by Nora Roberts
“I say we go find the mysterious Rowena and get some answers. We stick together, right?” Dana nodded at Malory, then Zoe.
Zoe swallowed. “Honey, I’m your new best friend.” To seal it, she took Dana’s hand, then Malory’s.
“How lovely to see you.”
Their hands were still joined as they turned and looked at the man who stood in the archway.
He smiled, stepped inside the room. “Welcome to Warrior’s Peak.”
Chapter Two
FOR a moment Malory thought one of the warriors from the gate had come to life. He had the same fierce male beauty in his face, the same powerful build. His hair, black as the storm, waved back in wings from that strong, sculpted face.
His eyes were midnight blue. She felt the power of them, a flash of heat along her skin, when they met hers.
She wasn’t a fanciful woman. Anything but, she told herself. But the storm, the house, the sheer ferocity of that gaze made her feel as though he could see everything in her mind. Everything that had ever been in her mind.
Then his gaze left hers, and the moment passed.
“I am Pitte. Thank you for gracing what is, for now, our home.”
He took Malory’s free hand, lifted it to his lips. His touch was cool, the gesture both courtly and dignified. “Miss Price.” She felt Zoe’s fingers go lax on hers, then Pitte was moving to her, lifting her fingers in turn. “Miss McCourt.” And Dana’s. “Miss Steele.”
A boom of thunder had Malory jolting, and her hand groped for Zoe’s again. He was just a man, she assured herself. It was just a house. And someone had to get everything back on an even keel.
“You have an interesting home, Mr. Pitte,” she managed.
“Yes. Won’t you sit? Ah, Rowena. You’ve met my companion.” He took Rowena’s arm when she came to his side.
They fit, Malory decided, like two halves of a coin.
“By the fire, I think,” Rowena said, gesturing toward the fireplace. “Such a fierce night. Let’s be comfortable.”
“I think we’d be more comfortable if we understood what’s going on.” Dana planted her high-heeled boots and stood her ground. “Why we were asked here.”
“Certainly. But the fire’s so lovely. There’s nothing quite like good champagne, good fellowship, and a nice fire on a stormy night. Tell me, Miss Price, what do you think of what you’ve seen of our art collection?”
“Impressive. Eclectic.” With a glance back at Dana, Malory let Rowena lead her toward a chair near the fire. “You must have spent considerable time on it.”
Rowena’s laugh rippled like fog over water. “Oh, considerable. Pitte and I appreciate beauty, in all its forms. In fact, you could say we revere it. As you must, given your choice of profession.”
“Art is its own reason.”
“Yes. It’s the light in every shadow. And Pitte, we must make certain Miss Steele sees the library before the evening’s over. I hope you’ll approve.” She gestured absently at the servant who entered with a crystal champagne bucket. “What would the world be without books?”
“Books are the world.” Curious, cautious, Dana sat.
“I think there’s been a mistake.” Zoe hung back, looking from face to face. “I don’t know anything about art. Not real art. And books—I mean, I read, but—”
“Please, sit.” Pitte nudged her gently into a chair. “Be at home. I trust your son is well.”
She stiffened, and those tawny eyes went tiger-bright. “Simon’s fine.”
“Motherhood’s a kind of art, don’t you think, Miss McCourt? A work in progress of the most essential, most vital kind. One that requires valor and heart.”
“Do you have children?”
“No. I haven’t been given that gift.” His hand brushed Rowena’s as he spoke, then he lifted his glass. “To life. And all its mysteries.” His eyes gleamed over the rim of the glass. “There’s no need to fear. No one here wishes you anything but health, happiness, and success.”
“Why?” Dana demanded. “You don’t know us, though you seem to know a great deal more about us than we do about you.”
“You’re a seeker, Miss Steele. An intelligent, straightforward woman who looks for answers.”
“I’m not getting any.”
He smiled. “It’s my fondest hope that you’ll find all the answers. To begin, I’d like to tell you a story. It seems a night for stories.”
He settled back. Like Rowena’s, his voice was musical and strong, faintly exotic. The sort, Malory thought, designed for telling tales on stormy nights.
Because of it, she relaxed a little. What else did she have to do, after all, besides sit in a fantastic house by a roaring fire and listen to a strange, handsome man weave a tale while she sipped champagne?
It beat eating takeout while reconciling her checkbook hands down.
And if she could wheedle a tour of the place, and nudge Pitte toward The Gallery as a vehicle to expand his art collection, she might just save her job.
So she settled back as well and prepared to enjoy herself.
“Long ago, in a land of great mountains and rich forests, lived a young god. He was his parents’ only child, and well beloved. He was gifted with a handsome face and strength of heart and muscle. He was destined to rule one day, as his father before him, and so he was reared to be the god-king, cool in judgment, swift in action.
“There was peace in this world, since gods had walked there. Beauty, music and art, stories and dance were everywhere. For as long as memory—and a god’s memory is infinite—there had been harmony and balance in this place.”
He paused to sip his wine, his gaze tracking slowly from face to face. “From behind the Curtain of Power, through the veil of the Curtain of Dreams, they would look on the world of mortals. Lesser gods were permitted to mix and mate with those of the mortal realm at their whim, and so became the faeries and sprites, the sylphs and other creatures of magic. Some found the mortal world more to their tastes and peopled it. Some, of course, were corrupted by the powers, by the world of mortals, and turned to darker ways. Such is the way of nature, even of gods.”
Pitte eased forward to top a thin cracker with caviar. “You’ve heard stories of magic and sorcery, the faerie tales and fantasies. As one of the guardians of stories and books, Miss Steele, do you consider how such tales become part of the culture, what root of truth they spring from?
“To give someone, or something, a power greater than our own. To feed our need for heroes and villains and romance.” Dana shrugged, though she was already fascinated. “If, for instance, Arthur of the Celts existed as a warrior king, as many scholars and scientists believe, how much more enthralling, more potent, is his image if we see him in Camelot, with Merlin. If he was conceived with the aid of sorcery, and crowned high king as a young boy who pulled a magic sword out of a stone.”
“I love that story,” Zoe put in. “Well, except for the end. It seemed so unfair. But I think . . .”
“Please,” Pitte said, “go on.”
“Well, I sort of think that maybe magic did exist once, before we educated ourselves out of it. I don’t mean education’s bad,” she said quickly, squirming as everyone’s attention focused on her. “I just mean maybe we, um, locked it away because we started needing logical and scientific answers for everything.”
“Well said.” Rowena nodded. “A child often tucks his toys in the back of the closet, forgetting the wonder of them as he grows to manhood. Do you believe in wonder, Miss McCourt?”
“I have a nine-year-old son,” Zoe replied. “All I have to do is look at him to believe in wonder. I wish you’d call me Zoe.”
Rowena’s face lit with warmth. “Thank you. Pitte?”
“Ah, yes, to continue the tale. As was the tradition, upon reaching his majority the young god was sent beyond the Curtain for one week, to walk among the mortals, to learn their ways, to study their weaknesses and strengths, their virtues and flaws. It happened that he saw a young wo
man, a maid of great beauty and virtue. And seeing, loved, and loving, wanted. And though she was denied to him by the rules of his world, he pined for her. He grew listless, restless, unhappy. He would not eat or drink, nor did he find any appeal in all the young goddesses offered to him. His parents, disturbed at seeing their son so distressed, weakened. They would not give their son to the mortal world, but they brought the maid to theirs.”
“They kidnapped her?” Malory interrupted.
“They could have done.” Rowena filled the flutes again. “But love cannot be stolen. It’s a choice. And the young god wished for love.”
“Did he get it?” Zoe wondered.
“The mortal maid chose, and loved, and gave up her world for his.” Pitte rested his hands on his knees. “There was anger in the worlds of gods, of mortals, and in that mystical half-world of the faeries. No mortal was to pass through the Curtain. Yet that most essential rule was now broken. A mortal woman had been taken from her world and into theirs, married to and bedded by their future king for no reason more important than love.”
“What’s more important than love?” Malory asked and earned a slow, quiet look from Pitte.
“Some would say nothing, others would say honor, truth, loyalty. Others did, and for the first time in the memory of the gods, there was dissension, rebellion. The balance was shaken. The young god-king, crowned now, was strong and withstood this. And the mortal maid was beautiful and true. Some were swayed to accept her, and others plotted in secret.”
There was a whip of outrage in his voice, and a sudden cold fierceness that made Malory think of the stone warriors again.
“Battles fought in the open could be quelled, but others were devised in secret chambers, and these ate at the foundation of the world.
“It came to pass that the god-king’s wife bore three children, three daughters, demigoddesses with mortal souls. On their birth, their father gifted each with a jeweled amulet, for protection. They learned the ways of their father’s world, and of their mother’s. Their beauty, their innocence, softened many hearts, turned many minds. For some years there was peace again. And the daughters grew to young women, devoted to each other, each with a talent that enhanced and completed those of her sisters.”
He paused again, as if gathering himself. “They harmed no one, brought only light and beauty to both sides of the Curtain. But there remained shadows. One coveted what they had that no god could claim. Through sorcery, through envy, despite all precautions, they were taken into the half-world. The spell cast plunged them into eternal sleep, a living death. And sleeping, they were sent back through the Curtain, their mortal souls locked in a box that has three keys. Not even their father’s power can break the locks. Until the keys turn, one, by two, by three, the daughters are trapped in an enchanted sleep and their souls weep in a prison of glass.”
“Where are the keys?” Malory asked. “And why can’t the box be opened by enchantment since it was locked by it?”
“Where they are is a puzzle. Many magicks and spells have been cast to unlock the box, all have failed—but there are clues. The souls are mortal, and only mortal hands can turn the keys.”
“My invitation said I was the key.” Malory glanced at Dana and Zoe, got nods of confirmation. “What do we have to do with some mythological legend?”
“I have something to show you.” Pitte rose, gestured toward the archway. “I hope it interests you.”
“The storm’s getting worse.” Zoe sent a wary look toward the windows. “I need to start home.”
“Please, indulge me.”
“We’ll all leave together.” Malory gave Zoe’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s just see what it is he wants to show us first. I hope you’ll invite me back at some point,” she continued as she walked to the doorway to join Pitte and Rowena. “I’d very much like to see more of your art collection, and perhaps repay the favor by giving you a private tour of The Gallery.”
“You’ll certainly be welcome back.” Pitte took her arm lightly and led her down the wide hall. “It would be a pleasure for Rowena and me to discuss our collection with someone who understands and appreciates it.”
He turned toward another archway. “I hope you’ll understand and appreciate this particular piece of it.”
Over another fireplace that roared with flame was a painting that towered to the ceiling.
The colors were so vivid, so rich, the style so bold and strong, that Malory’s art lover’s heart took one fast leap. The portrait was of three women, young, beautiful, in flowing gowns of sapphire, of ruby, of emerald. The one in blue, with golden curls rioting to her waist, sat on a bench that circled a pool. She held a small gold harp.
Seated on the silver tiles at her feet, the girl in red had a scroll and quill in her lap and her hand on her sister’s—for surely they were sisters—knee. Beside them, the girl in green stood, a chubby black puppy in the crook of her arm and a short silver sword at her hip. A heartbreak of flowers spilled around them.
There were trees with jeweled fruit dripping from the branches, and in the cerulean sky both birds and faeries were on the wing.
Enthralled, Malory was halfway across the room for a closer look when her heart gave another, harder knock. The girl in blue had her face.
Younger, she thought as she came to an abrupt halt. Certainly more beautiful. The skin was luminous, the eyes deeper, bluer, the hair more luxurious and romantic. But there was no mistaking the power of the resemblance, nor, she saw as she steadied herself, the resemblance between the others in the portrait and the other two guests at Warrior’s Peak.
“Magnificent work. A master’s work,” Malory said, and was amazed at how calm her voice sounded through the buzzing in her ears.
“They look like us.” There was wonder in the words as Zoe moved beside Malory. “How can they?”
“Good question.” And suspicion in Dana’s. “How did the three of us come to be used as models for what is, obviously, a portrait of the three sisters in the story you just told us?”
“It was painted before you were born. Before your parents, your grandparents, and those who sired them were born.” Rowena walked toward the portrait, stood below it with her hands folded at her waist. “Its age can be verified through tests. Isn’t that so, Malory?”
“Yes. Its approximate age can be authenticated, but whatever its age, you haven’t answered Zoe’s question.”
The smile that spread on Rowena’s face seemed to hold both approval and amusement. “No, I haven’t. What else do you see in the painting?”
Malory reached in her purse, took out a pair of black-framed, rectangular glasses. She slipped them on and made a more thorough study.
“A key, in the right corner of the sky. It seems to be a bird until you look closely. A second one there, on the branch of a tree, almost hidden by the leaves and fruit. And the third, just visible under the surface of the pool. There’s a shadow there, in the trees. In the form of a man, maybe a woman. Just the hint of something dark watching them. Another shadow, just sliding onto the silver tile at the edge. A snake. Ah, and here, in the far background.”
She lost herself in the painting, forgot herself and stepped up onto the hearth. “There’s a couple—a man and a woman—embracing. The woman is robed, richly, with the purple symbolizing a woman of rank. And the man is garbed like a soldier. A warrior. There’s a raven in the tree just above them. A symbol of impending doom. Just as the sky here is darker, with storm lights. A threat. The sisters are unaware of the threat. They look forward, grouped together, the crown of their ranks glinting in the sunlight that washes this area of the foreground. There’s a sense of companionship and affection between them, and the white dove here, on the edge of the pool, is their purity. Each wears an amulet, the same shape and size, with the jewel reflecting the color of their gown. They are a unit, yet individuals. It’s magnificent work. You can almost see them breathe.”
“You have a discerning eye.” Pitte touched Ro
wena’s arm as he nodded at Malory. “It’s the prize of the collection.”
“And still,” Dana pointed out, “you haven’t answered the question.”
“Magick couldn’t break the spell that locked the souls of the king’s daughters in a box of glass. Sorcerers were called, and wizards and witches from all the worlds. But no magicks could unbind the curse. So another was cast. In this world, in every generation, three women are born who will come together in one place, at one time. They are not sisters, they are not gods, but mortal women. And they are the only ones who can release the innocents.”
“And you want us to believe that we’re those women?” Dana’s brows arched. There was a tickle in her throat, but it didn’t feel like laughter. “That we just happen to look like the women in this painting?”
“Nothing just happens. And whether you believe or not changes little.” Pitte held out his hands toward them. “You are the chosen, and I am charged to tell you.”
“Well, you’ve told us, so now—”
“And to make you this offer,” he continued before Dana could finish. “You will each have, in turn, one phase of the moon to find one of the three keys. If within the twenty-eight days the first fails, the matter is done. If the first succeeds, the second’s time begins. But if the second fails within her time, the matter is done. If all three keys are brought to this place, before the end of the third moon, you will be given a boon.”
“What sort of boon?” Zoe asked.
“One million dollars. Each.”
“Get out of town!” Dana snorted, then stared at her two companions. “Oh, come on, ladies. This is just screwy. Easy for him to toss money around like confetti when we’d be off on some wild-goose chase for a trio of keys that don’t exist in the first place.”
“And if they did—” Her eyes brilliant, Zoe turned toward Dana. “If they did, wouldn’t you want a chance to find them? The chance for that kind of money?”
“What chance? It’s a great big world out there. How do you expect to find a little gold key?”