Terry Brooks - A Knight of the Word

Even so, she wasn't prepared for what happened next.

The magic she had called upon did not respond.

Another magic did.

It came from the same place as the magic she had been born to, from inside, where her soul resided in a conjoining of heart and mind and body. It exploded out of her in a rush of dark energy, taking its own distinctive form, unleashed by instincts that demanded she survive at any cost. Its power was raw and terrifying, and she, could not .control it. It did not release from her as she had expected„ Gut swept her along, borne within its storm–racked centre, and it was as if she were caught inside a whirlwind.

She was seeing the demon now through darker, more primitive eyes, and she realised suddenly, shockingly, that those eyes belonged to Wraith. She was trapped inside the ghost wolf. She had become a part of him.

Then she was hurtling into the demon, with no time left to think. Claws and teeth ripped and tore, and snarls filled the air, and she was fighting the demon as if became Wraith, herself grown massive through the shoulders and torso, rough–coated with fur, gimlet–eyed and lupine.

Back against the racks she drove the demon, steeped in the ghost wolf's strength and swift reactions. The demon twisted and fought, intertwined so closely with her she could feel the bunching of its muscles and hear the hissing of its breath. The demon tried to gain a grip on her throat, failed, and leaped away. She gave pursuit, a red veil of hot rage and killing need blinding her to everything else. They rolled and tumbled through the wrought–iron furniture, against the maze of rocks and fountains, and she no longer thought to wonder what was happening or why, but only to gain an advantage over a foe she knew she must destroy.

Perhaps she would have succeeded. Perhaps she would have prevailed. But then she heard her name called. A sharp cry, it was filled with despair and anguish.

John Ross had reached her at last.

White fire lashed the air in front of her, turning her aside. But the fire was not meant for her. It struck the demon full on, a rope of searing flame, and threw it backward to land in a bristling heap. She caught sight of Ross now, standing just inside the park entrance, his legs braced, the black staff bright with magic. Again the fire lanced from the Knight of the Word into the demon, catching it as it tried to twist away, knocking it down once more. Ross advanced, his face all planes and sharp edges, etched deep with shadows and grim determination.

The demon fought back. It counterattacked with a stunning burst of speed and fury, snapping at the scorched night air. Gut the Word's magic hammered into it over and over, knocking it back, flinging it away. Ross closed the distance between himself and his adversary, ignoring Nest, his concentration centred on the demon. The demon wailed suddenly, as if become human again, a cry so desperate and affecting that Nest cringed. Ross screamed in response, perhaps to fight against the feelings the cry generated somewhere back in the dark closets of his heart, perhaps simply in fury. He went to where the demon lay broken and writhing, a thing barely recognisable by now. It was trying to change again, to become something else–perhaps the thing Ross had loved so much. But Ross would not allow it. The black staff came down, and the magic surged forth, splitting the demon asunder, ripping it from neck to knee.

Feeders swarmed over it, rending and digging hungrily. The winged black thing that formed its twisted soul tried to break free from the carnage, but Ross was waiting. With a single sweep of his staff, he sent it spinning into the trailing fire and fading life.

What remained of the demon collapsed on itself and scattered in the wind. Even when the last of its ashes had blown away, John Ross stayed where he was, silhouetted against the shimmer of the waterfall, staring down at the dark smear that marked its passing darkness, a tiny, flaming comet.

It was a little after ten–thirty the following morning when Andrew Wren walked into the offices of Pass/Go, announced himself to the receptionist, and was told Simon Lawrence would see him. He thanked her, advised her that he knew the way, and started back. He proceeded down the hall past the classrooms and offices, contemplating a collage of children's finger paintings that decorated one section of a sun–splashed wall. He was dressed in his corduroy jacket with the patches at the elbows and had worn a scarf and gloves against the November chill. He carried his old leather briefcase in one hand and a newsboy cap in the other. His cherubic face was unshaved, and his hair was uncombed. He had overslept and been forced to forgo the niceties of personal grooming and had simply pulled on his clothes and headed out. As a result, he looked not altogether different from some of the men standing in the soup line at Union Gospel Mission up the street.

Rumpled and baggy, he shuffled through the doorway of the Wiz's cramped office and gave a brief wave of his hand. 'Got any coffee, Simon?'

Simon Lawrence was immersed in paperwork, but he gestated wordlessly toward a chair stacked with books, then picked up the phone to call out to the front desk to fill Wren's order and one of his own.

Wren cleared the chair he had been offered and sat dawn heavily. `I watched you perform for the assembled last night with something approaching awe. Meeting all those people, shaking hands, answering questions, offering prognostications, being pleasant. To tell you the truth, I don't know how you do it. I couldn't possibly keep up the kind of pace you do and stay sane'

`Well, I don't do it every night, Andrew.' Simon stretched and leaned back in his chair. He gave Wren a suspicious look. `fm almost afraid to ask, but what brings you by this time?'

Wren managed to look put upon. `I wanted to see how you were, for one thing. No more episodes, I hope?'

The other man spread his hands. `I still don't know what happened. One moment I was standing there on the stairs, talking with Carole and those workers from Union Gospel, and the next I was down on the floor. I just seemed to lose all my strength. I'm scheduled to see a doctor about it this afternoon, but I don't think it's anything more than stress and a lack of sleep:

Wren nodded. `I wouldn't be surprised. Anyway, I also wanted to congratulate you on last night. It was a huge success, as you know. The gift of the land from the city, the. offer of additional funding, the pledges of support from virtually every quarter. You should be very pleased about that:

Simon Lawrence sighed, arching one eyebrow. About that, yes, I'm very pleased. It helps take the edge off a few of the less pleasant aspects of the day's events'

`Hmmm,' Wren murmured solemnly. `Speaking of which, have you seen her today?'

Simon didn't have to ask who he was referring to. `No, and I don't think I'm going to. Not today or any other. I went by her apartment early this morning, thinking I might surprise her with the news, but she was gone. Her clothes, luggage, personal effects, everything. The door to the apartment was wide open, so I had no trouble getting in. At first I thought something might have happened to her. A chair had been thrown through the living room window. It was lying down in the park with pieces of glass all over the place. But nothing else in the apartment seemed disturbed. There was no sign of any kind of violence having occurred. I called the police anyway'

Wren studied him thoughtfully. 'Do you think she suspected we were onto her?'

Simon shook his head. 'I don't see how. You and I were the only ones who knew the lab results–and I didn't know until after the dedication, when you told me. 'He paused, reflecting. `I tell you, Andrew, Id never have guessed it was her. Not in a million years. Stefanie Winslow. I still can't believe it'

'Well, the handwriting analysis of the signatures on the deposit slips were pretty conclusive: Wren paused. `Why do you think she did it, Simon?'

Simon Lawrence shrugged. `I cant begin to answer that question. You'll have to ask her, if she ever resurfaces from wherever she's gone to ground:

`Maybe John Ross can tell us something'

Simon pursed his lips sourly. `He's gone, too. He left this. It was on my desk when I came into work this morning, tucked into an envelope'

He reached into his desk and produced a single sheet of white paper with a handwritten note. He handed it to Wren, who pushed up his glasses on the bridge of his nose and began to read.

Dear Simon.

I regret that I am unable to deliver this in

person, but by the time you read it I will already be far away. Please do not think badly of me for not staying. I am not responsible for the thefts that occurred at Fresh Start Stefanie Winslow is. I wish I could tell you why. As it is. I feel that even though all the money will be returned, my continued involvement with your programs will simply complicate matters. I will not forget the cause you have championed so successfully and will endeavour in some small way to carry on your work wherever I go.

I am enclosing a letter authorising transfer back to Fresh Start of all funds

improperly deposited to my accounts.

John

Wren looked up speculatively. `Well, well'

The coffee arrived, delivered by a young volunteer, and the two men accepted the cups and sat sipping at the hot brew in the silence that followed the intern's departure.

`I think he was as fooled as the rest of us,' the Wiz said finally.

Wren nodded. `Could be. Anyway, there's no one left who can tell us now, is there?'

Simon put down his coffee cup and sighed. `If you want to have dinner tonight, I can try to fill you in on the details of this mess so you can keep your article for the Times as accurate as possible'

Wren smiled, relinquished his own cup, and rose to his feet. `I can't do that, Simon. I'm flying out this afternoon, back to the Big Apple. Besides, the article's already written. I finished it at two this morning or something like that'

The Wiz looked confused. `But what about. .

Wren held up one chubby hand, assuming his most professional look. 'Did you get all the money transferred back to Fresh Start out of (boss's accounts?'

Simon nodded.

And your own'?'

Simon nodded again. `First thing this morning'

`Then it's a story with a happy ending, and I think we ought to leave it at that. No one wants to read about a theft of charitable funds where the money is recovered and the thief is a nobody. It doesn't sell papers. The real story here is about a man whose vision and hand work have produced a small miracle–the opening of a city's stone heart and padlocked purse in support of a cause that might not gain a single politician a single vote in the next election. Besides, what point is there in writing about something that would serve no other purpose than to muddy up such beautiful, pristine waters?'

Andrew Wren picked up his briefcase and donned his cloth cap. `Someday,. I'll be back for the story of your life. The real story, the one you won't talk about just yet. Meantime, go back to work on what matters. Just remember, for the record, you owe me one, Simon!

Then he walked out the door, leaving the Wizard of Oz staring after him in bemused wonder.

Nest Freemark spent the first day of November travelling. After spending another night at the Alexis, she caught a mid morning flight to Chicago, which arrived shortly before four in the afternoon. She had debated returning to Northwestern for the one remaining day of the school week and quickly abandoned the idea. She was tired, jittery, and haunted by the events of the past few