Terry Brooks - A Knight of the Word

So he called forth the magic of the staff, called it with a certainty that surprised him, called it with full acceptance of what it meant to do so. He renounced himself and what he had become. He renounced his stand of the past year and took up anew the mantle he had shed. He declared himself a Knight of the Word, begged for the right to become so once more, if only for this single night, if only for this solitary purpose. He armoured himself in his vow to become the thing he had tried so hard to disclaim, accepting as truth the admonitions of Owain Glyndwr and O'olish Amaneh. He bowed in acknowledgement to the cautions of the Lady as delivered by Nest Freemark and her friends, giving himself over once more to the promises he had made fifteen years earlier when he had taken up the cause of the Word and entered into His service,

Even then, the magic did not come at once, for it lay deep within the staff, waiting for the call to he night, for the prayer to be sincere. He could sense it, poised and heedful, but recalcitrant. He strained to reach it, to make it feel his need, to draw it to him as he would a reluctant child. His eyes were closed and his brow furrowed in concentration, and the pain that racked his body became a white–hot fury at the core of his heart.

Suddenly, abruptly, the lady was before him, there in the darkness of his

mind, white–gowned and ephemeral, her hands reaching far him. Oh, my brave

Knight Errant, would you truly come bark to me? Would you serve me as you once

did, without reservation or guilt, without doubt or fear? Would you be mine as you were? her words filtered like the slow meandering of a forest stream through rocks and mud banks, soft and rippling. He cried at the, sound of her voice, the tearsfilling his lids and leaking down his bloodied~face. I would. l will. Always. Forever.

Then she was gone, and the magic of the staff stirred and gathered and came forth in a swan, steady river, climbing out of the polished black walnut into his arms and body„ filling him with its healing power.

Silver light enfolded the Knight of the Word with bright radiance, and he was alive anew.

And dead to what once he had hoped so, strongly he might be.

John Ross lifted his head in recognition, feeling the power of the magic flow through him, rising acct of the staff, anxious to serve. He let it strengthen him as nothing else could, not caring what it might cost him. For the cost was not his to measure. It would be measured in his dreams, when they returned. It would be measured in the time he would spend unprotected in the future he had sworn to prevent and, as a Knight of the Word once more, must now return to.

But before that happened, he vowed, climbing to his feet as the damage to his body was swept aside by the sustaining magic, he would find Simon Lawrence, demon of the Void.

And he would destroy him.

Nest Freemark arrived at the museum with the first crush of invited guests, and it tools her a while just to get through the door. When she was asked for her invitation and failed to produce it, she was told in no uncertain terms that if her name wasn't an the guest list, she couldn't come in., She tried to explain how important this was, that she needed to find John Ross or Simon Lawrence, but the security guards weren't interested. People behind her were getting impatient with the delay, and she might have been thwarted altogether if she hadn't caught sight of Carole Price and called her over. Carole greeted Nest effusively and told the security guards to let her through.

`Nest, what are you doing here?' the other woman asked, steering her to an open spat amid the knots of masked guests and skeleton–costumed servers. `I thought you'd gone back to Illinois:

`I postponed my flight; she replied, keeping her explanation purposefully vague. 'Is John here?'

`John Ross?' A waiter came up to, them with a tray filled with champagne glasses, and Carole motioned him await `No, I haven't seen him yet:

`How about Mr. Lawrence?'

'Oh, yes, Simon's here somewhere. I saw him just a little while ago: Her brow furrowed slightly. `You heard about the fire, didn't you, Nest?'

Nest nodded. 'I'm sorry about Mr, Hapgood.' There was an awkward silence as she tried to think of something else to say. `I know John was very upset about it'

Carole Price nodded.' We all were. Look, why don't you go on and see if you can find him. I haven't seen him down here, but maybe he's up on the mezzanine. And I'll tell Simon you're here. He'll want to say hello'

`Thanks' Nest glanced around doubtfully. The lobby was filling up quickly with guests, and everyone was wearing a mask. It made recognising people difficult. `If you see John,' she said carefully, `tell him I'm here. Tell him it's important that I speak with him right away'

Carole nodded, a hint of confusion in her blue eyes, and Nest moved away before she could ask any questions.

A passing server handed her one of the black nylon masks, and she slipped it on. All around her, people were drinking champagne. Their talk and laughter was deafening in the cavernous space. Eyes scanning the crowd, she moved toward the wide staircase with the massive stone figures warding its various levels arid began to climb. As she dial so, a troubling realisation came to her. She had forgotten about the dream, the one that had haunted Ross for months, the one in which the old man accused him of killing the Wizard of Oz–and perhaps of killing her as well. She had been thinking so hard about Ross and the demon and what she suspected abort both that it had slipped her mind. It was supposed to happen here, in the Seattle Art Museum, on this night. He had wanted her far away from this place, so it could never happen. He had wanted himself far away as well. But she suspected events and demon schemes were at work conspiring to thwart his wishes. Simon Lawrence was already here. She was here. If he wasn't already, soon John Ross would be here too.

She reacted the mezzanine and glanced around anew. She did not see Ross. She felt a groaning desperation at her inability to locate him. The longer he remained ignorant of what she suspected, the greater the risk his dream would come to pass. But all she could do was to keep looking. She walked over to a security guard and asked if he had seen John Ross. He told her he didn't even know who Ross was. Frustrated with his response, she asked if he'd seen Simon Lawrence, The guard said no, but asked her to wait and walked over to speak with a second guard. After a moment he came back and told her the second guard had sent a man upstairs not long ago to talk with Mr. Lawrence-a man who walked with a limp and carried a walking stick.

Stunned by her blind good luck, she thanked him and moved quickly to the stairway. She had never even thought to ask if a man with a walking staff and a limp had came in. Stupid, stupid! She tore off the nylon mask and went up the stairs in a rush, wondering what Simon and Ross were doing up there, wondering if somehow she was already too late. There was still too much she didn't know, too much about the circumstances surrounding the events portended in Ross's dream that was hidden from her. There was a tangle of threads in this matter that needed careful unravelling before it ensnared them all.

She reached the second–floor landing and wheeled left to where a dozen steps rose to a dimly lit corridor and the exhibition rooms beyond. She was halfway up this second set of stairs when she drew up shot.

John Ross walked out of the shadows, a luminous, terrifying apparition. His clothes were torn and bloodied, and his tattered coat billowed out from his half–naked body like a cape. The black, rune–scrolled staff that was the source of his magic shimmered with silver light, and the radiance it emitted ran all about hint like electricity. His strong, sharply angled face was hard–set and drawn, and his green eyes were fierce with determination and rage.

When he saw her, he faltered slightly, and with recognition came a hint of fear and shack. `Nest!" he hissed

Her breath caught in her throat. `John, what happened?' When he shook his head, unwilling to answer, she wasted no further time on the matter. `John, 1 had to come back,' she said quickly. `I took a chance I might find you here. I have to talk with you'

He shook his head in horror, seeing. something that was hidden from her, some truth too terrible to accept. 'Get out of here, Nest! I told you to get away! I warned you about the dream!

`But that's why I'm here' She tried to get closer, but he held up one hand as if to ward himself against her. `John, you have to forget about the dream. The dream was a lie'

`It was the truth!' he shouted bark at her. `The dream was the truth! The dream is meant to happen! But some of it can still be changed, enough so that you wont be hurt! But you have to get out of here! You have to leave now!'

She brushed back her curly hair, trying to understand what he was saying. `No, the dream doesn't have to happen. Don't you remember? You're supposed to prevent the dream!'

He came forward a step, wild–eyed and shining with silver light, the magic a living thing as it raced cap and down his body and across his limbs. `You don't understand!' he hissed at her in fury. `I'm supposed to make it happen!'

There were footsteps and voices on the Grand Stairway, and Nest turned in surprise. She heard Simon Lawrence speaking, and she rushed to where she could see him climbing out of the brightly lit mezzanine toward the second-Floor shadows.

She wheeled back to find John Ross striding toward her. `Get out of the way, Nest'

She stared at him, appalled at what she saw in his eyes and heard in his voice. `No, John, wait'

The footsteps stopped momentarily, the voices still audible. Nest could hear Simon Lawrence distinctly, calling to someone below. A woman. Carole Price? Nest went back toward Ross, holding out her hands pleadingly. 'John, it isn't him!'

His laugh was brittle. `I saw him, Nest! He did this to me, moments ago, up there!' He gestured back in the direction from which he had come. `He told me everything, admitted it! Then he attacked me! He's the demon, Nest! He's the one who stalked you in the park, the one who destroyed Ariel and Audrey and Boot! He's the one who set fire to Fresh Start! He's the one who killed Ray Hapgood!'

He slammed the butt end of his black staff against the stone floor, and white fire ran up its length like a rocket, searing the dark. 'This dream isn't like the others, No. It's a prophecy!' His voice was ragged and uneven, choked with anger. 'It's a revelation meant to put things right! It's a window into a truth I was trying wrongly, foolishly to ignore! I have to apt on it! I have to make it happen!'

She held up her hands to slow his advance. `No, John„ listen to me!'

The footsteps were approaching again, the voices growing stronger. She could hear Simon joking with someone, could hear muffled responses, sudden laughter, the clink of glasses. Ross was staring past her, the staff's magic gathering about his knotted hands, growing brighter as he waited for Simon to come into view so that he could unleash it.

`Step aside, Nest; he said softly.

In desperation she backed away from him, but slowly and with measured steps, so he did not advance immediately, but stood watching to see what she intended. She backed until the sweep of the stairway came into view, then wheeled on the knot of people approaching. Simon Lawrence was foremost, smiling, at ease, exchanging remarks with Carole Price and three weathered, worn looking men who looked to have seen hard times and few respites. They had not seen her yet, and she did not wait for them to do so. She acted on instinct and out of need. She called on her own magic, on the magic she had been born with but had forsworn since the death of Gran. She called on it without knowing whether it would come, but with certainty that it must. She drew Simon Lawrence's gaze to her own, just a glimpse and no more, just enough to bind them for an instant, then used the magic to buckle his legs and drop him nerveless and limp upon the stairs.