A Knight of the Word

by Terry Brooks

  Simon Lawrence gave him a cool look. “An idiot? Not you, Andrew. Not likely. Besides, if there’s something crooked going on, I want to know about it, too.”

  He stood up. “Finish your latte. I’ll have Jenny Parent, our bookkeeper, bring up the records. You can sit here and look them over to your heart’s content.” He glanced down at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting with some people downtown at five, but you can stay as long as you like. I’ll catch up with you in the morning, and you can give me your report then. Fair enough?”

  Wren nodded. “More than fair. Thank you, Simon.”

  Simon Lawrence paused midway around his desk. “Let me be honest with you about my feelings on this matter, Andrew. You are in a position to do a great deal of harm here, to undo an awful lot of hard work, and I don’t want that to happen. I resent the hell out of the implication that I would do anything to subvert the efforts of Fresh Start and Pass/Go and the people who have given so much time and effort and money in support of those programs, but I understand that you can’t ignore the possibility that the rumors and innuendos have some basis in fact. You wouldn’t be doing your job if you did. So I am trusting you to be up front with me on anything you find—or, more to the point, don’t find. Whatever you need, I’ll try to give it to you. But I’m giving it to you in the belief that you won’t write an article where rumors and accusations are repeated without any basis in fact.”

  Wren studied Lawrence for a moment. “I don’t ever limit the scope of an investigation by offering conditions,” he said quietly. “But I can also say that I have never based a report on anything that wasn’t backed up by solid facts. It won’t be any different here.”

  The other man held his gaze a moment longer. “See you tomorrow, Andrew.”

  He walked out the door and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Wren alone in his office. Wren sat where he was and finished his latte, then stood up and walked over to the window again. He admired the Wiz, admired the work he had done with the homeless. He hoped he wouldn’t find anything bad to write about. He hoped the phone calls and letters were baseless—sour grapes from a former employee or an errant shot at troublemaking from an extremist group of “real Americans.” He’d read the letters and listened to the tapes of the phone calls. It was possible there was nothing to them.

  But his instincts told him otherwise. And he had learned from twenty-five years of experience that his instincts were seldom wrong.

  The demon gave Andrew Wren the better part of an hour with the foundation’s financial records, waiting patiently, allowing the reporter enough time to familiarize himself with the overall record of donations to Fresh Start and Pass/Go, then checked to make certain the hallway was empty and slipped into the room behind him. Wren never heard the demon approach, his back to the door, his head lowered to the open books as he ran his finger across the notations. The demon stood looking at him for a moment, thinking how easy it would be to kill him, feeling the familiar hunger begin to build.

  But now was not the time and Wren had not been lured to Seattle to satisfy the demon’s hunger. There were plenty of others for that.

  The demon moved up behind Andrew Wren and placed its fingers on the back of the man’s exposed neck. Wren did not move, did not turn, did not feel anything as the dark magic entered him. His eyes locked on the pages before him, and his mind froze. The demon probed his thoughts, drew his attention, and then whispered the words that were needed to manipulate him.

  I won’t find what I’m looking for here. Simon Lawrence is much too clever for that. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to let me look at these books if he thought they were incriminating. I have to be patient. I have to wait for my source to contact me.

  The demon spoke in Andrew Wren’s voice, in Andrew Wren’s mind, in Andrew Wren’s thoughts, and it would seem to the reporter as if the words were his own. He would do as the demon wanted without ever realizing it; he would be the demon’s tool. He would think that the ideas the demon gave him were his own and that the conclusions the demon reached for him were his. It was easy enough to arrange. Andrew Wren was an investigative reporter, and investigative reporters believed that everyone was covering up something. Why should Simon Lawrence be different?

  Andrew Wren hesitated a moment as the demon’s words took root, and then he closed the book before him and began to stack it with the others.

  The demon smiled in satisfaction. It wouldn’t be long now until everything was in place. Another two days was all it would take. John Ross would be turned. A Knight of the Word would become a servant of the Void. It would happen so swiftly that it would be over before Ross even realized what was taking place. Even afterward, he would not know what had been done to him. But the demon would know, and that would be enough. A single step was all that was required to change John Ross’s life, a step away from the light and into the dark. Andrew Wren would help make that happen.

  The demon lifted its fingers from Andrew Wren’s neck, slipped back out the door, and was gone.

  Chapter 8

  In the aftermath of San Sobel, John Ross decided to return to the Fairy Glen and the Lady.

  It took him a long time to reach his decision to do so. He was paralyzed for weeks following the massacre, consumed with despair and guilt, replaying the events over and over in his mind in an effort to make sense of them. Even after he had reached his conclusion that the demon had subverted a member of the police rescue squad, he could not lay the matter to rest. To begin with, he could never know for certain if his conclusion was correct. There would always be some small doubt that he still didn’t have it right and might have done something else to prevent what had happened. Besides, wasn’t he just looking for a way to shift the blame from himself? Wasn’t that what it all came down to? Whatever the answer, the fact remained that he had been responsible for preventing the slaughter of those children, and he had failed.

  So, after a lengthy deliberation on the matter, he decided he could no longer serve as a Knight of the Word.

  But how was he to go about handing in his resignation? He might have decided he was quitting, but how did he go about giving notice? He had already stopped trying to function as a Knight, had ceased thinking of himself as the Word’s champion. He had retreated so far from who and what he had been that even the nature of his dreams had begun to change. Although he still dreamed, the dreams had turned vague and purposeless. He still wandered a grim and desolate future in which his world had been destroyed and its people reduced to animals, but his part in that world was no longer clear. When he dreamed, he drifted from landscape to landscape, encountering no one, seeing nothing of value, discovering nothing of his past that he might use as a Knight of the Word. It was what he wanted, not to be burdened with knowledge of events he might influence, but it was vaguely troubling as well. He still carried the staff bequeathed to him by the Word, the talisman that gave him his power, but he no longer used it for its magic, only as a walking stick. He still felt the magic within, a small tingling, a brief surge of heat, but he felt removed and disconnected from it.

  He no longer saw himself as a Knight of the Word, had quit thinking of himself as one, but he needed a way to sever his ties for good. He decided finally that to do this he must go back to where it had all begun.

  To Wales, to the Fairy Glen, and to the Lady.

  He had not been back in more than ten years, not since he had traveled to England in his late twenties, a graduate student permanently mired in his search for his life’s purpose, not since he had drifted from postgraduate course to postgraduate course, a prisoner of his own indecision. He had gone to England to change the direction of his life, to travel and study and find a path that had meaning for him. In the course of that pursuit, he had journeyed into Wales to stay at the cottage of a friend’s parents in the village of Betwys-y-Coed in Gwynedd in the heart of the Snowdonia wilderness. He had been studying the history of the English kings, particularly of Edward Longshanks, who had built the iron ring of fo
rtresses to subdue the Welsh in the Snowdonia region, and so was drawn to the opportunity to travel there. Once arrived, he began to fall under the spell of the country and its people, to become enmeshed in their history and folklore, and to sense that there was a purpose to his being there beyond what was immediately apparent.

  Then he found the Fairy Glen and the ghost of Owain Glyndwr, the Welsh patriot, who appeared to him as a fisherman and persuaded him to come back at midnight so that he could see the fairies at play. Skeptical of the idea of fairies and a little frightened by the encounter, but captivated as well by the setting and the possibility that there was some truth to the fisherman’s words, he eventually did as he was asked. It was there, in the blackness of the new moon and the sweep of a thousand stars on a clear summer night, that the Lady appeared to him for the first and only time. She told him of her need for his services as a Knight of the Word. She revealed to him his blood link to Owain Glyndwr, who had served her as a Knight in his lifetime. She showed to him a vision of the future that would be if her Knights failed to prevent it. She persuaded him to accept her, to accept the position she offered him, to accept a new direction in his life.

  To accept the way of the Word.

  Now, to abandon that way, to sever the ties that bound him to the Word’s path, he decided he must return to her.

  He bought a ticket, packed a single bag, and flew east. He arrived at Heathrow, boarded a train, and traveled west to Bristol and then across the border into Wales. He found the journey nostalgic and unsettling; his warm memories of the past competed with the harsh reality of his purpose in the present, and his emotions were left jumbled, his nerves on edge. It was late fall, and the countryside was beginning to take on a wintry cast as the colors of summer and autumn slowly drained away. The postage-stamp fields and meadows lay fallow, and the livestock huddled closer to the buildings and feeding troughs. Flowers had disappeared, and skies were clouded and gray with the changing weather.

  He reached Betwys-y-Coed after expending several days and utilizing various forms of transportation, and he booked himself at a small inn. It began to rain the day he arrived, and it kept raining afterward. He waited for the rain to stop, spending time in the public rooms of the inn and exploring various shops he remembered from his visit before. A few of the residents remembered him. The village, he found, was substantially unchanged.

  He spent time thinking about what he would say to the Lady when he came face-to-face with her. It would not be easy to tell her he could no longer be in her service. She was a powerful presence, and she would try to dissuade him from his purpose. Perhaps she would even hurt him. He still remembered how she had crippled him. After his return to his parents’ home in Ohio, her emissary, O’olish Amaneh, had come to him with the staff, and he had sensed immediately that his life would change irrevocably if he accepted it. His determination and conviction had been eroding steadily since his return from England, but now there was no time left to equivocate. The staff was thrust upon him, and the moment his hands touched the polished wood, his foot and leg cramped and withered, the pain excruciating, and he was bound to the talisman forever.

  Would that change now? he wondered. If he was no longer a Knight of the Word, would his leg be healed, be made whole and strong again? Or would his decision to abandon his charge cost him even more?

  He tried not to dwell on the matter, but the longer he waited, the harder it became to convince himself to carry through on his resolve. His imagination was working overtime after a week of deliberation, stimulated by the rain and the gray and his own fears, turned gloomy and despairing of hope. This was a mistake, he began to believe. This was stupid. He should not have come here. He should have stayed where he was. It was sufficient that he refused to act as a Knight of the Word. His decision did not require the Lady’s validation. He barely dreamed at all anymore, his dreams so indistinct by now that they lacked any recognizable purpose. They were closer to real dreams, to the ones normal people had that involved bits and pieces of events and places and people, all of it disjointed and meaningless. He was no longer being shown a usable future. He was no longer being given clues to a past he might act upon. Wasn’t that sufficient proof that he was severed from his charge as a Knight of the Word?

  But in the end he decided that he was being cowardly. He had come a long way just to turn around and go home again, and he should at least give it a try. He put on a slicker and boots and hitched a ride out to the Fairy Glen. He went at midday, thinking that perhaps the daylight would lessen his trepidation. But it was a slow, steady rain that fell, turning everything gray and misty, and the world had taken on a hazy, ephemeral look in which nothing seemed substantive, but was all made of shadows and the damp.

  His ride dropped him right next to the white board sign with black letters that read Fairy Glen. Ahead, a rutted lane led away from the highway and disappeared over a low rise, following a wooden fence. A small parking lot was situated on the left with a box for donations, and a wooden arrow pointed down the lane, saying To the glen.

  It was all as he remembered.

  The car drove away, and he was left alone. The forest about him on both sides of the road was deep and silent and empty of movement. He could see no houses. Fences ran along the road at various points, bent with its curves, and disappeared into the gray. He took a long moment to stare at the signs, the donation box, the parking lot, and the rutted lane, and then at the countryside about him, recalling what it had been like when he had come here for the first time. It had been magical. Right from the beginning, he had felt it. He had been filled with wonder and expectation. Now he was weary and uncertain and burdened with a deep-seated sense of failure. As if all he had accomplished had gone for nothing. As if all he had given of himself had been for naught.

  He walked up the rutted lane to find the break in the fence line that would lead him down into the glen. He walked slowly, placing his feet carefully, listening to the patter of the rain and the silence behind it. The branches of the trees hung over him like giants’ arms, poised to sweep him up and carry him off. Shadows moved and drifted with the clouds, and his eyes swept the haze uneasily.

  At the opening in the fence, he paused again, listening. There was nothing to hear, but he kept thinking there should be, that something of what he remembered of his previous visit would reveal itself. But everything seemed new and different, and while the terrain looked as he remembered, it didn’t feel the same. Something was missing, he knew. Something was changed.

  He went through the gate in the fence and started down the pathway that wound into the ravine. Leaning heavily on his staff, he worked his way slowly ahead. The Fairy Glen was a jumble of massive boulders and broken rock and isolated patches of wildflowers and long grasses. A waterfall tumbled out of the high rocks to become a meandering stream of eddies and rapids, with pools so clear and still he could see the colored pebbles they collected. Rain dripped from the trees and puddled on the trail and ran down the steep sides of the ravine in rivulets that eroded the earth in intricate designs. No Birdsong disturbed the white noise of the water’s rush or the fall of the rain. No movement disrupted the deep carpet of shadows.

  As he reached the floor of the ravine, he glanced back to where the waterfall spilled off the rocks, but there was no sign of the fairies. He slowed and looked around carefully. The Lady was nowhere to be seen. The Fairy Glen was cloaked in shadow and curtained by rain, and it was empty of life. It was as he remembered, but different, too. Like before, he decided, when he had stood at the gate opening, it seemed changed. He took a long moment to figure out what the nature of that change might be.

  Then he had it. It was the absence of any magic. He couldn’t feel any magic here. He couldn’t feel anything.

  His hand tightened on the staff, searching. The magic failed to respond. He stood staring at the Fairy Glen in disbelief, unable to accept that this could be so. Were the Lady and the fairies gone from the glen? Was that why he could not sense the mag
ic? Because the magic was no longer here?

  He walked along the rugged bank of the rain-choked stream, picking his way carefully over the litter of broken rock and thick grasses. On a flat stone shelf, he knelt and peered down into a still pool. He could see his reflection clearly. He looked for something more, for something different, for a sign. Nothing revealed itself. He watched the rain pock his reflection with droplets that sent glistening, concentric rings arcing away, one after the other. His image grew shimmery and distorted, and he looked quickly away.

  When he lifted his head, a fisherman was standing on the opposite shore a dozen yards away, staring at him. For a moment, Ross couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He had convinced himself that the Fairy Glen was abandoned; he had given up hope of finding anyone here. But he recognized the fisherman instantly. His clothes and size and posture were unmistakable. And his look. Because he was a ghost and was not entirely solid, his body shifted and changed as the light played over it. When he tilted his head, as he did now, a slight movement of his broad-brimmed hat, his familiar features were revealed. It was Owain Glyndwr, his ancestor, the Welsh patriot who had fought against the English Bolingbroke, Henry IV—Owain Glyndwr, dead now for hundreds of years, but given new life in his service to the Lady. He looked just as he had years earlier, when Ross had first come upon him in the Fairy Glen.

  Seeing him like this, materialized unexpectedly, would have startled John Ross before, but not now. Instead, he felt his heart leap with gratitude and hope.

  “Hello, Owain,” he greeted with an anxious wave of his hand.

  The fisherman nodded, a spare, brief movement. “Hello, John. How are you?”