by Terry Brooks
The name John Ross was faintly legible against the aged parchment. Even as he watched, the name turned a shade darker.
You take away what you can from these battles, he thought. The life of a Knight of the Word was a reasonable trophy.
He closed the book and walked on. In seconds, his tall, dark figure had vanished into the night.
Nest Freemark remained where she was until she could no longer see Findo Gask. Harper nestled against her breast, fast asleep. Pick sat on her shoulder, twiggy fingers wrapped in her parka collar, a silent presence.
Wraith had faded away into the ether, free to go where he wished, but never, she believed, to go too far from her.
“He did a fine job of convincing himself, didn’t he?” Pick said finally, gesturing after Findo Gask.
Nest nodded. “He believed what he saw in my eyes.”
“You didn’t lie.”
“I didn’t have to.”
“I guess he was looking hard enough that if he was ever going to find out, he would have found out now.”
“I guess.”
The flames from the burning house were growing hotter as the fire spread to the roof. On the front lawn, the firemen were scrambling to contain the blaze, their efforts directed primarily at protecting the surrounding homes. It was clear there was nothing they could do to save the Victorian or anyone in it.
“You think he was telling the truth about John Ross?” Pick asked suddenly.
She watched the activity out front without speaking for a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”
“I could try to get back inside for a quick look.”
The entire front half of the house was engulfed in flames and the fire was spreading quickly. Any attempt at going back inside would be foolish. Her heart could not accept that John Ross was really dead, but she knew it was so. If he was still alive, he would have come for her by now.
“Let it go, Pick,” she said softly.
Pick went silent, absorbing the impact of her words. In her arms, Harper stirred. The little girl was growing heavy, but Nest refused to put her down. She was reminded of the time she had carried Bennett home from the cliffs of Sinnissippi Park fifteen years earlier after saving her from the feeders. She hadn’t put Bennett down either that night, not until she was safely home in bed. She would do the same now with Harper. Maybe this time, it would make a difference.
“You better get going,” Pick said finally.
She nodded. “You better get going, too.”
He hesitated. “Don’t you be second-guessing yourself later,” he snapped at her suddenly. “You did everything you could! More than everything, in fact! Criminy, you should be proud of yourself!”
He jumped from her shoulder and disappeared into the tangle of the shrubbery. Moments later, she caught a glimpse of a barn owl winging its way toward the river through the snowfall and the night.
Safe journey, Pick, she wished him.
She turned and walked back toward the street, angling diagonally across the front yards of the old houses, keeping to the shadows of the trees and porches, holding Harper tightly against her. She glanced back once at the burning house, and when she did so, her eyes filled with tears. She began to cry silently, realizing what she was leaving behind, thinking of John Ross. She thought of all they had shared over the past fifteen years. She thought of what he had endured in his twenty-five years as a Knight of the Word. He had given everything in his service to the Lady. In the end, he had even given his life.
She brushed at her eyes with the back of her gloved hand. John Ross might have died for her and for the children, but he hadn’t died for nothing. And neither of them had failed in what they had set out to do.
She fought to compose herself as she crossed down a side street and came in view of her car. She wished he could have lived to see the baby. John Ross Freemark she would name him. He would be born next fall, another of those children Findo Gask was so quick to dismiss as unimportant. But this one could surprise him. Created of wild magic and born to a woman for whom magic was a legacy, he could become anything. She felt him inside her, deep in her womb, transformed into what he had sought to become all along—her baby-to-be, her future child. She did not know his plan, nor perhaps did he know it himself. Even the Word might not know. They must bide their time, all of them; they must wait and see.
She climbed into the car and placed Harper on the seat beside her. The little girl curled into a ball, her head resting on Nest’s lap. Nest started the car and let it warm up for a moment. She felt the inevitability of what had happened with the gypsy morph stir in her memories. She looked back and saw clearly all the workings of its transitions and of its journey to reach her. She could feel its final moments outside her body, pressing against her, then into her, then transforming for the last time. She could understand why Wraith had been such an obstacle to its needs. For the gypsy morph to become what it wanted, Wraith could not remain inside her. Her body must belong to her unborn child alone. It had needed to know she wanted this as much as it did. It had needed a sacrifice from her that she herself did not know until tonight she was capable of making.
Why had it chosen to become her child? There was no answer to that question, none that she could discover for a while, if ever. It must be enough that it had made such a choice, that its need matched her own, and that their joining felt good and right.
A child. Any child. It made all the difference in the world. Findo Gask was wrong about what that was worth. One day, he would learn his mistake.
She pulled the car out of the parking lot onto West Third and began driving back through Hopewell. She would take Harper home now and put her to bed. Tomorrow, when she woke, they would open their presents. Then they would go to Robert’s to visit Amy and the kids and have dinner.
It would mark the beginning of a new life.
It would be a bright and joyous Christmas Day.
Sprawled on the living-room floor, flames climbing the walls all around him, John Ross fought the poison that seeped through his system, bringing all that remained of his strength and magic and heart to bear. He got to his feet and staggered down the hall after Findo Gask. It took him a long time. His only thought was to get to the demon before the demon got to Nest. He was too late. By the time he reached the back door, the confrontation between them had already occurred. Gask had disappeared, and Nest was moving away. She did not appear to have been harmed.
He had thought momentarily of going after her and decided he was too weak. It was best just to let her go. He watched her from the doorway, the flames consuming the house around him, working their way down the hall at his back. He watched until she was several houses down, then slipped out the door and into the night.
He would go to Josie instead, he decided. He would make his way to her home, and she would care for him. He would mend eventually, and then they would be together for the rest of their lives.
He did not know where he went after that. His instincts took over, and he did as they directed. He lurched and staggered through backyards, through clusters of trees and along fences and walls, in the shadow of buildings and across snowy stretches, all without seeing or being seen by another living soul. It was after midnight, and apart from those gathered at the scene he had departed, the world was asleep. He leaned on his staff and drew from it the strength he required to go on. He was crushed and broken inside, and his wound from Penny’s knife burned and festered beneath his clothing. He was growing colder.
When he reached the banks of the Rock River, close by the dark span of the Avenue G bridge where it crossed to Lawrence Island, he was surprised to find himself so far from where he had intended to go. Josie’s house, he knew, was in the other direction. He sagged down against the rough-barked trunk of an old oak and stared out at the night. The river was frozen everywhere but at its center, where the current was strong enough to keep the ice from closing over. He watched the dark water surge, its surface reflecting the lights of the bridge overhead. I
t would be all right, he knew. It was quiet here. He was at peace.
Soon a fresh brightness appeared on the crest of the flowing water, a light that broadened and spread. The Lady appeared, come out of the darkness in her flowing, gossamer robes, her fine, soft features pale and lovely. She crossed the ice on her tiny feet to where he sat and bent to him.
“Brave Knight, you have done well,” she said softly. “You have done all that I asked. You have fulfilled your promise and your duty. You have completed your service to the Word. You are released. You are set free.”
A great weariness filled him. He could not speak, but he smiled in acknowledgement. He was satisfied. It was what he had worked so long for. It was what he had wanted so much.
“Brave Knight,” she whispered. “Come home with me. Come home where you belong.”
She reached out her hand. With great effort, he lifted his own and placed it in hers. The light that surrounded her flowed downward through his body and enfolded him as well.
As he came to his feet, he was renewed and made whole again. The black staff fell away from his hand.
Seconds later, he was gone.
The staff lay where it had fallen. In the deep silence of the night, the snowfall began to cover it over. Little by little, it began to vanish beneath a white blanket.
Then a figure appeared from out of the shadows, a big man with copper skin and long black hair braided down his back, a man who wore army fatigues and combat boots. He walked to where the staff lay and stooped to retrieve it. He brushed the snow from its dark length and held it before him thoughtfully.
A solitary warrior and a seeker of truth, he looked out across the ice to where the open water flowed, and then beyond, to where the Word’s battle against a sleeping world’s ignorance and denial still raged.
TO MY FATHER, DEAN BROOKS
Who made sacrifices as an aspiring writer then so that I could be a published writer now.
By Terry Brooks
Shannara
First King of Shannara
The Sword of Shannara
The Elfstones of Shannara
The Wishsong of Shannara
The Heritage of Shannara
The Scions of Shannara
The Druid of Shannara
The Elf Queen of Shannara
The Talismans of Shannara
The Voyage of the Jerle Shannara
Ilse Witch
Antrax
Morgawr
High Druid of Shannara
Jarka Ruus
Tanequil
Straken
The Genesis of Shannara
Armageddon’s Children
The Elves of Cintra
The Gypsy Morph
Legends of ShannaraE
Bearers of the Black Staff
The Measure of the Magic
The World of Shannara
The Magic Kingdom of Landover
Magic Kingdom for Sale—Sold!
The Black Unicorn
Wizard at Large
The Tangle Box
Witches’ Brew
A Princess of Landover
Word and Void
Running with the Demon
A Knight of the Word
Angel Fire East
Sometimes the Magic Works: Lessons from a Writing Life