A Knight of the Word

by Terry Brooks

  She stared off into the night, down the darkened corridors of side streets and alleyways, into blackened doorways and landings, and along shadowy eaves and overhangs. It isn’t safe for us to remain here, Ariel had said, urging her to move quickly away, to flee.

  Maybe so, she thought. Not with a demon present. But demons seemed to be everywhere in her life. Demons and dark magic, the workings of the Void.

  It isn’t safe for us here.

  But maybe it was no longer safe anywhere.

  Tuesday,

  October 30

  Chapter 11

  When Nest Freemark awoke the following morning, the sun was streaming so brightly through her window that she thought she must have overslept. The clock radio she had set the night before was playing softly, which meant that the alarm had gone off, and she leaned over quickly to check the time. But it was only nine o’clock, the hour she had chosen for her wake-up, so she was right on schedule. She glanced over at the window, and she realized that the reason it was so bright was that she had forgotten to draw the blinds.

  She laid her head back on her pillow sleepily for a moment, still disoriented from her sudden awakening. She could hear the sounds of traffic on the street below, brash and jarring, but her room was a bright cocoon of silence and warmth. She had read somewhere that it rained a lot in Seattle, but apparently that wasn’t going to be the case today.

  She closed her eyes and then opened them again, searching her mind. Last night’s memories of her walk into Pioneer Square seemed distant and vague, almost as if they were part of a dream. She stared at the ceiling and forced herself to remember. Walking alone with Ariel. Hearing the screams. Feeling frightened and helpless. Hearing Ariel’s words.

  Something hunts.

  A demon, she had replied.

  She rose and walked to the window and looked down at the street. Same street as last night, only brighter and more populated in the daylight. She watched the people and cars for a few minutes, organizing her scattered thoughts and gathering up the shards of confusion and uncertainty that littered her mind. Then she went into the bathroom and showered. She stood beneath the hot stream of water for a long time, eyes closed, thinking. She was a long way from home, and she was still uncertain of her purpose in coming to find John Ross. She wished she had a better idea of what she was going to do when she found him. She wished she knew what she was going to say. She wished she were better prepared.

  She toweled dry and dressed, thinking once again of the demon. She would tell Ross of last night; she knew that much, at least. She would tell him of the Lady’s concern, of her warning to him. She would try to convince him of his danger. But what else could she do? What did she really know about all this, after all? She knew what Ariel had told her, but she couldn’t say for certain that it was the truth. If Pick’s response was any measure of things, it probably wasn’t. The truth wasn’t something you got whole cloth from the Word anyway; it came in bits and pieces, riddles and questions, and self-examination and deductive reasoning that, if you were lucky, eventually led to some sort of revelation. She had learned that much from her father. The truth wasn’t simple; it was complex. Worse, it wasn’t easily decipherable, and it was often difficult to accept.

  She sighed, looking about the room, as if the answer to her dilemma might be hidden there. It wasn’t, of course. There were no answers here; the answers all lay with John Ross.

  She went down to the lobby for her breakfast, pausing to stare out through large plate-glass doors at the busy city streets. Although the day was bright and sunny, people out walking were bundled up in coats and scarves, so she knew it must be cold. She continued on to the dining room and ate alone at a table near the back, sipping at her coffee and nibbling on her toast and scrambled eggs as she formulated her plan for the day.

  She would have preferred to talk things over with Ariel, but there was no sign of the tatterdemalion. Nor was there likely to be. She remembered Ariel saying to her last night, just before she went back into the hotel, “Don’t worry. I’ll be close to you. You won’t see me, but I’ll be there when you need me.”

  Reassuring, but not particularly satisfactory. It made her wish Pick was with her. Pick would have appeared whether she needed him or not. Pick would have talked everything over with her. She still missed him. She found herself comparing the sylvan and the tatterdemalion and decided that, given the choice, she still preferred Pick’s incessant chatter to Ariel’s wraithlike presence.

  She tried to remember the rest of what Pick had told her about tatterdemalions. It wasn’t much. Like sylvans they were born fully formed, but unlike sylvans they lived only a short time and didn’t age. Both were forest creatures, but sylvans never went beyond the territory for which they were given responsibility, while tatterdemalions rode everywhere on the back of the wind and went all over the world. Sylvans worked at managing the magic, at its practical application, at keeping the balance in check. Tatterdemalions did none of that, cared nothing for the magic, were as insubstantial in their work as they were in their forms. They served the Word, but their service was less carefully defined and more subject to change than that of sylvans. Tatterdemalions were like ghosts.

  Nest finished the last of her orange juice and stood up. Tatterdemalions were strange, even as fairy creatures went. She tried to imagine what it must be like to be Ariel, to have lived without experiencing a childhood and with no expectation of ever becoming an adult, to know you would be alive only a short time and then be gone again. She supposed the concept of time was a relative one, and some creatures had no concept of time at all. Maybe that was the way it was with tatterdemalions. But what would it be like to live your entire life with the memories of dead children, of lives come and gone before your own, to have only their memories and none of your own?

  She gave it up. She would never be able to put herself in Ariel’s place, not even in the most abstract sense, because she had no reference point to help her gain any real insight. They were as different as night and day. And yet they both served the Word, and they were both, in some sense, creatures of magic.

  Nest stopped thinking about it, went back to her room, brushed her teeth, put on her heavy windbreaker and scarf, and went out to greet the day.

  She had looked up the address to Fresh Start and consulted a map of Pioneer Square, so she pretty much knew where she was going. The map was tucked in her pocket for ready reference. She walked down First Avenue, retracing her steps from the night before, until she reached the triangular open space where she had heard the death screams of the demon’s victims. She stood in the center of the little concrete park and looked around. No one acted as if anyone had died. No one seemed to think anything was amiss. People came and went along the walk—workers, shoppers, and tourists. A few sad-looking homeless people sat with their backs to the walls of buildings fronting the street, holding out hand-lettered cardboard signs and worn paper cups as they begged for a few coins. The former mostly ignored the latter, looking elsewhere as they passed, engaging in conversations that kept their eyes averted, acting as if they didn’t see. In a way, she supposed, they didn’t. She thought that was an accurate indicator of how the world worked, that people frequently managed to find ways of ignoring what troubled them. Out of sight, out of mind. Maybe that was how the demon got away with killing homeless people; everyone was ignoring them anyway, so when a few disappeared, no one even noticed.

  Maybe that was the cause that John Ross had taken up in joining forces with Simon Lawrence. Maybe that was his passion now that he was no longer a Knight of the Word. The thought appealed to her.

  She walked on, doing her best to turn away from the gusts of cold wind that blew at her. Winter was coming; she didn’t like to think of her world turning to ice and snow and temperature drops and wind-chill factors. She didn’t like thinking of everything turning white and gray and mud-streaked. She glanced back at the people begging. How much worse it would be for them.

  At the corner of
Main, she turned east and walked through a broad open space that was marked on her map as Occidental Park. It wasn’t much of a park, she thought. Cobblestones and concrete steps, with a few shade trees planted in squares of open earth, a scattering of bushes, a few scary totem poles, some benches, and a strange steel and Plexiglas pavilion. Clusters of what looked to be homeless were gathered here, many of them Native Americans, and a couple of police officers on bicycles. She followed the sidewalk east and found herself at the entrance to an odd little enclosure formed of brick walls and iron fencing with a sign that identified it as Waterfall Park. The space was filled with small trees, vines, and tables and chairs, and was backed by a thunderous manmade waterfall that cascaded into a narrow catchment over massive rocks stacked up against the wall of the building it attached to.

  She glanced back at Occidental Park, then into Waterfall Park once again. The parks here weren’t much like the parks she was familiar with, and nothing like Sinnissippi Park, but she supposed you made do with what you had.

  She crossed Second Avenue and began to read the numbers on the buildings. There was no sign identifying Fresh Start, but she found the building number easily enough and went through the front door.

  Once inside, she found herself in a lobby that was mostly empty. A heavyset black woman sat at a desk facing the door, engaged in writing something on a clipboard, and a Hispanic woman sat holding her baby on one of a cluster of folding chairs that lined the windowless walls of the room. Behind the black woman and her desk, a hallway led to what looked like an elevator.

  Almost immediately, Nest experienced an odd feeling of uneasiness. She glanced around automatically in an effort to locate its source, but there was nothing to see.

  Shrugging it off, she walked up to the desk and stopped. The black woman didn’t look up. “Can I help you, young lady?”

  “I’m looking for John Ross,” Nest told her. “Does he work here?”

  The black lady’s eyes lifted, and she gave Nest a careful once-over. “He does, but he’s not here right now. Would you like to wait for him? He shouldn’t be gone long.”

  Nest nodded. “Thanks.” She looked around at the empty seats, deciding where to sit.

  “What’s your name, young lady?” The black woman regained her attention.

  “Nest Freemark.”

  “Nest. Now, that’s an unusual name. Nest. Very different. I like it. Wish I had a different name like that. I’m Della, Nest. Della Jenkins.”

  She stuck out her hand and Nest shook it. The handshake was firm and businesslike, but warm, too. “Nice to meet you,” Nest said.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” Della said, and smiled now. “I work intake here at the center. Been at it from the start. How do you know John? Isn’t anyone ever came in before that knows John. I was beginning to think he didn’t have a life before he came here. I was beginning to think he was one of those pod people.” She laughed.

  Nest grinned. “Well, I don’t know him very well. He was a friend of my mother’s.” She shaded the truth deliberately, unwilling to give anything away she didn’t have to. “I was in town, and I thought I ought to stop in and say hello.”

  Della nodded. “Well, how about that? John was a friend of your mother’s. John doesn’t talk much about his past life with us. Hardly at all. A friend of your mother’s. How about that.” She seemed amazed. Nest blushed. “Oh, now, don’t you be embarrassed, Nest. I’m just making conversation to hide my surprise at anybody knowing John from before him coming here. You know, really, he spends all his time with Stef—that’s Stefanie Winslow, his … oh, what do you call it, I always forget? Oh, that’s right, his ‘significant other.’ Sounds so awkward, saying it like that, doesn’t it? His significant other. Anyway, that’s what Stefanie is. Real pretty girl, his sweetheart. Do anything for him They came here together about a year ago, and neither one of them talks hardly at all about what went on before.”

  Nest nodded, distracted. The uneasiness was stealing over her again, a persistent tugging that refused to be ignored. She couldn’t understand where it was coming from. She had never experienced anything like it.

  Della stood up abruptly. “You want a cup of coffee while you wait, Nest? Tell you what. Why don’t you come with me, and I’ll introduce you to a few of the people who work here, some of John’s friends, let them catch you up on what he’s been doing? He’s downtown at the Seattle Art Museum checking things out for tomorrow night. Big dedication party. Simon’s giving a speech John wrote, thanking the city and so forth for the building, their support and all. You probably don’t know about that, but John can fill you in later. C’mon, young lady, right this way.”

  She led Nest around the intake desk and down the hallway toward the elevator. Nest followed reluctantly, still trying to sort out the reason for her discomfort. Was Ariel responsible? Was the tatterdemalion trying to communicate with her in some way?

  As they reached the elevator doors, a tall, lean, mostly balding black man walked through a doorway from further down the hall and came toward them.

  “Ray!” Della Jenkins called out to him at once. “Come over here and meet Nest Freemark. Nest is an old friend of John’s, come by to say hello.”

  The black man strolled up, grinning broadly. “We talking about John Ross, the man with no past? I didn’t think he had any old friends. Does he know about this, Nest, about you being his old friend? Or are you here to surprise him with the news?”

  He held out his hand and Nest took it. “Ray Hapgood,” he introduced himself. “Very pleased to meet you, and welcome to Seattle.”

  “Ray, you take Nest on down and get her some coffee, will you? Introduce her to Stef and Carole and whoever, and keep her company until John gets back.” Della was already looking over her shoulder at the lobby entrance as the elevator doors opened. “I got to get back out front and keep an eye on things. Go on now.”

  She gave Nest a smile and a wave and walked away. The doors closed, leaving Nest alone with Ray Hapgood.

  “What brings you to Seattle, Nest?” he asked, smiling.

  She hesitated. “I was thinking of transferring schools,” she said, inventing a lie to suit the situation.

  He nodded. “Lot of good schools in Washington. You’d like it out here. So tell me. You know John a long time? I meant what I said; he never talks about his past, never mentions anything about it.”

  “I don’t know him all that well, actually.” She glanced up at the floor numbers on the reader board. “Mostly, my mother knows him. Knew him. She’s dead. I didn’t know him until a few years ago, when he came to visit. For a few days, that’s all.”

  She was talking too much, giving up too much, but her uneasiness was increasing with every passing moment. She was beginning to hear voices—vague whispers that might be coming from her, but might also be coming from someone else.

  “Oh, I’m sorry about that. About your mother.” Ray Hapgood seemed genuinely embarrassed. “Has she been gone a long time?”

  Nest suddenly felt trapped in the elevator. She thought that if she didn’t get out right away, right this instant, she might start to scream. She was racked with shivers and her skin was crawling and her breathing was coming much too quickly. “She’s been dead since I was little,” she managed.

  The elevator doors opened, and she burst through in a near panic, feeling stupid and frightened and confused all at the same time. Ray Hapgood followed, looking at her funnily. “I don’t like close places,” she lied.

  Oh, he mouthed silently, nodded, and gave her a reassuring smile.

  They were in a basement room filled with long, multipurpose tables and folding chairs, a coffee machine, shelves with dishes, and storage cabinets. There were mingled smells of cooking and musty dampness, and she could hear a furnace cranking away from behind a closed door at the back of the room. Fluorescent lighting from low-hung fixtures cast a brilliant white glare over the whole of the windowless enclosure, giving it a harsh, unnatural brightness. A young man
sat alone at a table to one side, poring through a sheaf of papers. Two women sat together at another table close to the coffee machine, talking in low voices. The women looked up as Nest appeared with Ray Hapgood. One was middle-aged and unremarkable, with short blond hair and a kind face. The other was probably not yet thirty and strikingly beautiful. Nest knew at once that she was Stefanie Winslow.

  “Ladies,” Ray greeted, steering Nest toward their table. “Say hello to Nest Freemark, an old friend of John’s. Nest, this is Carole Price, our director of operations here at Fresh Start, and Stefanie Winslow, the boss’s press secretary and all-around troubleshooter.”

  Nest shook hands with each in turn, noting the looks of surprise that appeared on both faces when Ray mentioned her connection to Ross. It was becoming clear that when John Ross had ceased to be a Knight of the Word, he had turned his back on his past entirely. The women smiled at Nest, and she smiled back, but this whole business of her relationship with Ross was growing awkward, and she wished he would just hurry up and get back so that she could get this visit over with.

  “Sit down, Nest,” Carole Price suggested, pulling out a chair. “I can’t believe we have someone here who actually knows John from … well, from when?”

  “A long time ago,” Nest answered, trying not to sound evasive. She sat down. “It was my mother who knew him, really.”

  “Your mother?” Carole Price prompted.

  “They went to school together.”

  “Good heavens!” Carole Price seemed amazed. “Even Stef doesn’t know much about our boy from those days.”

  Stefanie Winslow shook her head in quick agreement. “He never talks about himself, about what he was doing or who he was before we met.” Her smile was dazzling. “Tell us something about him, Nest. Before he gets back. Tell us something he won’t tell us himself.”