Key Of Valor (Key 3)

"Brad says to tell Zoe he'll pick her up. We were going to swing by and give you guys a hand this afternoon… Okay, I'll just see you at home, then. Oh, hey, Dane? So, what are you wearing?"

He grinned, then shoved the phone back in his pocket. "Must've gotten disconnected."

While the chili was simmering, Zoe spread her notes and papers over t

he kitchen table. The house was quiet for a change. It was time to take advantage of it.

Maybe she'd tried to be too organized, mimicking Malory's style. Or she'd depended too much on books, trying to follow Dana's lead. Why not try impulse and instinct with this task as she did with other projects?

What did she do when she wanted to pick new paint for the walls, or new fabric for curtains? She spread out a bunch of samples and flipped through them until something popped out at her.

And then she knew.

Here she had her own carefully written notes, copies of Malory's, of Dana's. She had Jordan's detailed flow of events, and the photographs Malory had taken of the paintings.

She picked up the notebook she'd bought the day after her first visit to Warrior's Peak. It didn't look so shiny and new now, she thought. It looked used. And maybe that was better.

There was a lot of work inside this notebook, she reminded herself as she flipped pages. A lot of hours, a lot of effort. And that work, those hours, that effort, had helped both Malory and Dana complete their parts of the quest.

Something in here was going to help her complete her part, and finish it.

She opened the notebook at random, and began to read.

Kyna, the warrior, she'd written. Why is she mine? I see Venora, the artist, in Malory, and Niniane, the scribe, in Dana. But how am I a warrior ?

I'm a hairdresser. No, hair and skin specialist— must remember to pump that up. I worked for it. I'm a good worker, but that's not the same as fighting .

Beauty for Malory, knowledge for Dana. Courage for me. Where does the courage come in?

Is it just living? That doesn't seem like enough.

Considering, Zoe tapped her pencil on the page, then earmarked it by folding down a corner. She flipped through the section until she came to a blank sheet.

Maybe just living is enough. Didn't Malory have to choose to live in the real world— sacrificing something of beauty, and Dana had to learn to see the truth, and live with it? Those were essential steps in their quests.

What's mine?

She began to write quickly now, trying to see the pattern, trying to form one. As the ideas and possibilities clicked in her mind, she wore her pencil down, tossed it aside, and reached for another.

When that went dull, she pushed away from the table to take the pencils to the sharpener.

Satisfied with the points, she stuck one behind each ear and turned to the stove to stir the chili and think.

Maybe she was on the right track, maybe she wasn't— and she sure as hell couldn't see the end of the road. But she was moving somewhere, and that was important.

With her mind wandering, she lifted the spoon to taste, then stared at the dull reflection in the range hood.

Her hair was a long spill down her shoulders, adorned with a wide gold band with a dark center stone, diamond-shaped. Her eyes were more gold than brown. Very clear, very direct.

She could see the green of her dress—a dark forest color, and the brown leather of a strap over her shoulder. The silver glint of a sword hilt at her hip.

There were trees, misted with morning, pearly gleams from dewed leaves, wavering beams of early sunlight. And through the trees were paths.

She could feel the smooth wood of the spoon handle in her hand, smell the steam from the simmering pot.

Not a hallucination, she told herself. Not imagination.

"What are you trying to tell me? What do you want me to see?"