by Terry Brooks
One of the security guards walked up to him and asked to see his invitation. Staying calm when he felt anything but, he said he had forgotten it, but he was employed at Fresh Start and was on the guest list. The guard asked for identification, which Ross produced. The guard seemed satisfied. Ross asked him if he had seen Simon Lawrence, but the guard said he had been working the door and hadn’t seen anyone who might have entered another way.
Ross thanked him and walked past, eyes scanning the lobby, then the upper levels. There was no sign of Simon. He was feeling edgy again, thinking Stef had been right, he shouldn’t have come, he should have let it go.
One of the servers came up to him with a mask. “Everyone gets a mask at this party,” she enthused, handing him his. “Do you want me to take your coat?”
Ross declined her offer, not expecting to stay beyond talking with Simon, and then, because she seemed to expect it, he slipped on the mask. It was a black nylon sheath that covered the upper half of his face. It made him feel vaguely sinister amid the skeleton suits and Halloween trimmings.
He looked around some more without success for Simon and was about to move on to the reception desk when a security guard from the upper mezzanine area came down the steps toward him, waving to catch his attention.
“Mr. Ross?” he asked. When Ross nodded, the guard said, “Mr. Lawrence is waiting for you on the second floor in the Special Exhibition Hall. He said to go on up.”
Ross caught himself staring at the guard in surprise, but then thanked him quickly and moved away. Simon was waiting for him? He began to climb the Grand Stairway without even considering the elevator, the broad steps leading up from the brightness of the lobby and mezzanine to the more shadowy rooms of the display halls above. He ascended at a steady pace through the rams and camels, through the civilian and military guardians, their eyes blank and staring, their expressions fixed, sculptures warding artifacts and treasures of the dead. Servers bustled by, skeleton costumes rippling, masks in place. He glanced at his watch. The evening’s events were scheduled to begin in less than thirty minutes.
At the top of the stairs, he stopped and looked around. Below, the Grand Stairway stretched downward in a smooth flow of steps, arches, and glass windows to the array of finger foods, drinks, and serving people. Ahead, the hallway wound back on itself up a short flight of stairs to the exhibition rooms. Simon Lawrence was nowhere to be seen.
A ripple of apprehension ran down his spine. What was Simon doing up here?
He climbed the short flight of stairs and walked down the hallway into the exhibition rooms. The lights were dim, the red oak walls draped with shadows. There was a display of Chihuly glass that shimmered in bright splashes of color beneath directional lighting. Fire reds, sun-bright yellows, ocean blues, and deep purples lent a festive air to the semidark. Ross walked on, passing other exhibits in other areas, searching. The sound of his footfalls echoed eerily.
Then abruptly, shockingly, Simon Lawrence stepped out from behind a display directly to one side and said, “Why are you here, John?”
Ross started in spite of himself, then took a quick breath to steady the rapid beating of his heart and faced the other man squarely. “I came to ask you if what Stef told me was true.”
Simon smiled. He was dressed in a simple black tuxedo that made him look taller and broader than Ross knew him to be and lent him an air of smooth confidence. “Which part, John? That I fired you for stealing money from the project? That I chose to do it without talking to you first? That I did it to distance myself from you?” He paused. “The answer is yes to all.”
John stared at him in disbelief. Somehow, he hadn’t expected Simon to find it so easy to say it to his face. “Why?” he managed, shaking his head slowly. “I haven’t done anything, Simon. I didn’t steal that money.”
Simon Lawrence moved out of the shadows and came right up to Ross, stopping so close to him that Ross could see the silvery glitter of his eyes. “I know that,” Simon said softly. “I did.”
Ross blinked. “Simon, why—”
The other man interrupted smoothly, dismissing the question with a wave of his hand. “You know why, John.”
John Ross felt the ground shift under his feet, as if the stone had turned to quicksand and was about to swallow him up. In that instant of confusion and dismay, Simon Lawrence snatched away his staff, wrenching it from his grasp with a sudden, vicious twist, then stepped back swiftly out of reach, leaving Ross tottering on his bad leg.
“I set fire to Fresh Start as well, John,” Simon went on smoothly, cradling the staff beneath one arm. “I killed Ray Hapgood. Everything you think I might have done, I probably did. I did it to destroy the programs, to undermine the Simon Lawrence legend, the mystique of the Wiz, which, after all, I created in the first place. I did it to further the aims I really serve and not those I have championed as a part of my disguise. But you guessed as much already, or you wouldn’t be here.”
Ross was fighting to keep from attempting to rush Simon—or the thing that pretended at being Simon. An attack would only result in Ross falling on his face. He had to hope the other might come close enough to be grappled with, might make a mistake born of overconfidence.
“You fooled us all,” he said softly. “But especially me. I never guessed what you really were.”
The demon laughed. “I hired you in the first place, John, because I knew what you were and I was certain I could make good use of you. A Knight of the Word fallen from grace, an exile by choice, but still in possession of a valuable magic. The opportunity was too good to pass up. Besides, it was time to abandon this charade, to put an end to Simon Lawrence and his good works. It was time to move on to something else. All I had to do was to destroy the persona I had created by discrediting him. You were the perfect scapegoat. So willing, John, to be seduced. So I used you, and now you will take the blame, I will resign in disgrace, and the programs will fail. If it works as I intend, it will have a ripple effect on homeless programs all over the country. Loss of trust is a powerful incentive for closing up pocketbooks and shutting off funds.”
The demon smiled. “Was that what you wanted to hear, John? I haven’t disappointed you, have I?”
It took the staff from beneath its arms and flung it into the space behind, where it skidded across the stone floor and clattered into the wall. Then it reached out and took Ross by his shirt front and dragged him forward. Ross fought to escape, but the demon was too strong for him and backhanded him across the face. The blow snapped Ross’s head back, and a bright flash of pain left him blinded and stunned. The demon lifted Ross and held him suspended above the floor. Ross blinked to clear his vision, then watched as the demon lifted its free hand. The hand began to transform, changing from something human to something decidedly not. Claws and bristling hair appeared. The demon glanced at its handiwork speculatively, then raked the claws across Ross’s midsection. They tore through coat and shirt, shredding the flesh beneath, bringing bright welts of blood.
The demon threw John Ross down, sending him sprawling back onto the floor. “You really are pathetic, John,” it advised conversationally, walking to where he lay gasping for breath and bleeding. “Look at you. You can’t even defend yourself. I was prepared to offer you a place in service to the Void, but what would be the point? Without your staff, you’re nothing. Even with the staff, I doubt you could do much. You’ve lost your magic, haven’t you? It’s all dried up and blown away. There’s nothing left.”
The demon reached down, picked Ross up, and slashed him a second time, this time down one shoulder. It struck Ross across the face again, dropping him as it might a thing so foul it could not bear to hold him longer. Ross collapsed in a heap, fighting to stay conscious.
“You’re not worth any more of my time, John,” the demon sneered softly, standing over him once more. “I could kill you, but you’re worth more to me alive. I’ve still use for you in destroying Simon Lawrence and his fine works. I’ve still plans for you.
”
It bent down, leaning close, and whispered, “But if I see you again this night, I will kill you where I find you. Don’t test me on this, John. Get out of here and don’t come back.”
Then it rose, pushed Ross down with its foot, held him pinned helplessly against the floor as it studied him, then turned and walked away.
For a long time Ross lay where the demon had left him, a black wave of nausea and pain threatening to overwhelm him with every breath he took. He lay on his back, staring up at a ceiling enveloped in layers of deep shadows. He might have given in to the despair and shame that swept through him if he were any other man, if he had not once been a Knight of the Word. But the seeds of his identity ran deeper than he would have thought possible, and amid the darker feelings wound an iron cord of determination that would have required him to die first.
After a while, he was strong enough to roll onto his side and sit up. Dizziness threatened to flatten him anew, but he lowered his head between his legs, braced himself with his hands, and waited for the feeling to pass. When it did, he lurched to his knees, dropped back to his hands, and began to crawl. Streaks of blood from his wounds marked his slow passage, and shards of fire traced the deep furrows the demon’s claws had left on his body. The hallway and exhibit areas were silent and empty of life, and he worked his solitary way across the polished stone with only the sound of his breathing for company.
He had been a fool, he told himself over and over again. He had misjudged badly, been overconfident of what he could accomplish when he would have been better served by being more cautious. He should have listened to Stef. He should have trusted his instincts. He should have remembered the lessons of his time in service to the Word.
Twice he slipped in pools of his own excretions and went down. His arms and hands were wet from blood and sweat, and every movement he made trying to cross the museum floor racked his body with pain.
Damn you, Simon, he swore silently, resolutely, a litany meant to empower. Damn you to hell.
When he reached the staff, he rose again to his knees and wiped his bloodstained palms on his pants. Then he took the staff firmly in his hands and levered himself back to his feet.
He stood there for a moment, swaying unsteadily. When the dizziness passed, he moved to an empty bench in the center of the hall, seated himself, slipped off the greatcoat, then the tattered shirt, and used the shirt to bind his ribs and chest in a mostly successful effort to slow the flow of his blood. He sat staring into space after that, trying to gather his strength. He didn’t think anything was broken, but he had lost a lot of blood. He could not continue without help, and the only help he could count on now would have to come from within.
Hard-eyed and ashen-faced, he leaned forward on the bench, wrapped in the tatters of his shirt, his upper torso mostly bare and red-streaked with his blood. He straightened with an effort and tightened his grip on the staff, his abandoned choices swirling around him like wraiths, his decision of what he must do fully embraced. He no longer cared about consequences or dreams. He could barely bring himself to think on the future beyond this night. What he knew was that he had been driven to his knees by something so foul and repulsive he could not bear another day of life if he did not bring an end to it.
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 armored 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 acknowledgment 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 be right, 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 for him. Oh, my brave Knight Errant, would you truly come back 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 tears filling his lids and leaking down his bloodied face. I would. I will. Always. Forever.
Then she was gone, and the magic of the staff stirred and gathered and came forth in a swift, 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 out of the staff, eager 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 took 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 on 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 spot 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 away. “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 recognizing 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 and began to climb. As she did so, a troubling realization 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 about 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 reached the mezzanine and glanced around anew. She did not see Ross. She felt a growing 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.