be a mass exodus that would leave the village husked out, barren. So even though it frustrated her, she allowed the people of Loren their illusion of safety.
    Being a Wise One, her grandmother often said, meant knowing when to remain silent.
    Around her, the breeze picked up strength. The wind carried with it the smells and sounds of Loren, and Bromwyn closed her eyes as she breathed deeply, pushing aside her uneasy thoughts and wrapping herself in the scents of life. Over the underlying smell of the village itself—stone and earth and wood and refuse, their odors blending and tickling in the back of her throat—she caught the tantalizing aromas of cinnamon and sugar. And then her mouth began to water.
    She hurried over to her favorite shop, and she paused there, hoping for a whiff of apple pie or, better yet, sugar cookies. Jessamin was a fine cook, and Bromwyn herself was no stranger to the ways of the kitchen, for food carried its own sort of magic. But neither of them could hold a candle to Mistress Baker and her renowned pastries.
    People crowded inside the bakery and loitered outside, waiting for their morning breads and other such foods. Bromwyn knew that because today (well, tonight) was Midsummer, customers would purchase more than usual, both for the afternoon celebration in the Village Circle and for the ritual of leaving fresh bread, ripe fruit, and clotted cream on their doorsteps for their storybook fairies to take at night. Bromwyn wondered, as she glanced at the rows filled with cooling pies, why the villagers bothered with such meaningless gestures; they must have suspected that vermin ate the bread and berries, and stray cats took the cream. To the good people of Loren, Midsummer seemed nothing more than an excuse to be festive and waste food.
    Bromwyn knew that the true reason for Midsummer Festival was to entertain the fey on their annual visit to the land. And that enjoyment had nothing to do with bread or berries or milk. Their hunger was for something else entirely.
    Enough , she told herself. She shouldn’t be thinking dark thoughts on such a bright morning.
    Bromwyn peeked inside the baker’s door, looking for a glimpse of red hair. But no—if Rusty was in the shop at all, he was out of her view. If anything, he was probably running ingredients from the basement storehouse to the ovens in the back, judging by the line of customers waiting their turn. Bromwyn smiled as she imagined Rusty covered in enough