The Key Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

  Dizzy, Malory groped for the arm of a chair, then slowly lowered herself into it. “You can give me painting.”

  “I understand the need—and the joys and pain of having that beauty inside you, feeling it leap out.” She laughed. “Or fighting to get it out, which is every bit as brilliant. You can have it. My gift to you.”

  For a moment, the idea of it swarmed through Malory, intoxicating as wine, seductive as love. And she saw Rowena watching her, so calm, so steady, with a soft smile on her lips.

  “You’d give me yours,” Malory realized. “That’s what you mean. You would give me your talent, your skill, your vision.”

  “It would be yours.”

  “No, it would never be mine. And I would always know it. I . . . painted them because I could see them. Just as I could see them in that first dream. As if I were there, in the painting. And I painted the key. I forged the key, was able to because I loved enough to give it up. I chose the light instead of the shadow. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Having made that choice, knowing it was the right one, I can’t take what’s yours. But thank you,” she said as she rose. “It’s nice to know I can be happy doing what I do. I’m going to make a beautiful shop, and a successful business. And a damn good life,” she added.

  “I have no doubt. Will you take this, then?” Rowena gestured, smiling when Malory let out a shocked gasp.

  “The Singing Goddess.” She rushed to the framed canvas that rested on a table. “The painting I did when Kane . . .”

  “You painted it.” Rowena joined her, laid a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever his trick, this was your vision, and your heart that found the answer. But if having this, if seeing it is painful, I can put it away.”

  “No, it’s not painful. It’s a wonderful gift. Rowena, this was an illusion. You brought it into my reality. It’s solid. It exists.” Bracing herself, she stepped back, kept her eyes level with Rowena’s. “Can you—have you done the same with emotions?”

  “You question if your feelings for Flynn are real?”

  “No. I know they are.” She pressed a hand to her heart. “This is no illusion. But his for me—if that’s some kind of reward . . . it’s not fair to him, and I can’t accept it.”

  “You would give him up.”

  “No.” Her expression went combative. “Hell, no. I’d just deal with it, and him, until he fell in love with me. If I can find some mystical key, I can sure as hell make Michael Flynn Hennessy realize I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Which I am,” she added. “Which I absolutely am.”

  “I like you, very much,” Rowena said with a grin. “And I’ll promise you this. When Flynn walks into this room again, whatever he feels or doesn’t feel will be a true reflection of his heart. The rest is up to you. Wait here, I’ll send him in.”

  “Rowena? When will we begin the second round?”

  “Soon,” Rowena called out as she left the room. “Very soon.”

  Which one of them would be next? Malory wondered as she studied the portrait. And what would the second one risk? What would she win or lose in the search?

  She’d lost one love, she thought, lifting her painting. One love, so briefly tasted. And now, with Flynn, she had to risk another. The most vital love of her life.

  “I brought you some of this very jazzy champagne,” Flynn said, walking in with two brimming flutes. “You’re missing the party. Pitte actually laughed. It was a moment.”

  “I just needed a couple of minutes first.” She set the painting down and reached for a glass.

  “What’s this? One of Rowena’s?” He hooked an arm companionably around Malory’s shoulder, and she felt his body stiffen when he understood. “It’s yours? This is what you did? The painting you did in the attic, with the key. It’s here.”

  He brushed his fingers over the gold key, only painted now, at the feet of the goddess. “It’s amazing.”

  “Even more when you’re the one who reached into a painting and pulled out a magic key.”

  “No. I mean, yeah, that’s out there. But I meant the whole thing. It’s beautiful, Malory. Hell, it’s stupendous. You gave this up.” He spoke softly, then looked over at her. “You’re the one who’s amazing.”

  “I’ll have this. Rowena clicked her heels together, twitched her nose, whatever she does, and brought it here for me. It means a lot to have it. Flynn . . .”

  She had to take a drink, had to put some distance between them. Whatever she’d said to Rowena, she understood now that she was a about to do something much more wrenching than giving up a talent with paint and brush.

  “This has been a strange month, for all of us.”

  “And then some,” he agreed.

  “Most of what’s happened, it’s beyond the scope of anything we could have imagined, anything we might have believed a few weeks ago. And what’s happened, it’s changed me. In a good way,” she added, turning toward him. “I like to think it’s a good way.”

  “If you’re going to tell me you turned the key in that lock, and now you don’t love me anymore, that’s too damn bad for you. Because you’re stuck.”

  “No, I’m . . . Stuck?” she repeated. “What do you mean stuck?”

  “With me, my ugly couch and my sloppy dog. You’re not wiggling your way out of it, Malory.”

  “Don’t take that tone with me.” She set the flute down. “And don’t think for one minute you can stand there and tell me I’m stuck with you, because you’re stuck with me.”

  He set his flute beside hers. “Is that right?”

  “That’s exactly right. I’ve just outwitted an evil Celtic god. You’re child’s play for me.”

  “You want to fight?”

  “Maybe.”

  They both grabbed for each other. With his mouth on hers, she let out a strangled sigh. And held on for her life. She drew back, but kept her arms linked around his neck.

  “I’m exactly right for you, Flynn.”

  “Then it’s really handy that I’m in love with you. You’re my key, Mal. The one key to all the locks.”

  “You know what I want right now? I want a hot bath, some soup, and a nap on an ugly couch.”

  “Today’s your lucky day. I can arrange that for you.” Taking her hand, he led her from the room.

  Later, Rowena leaned her head against Pitte’s shoulder as they watched the cars drive away.

  “It’s a good day,” she told him. “I know it’s not over, but today is a good day.”

  “We have a little time before we begin the next.”

  “A few days, then the four weeks. Kane will watch them more carefully now.”

  “So will we.”

  “Beauty prevailed. Now knowledge and courage will be tested. There’s so little, really, that we can do to help. But these mortals are strong and clever.”

  “Odd creatures,” Pitte commented.

  “Yes.” She smiled up at him. “Odd, and endlessly fascinating.”

  They stepped back into the house, closed the door. At the end of the drive, the iron gates quietly swung shut. The warriors that flanked them would stand vigil through the next phase of the moon.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Key of Knowledge

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2003 by Nora Roberts

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

&nbs
p; 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  ISBN: 1-101-14650-8

  A BERKLEY BOOK®

  Berkley Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: December, 2003

  For Ruth and Marianne, who are that most precious of gifts—friends

  It takes two to speak the truth—one to speak, and another to hear.

  —THOREAU

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter One

  DANA Steele considered herself a flexible, open-minded woman, with no less than her fair share of patience, tolerance, and humor.

  A number of people might have disagreed with this self-portrait.

  But what did they know?

  In one month’s time, her life had, through no fault of her own, taken a sharp turn off its course and into territory so strange and uncharted she couldn’t explain the route or the reason even to herself.

  But wasn’t she going with the flow?

  She’d taken it on the chin when Joan, the malicious library director, had promoted her own niece by marriage over other, more qualified, more dependable, more astute, and certainly more attractive candidates. She’d sucked it up, hadn’t she, and done her job?

  And when that completely undeserved promotion had caused a squeeze resulting in a certain more qualified employee’s hours and paycheck being cut to the bone, had she pummeled the despicable Joan and the incessantly pert Sandi to bloody pulps?

  No, she had not. Which in Dana’s mind illustrated her exquisite restraint.

  When her greedy bloodsucker of a landlord raised her rent to coincide with her pay cut, had she clamped her hands around his scrawny neck and squeezed until his beady eyes popped?

  Again, she had demonstrated control of heroic proportions.

  Those virtues might’ve been their own reward, but Dana enjoyed more tangible benefits.

  Whoever had come up with that business about a door opening when a window closes hadn’t known much about Celtic gods. Dana’s door hadn’t opened. It had been blown clean off its hinges.

  Even with all she’d seen and done, with all she’d been a part of over the last four weeks, it was hard to believe that she was now stretched out in the backseat of her brother’s car, once again heading up the steep, winding road to the great stone house of Warrior’s Peak.

  And what waited for her there.

  It wasn’t storming, as it had been on her first trip to the Peak after receiving that intriguing invitation for “cocktails and conversation” from Rowena and Pitte—an invitation that had gone out to only two other women. And she wasn’t alone. And this time, she thought, she knew exactly what she was in for.

  Idly, she opened the notebook she’d brought along and read the summary she’d written of the story she’d heard on her first visit to Warrior’s Peak.

  The young Celtic god who would be king falls for a human girl during his traditional sojourn in the mortal dimension. (Which I relate to spring break.) Young stud’s parents indulge him, break the rules and allow him to bring the maid behind what’s called either Curtain of Dreams or Curtain of Power, and into the realm of the gods.

  This is cool with some of the gods, but pisses others off.

  War, strife, politics, intrigue follow.

  Young god becomes king, makes human wife queen. They have three daughters.

  Each daughter—demigoddess—has a specific talent or gift. One is art, or beauty, the second is knowledge or truth, the third is courage or valor.

  Sisters are close and happy and grow to young womanhood, tra-la-la, under the watchful eye of the female teacher and the male warrior guardian given the task by god-king.

  Teacher and warrior fall in love, which blinds the eye enough that it isn’t kept sharp on the daughters.

  Meanwhile, bad guys are plotting away. They don’t take to human or half-human types in their rarefied world, especially in positions of power. Dark forces go to work. A particularly evil-minded sorcerer (probably related to Library Joan) takes charge. A spell is cast on the daughters while teacher and warrior are starry-eyed. The daughters’souls are stolen, locked in a glass box, known as the Box of Souls, which can only be opened by three keys turned by human hands. Although the gods know where to find the keys, none of them can break the spell or free the souls.

  Teacher and warrior are cast out, sent through the Curtain of Dreams into the mortal world. There, in each generation three human women are born who have the means to find the keys and end the curse. Teacher and warrior must find the women, and these women must be given the choice of accepting the quest or rejecting it.

  Each, in turn, has one moon phase to find a key. If the first fails, game over. And not without penalty—each would lose an undisclosed year of her life. If she succeeds, the second woman takes up the quest, and so on. An annoyingly cryptic clue—the only help teacher and warrior are allowed to give the three lucky women—is revealed at the start of the four-week cycle.

  If the quest is completed, the Box of Souls will be opened and the Daughters of Glass freed. And the three women will each be awarded a cool one million dollars.

  A pretty story, Dana mused, until you understood it wasn’t a story but fact. Until you understood you were one of the three women who had the means to unlock the Box of Souls.

  Then it just got weird.

  Add in some dark, powerful sorcerer god named Kane who really wanted you to fail and could make you see things that weren’t there—and not see things that were—and the whole business took on a real edge.

  But there were good parts too. That first night she’d met two women who had turned out to be really interesting people, and soon she felt as though she’d known them all her life. Well enough, Dana reminded herself, that the three of them were going into business together.

  And one of them had turned out to be the love of her brother’s life.

  Malory Price, the organized soul with the artist’s heart, not only had outwitted a sorcerer with a few thousand years under his belt but had found the key, opened the lock, and bagged the guy.

  All in less than four weeks.

  It was going to be hard for Dana and their pal Zoe to top that one.

  Then again, Dana reminded herself, she and Zoe didn’t have the distraction of romance to clog the works. And she didn’t have a kid to worry about, as Zoe did.

  Nope, Dana Steele was footloose and fancy-free, with nothing to pull her focus away from the prize.

  If she was next at bat, Kane had better set for the long ball.

  Not that she had anything against romance, she mused, letting the notebook close as she watched the blaze and blur of trees through the window. She liked men.

  Well, most men.

  She’d even been in love with one, a million years ago. Of course, that had been a result of youthful stupidity. She was much wiser now.

  Jordan Hawke might have come back to Pleasant Valley, temporarily, a few weeks ago, and he might have wheedled his way into being part of the quest. But he wasn’t a part of Dana’s world any longer.

  In her world he didn’t exist. Except when he was
writhing in pain and agony from some horrible freak accident or a debilitating and disfiguring illness.

  It was too bad that her brother, Flynn, had the bad taste to be his friend. But she could forgive Flynn for it, and even give him points for loyalty, since he and Jordan and Bradley Vane had been pals since childhood.

  And somehow or other, both Jordan and Brad were connected to the quest. It was something she would have to tolerate for the duration.

  She shifted as Flynn turned to drive through the open iron gates, angled her head so that she could look up at one of the two stone warriors that guarded the entrance to the house.

  Big, handsome, and dangerous, Dana thought. She’d always liked men who were—even if they were sculptures.

  She scooted up, but kept the long length of her legs on the seat—the only way for her to ride comfortably in the back of the car.

  She was a tall woman with an amazon’s build that would’ve suited that stone warrior. She combed her fingers through her long swing of brown hair. Since Zoe, the currently unemployed hairdresser and Dana’s new best friend, had styled it and added highlights, it fell into that casual bell shape with little or no help from Dana. It saved her time in the morning, which she appreciated, as morning wasn’t her best time of day. And the cut was flattering, which suited her vanity.

  Her eyes, a deep, dark brown, locked on the elegant sprawl of black stone that was the house at Warrior’s Peak. Part castle, part fortress, part fantasy, it spread over the rise, speared up into a sky as clear as black glass.

  Lights shimmered against its many windows, and still, Dana imagined, there were so many secrets in the shadows.

  She’d lived in the valley below for all the twenty-seven years of her life. And for all of them, the Peak had been a fascination. Its shape and shadow on the rise above her pretty little town had always struck her as something out of a faerie tale—and not the tidied-up, bloodless versions either.

  She’d often wondered what it would be like to live there, to wander through all the rooms, to walk out on the parapet or gaze down from a tower. To live so high, in such magnificent solitude, with the majesty of the hills all around and the charm of the woods only steps beyond the door.