A Knight Of The Word

Because until these past few days, she hadn’t been a part of his present life at all, had she?

She stared at the lighted window of a newsstand across the way, thinking. John Ross had told her about his dreams five years earlier. His dreams of the future were fluid, because the future was fluid and could be changed by what happened in the present. It was what he was expected to accomplish as a Knight of the Word. It was his mission. Change those events that will hasten a decline in civilization and the fall of mankind. Change a few events, only a few, and the balance of magic can be maintained and the Void kept at bay.

What if, in this instinct, the Lady — was playing at the same game? What if the Lady had sent Nest to John Ross strictly for the purpose of introducing a new element into the events of his dream? Ross would listen to Nest, the Lade had told her through Ariel. Her words would carry a weight that the words of others could not. But it hadn’t worked out that way, had it? It wasn’t what she’d said to Ross that had trade a difference. It was what had happened to her in the park. It was the way in which her presence had affected the demon that, in turn, had affected him. Like dominos toppling into one another. Could that have been the Lady’s purpose in sending her to Ross all along?

Nest took a slaw, deep breath and let it out again. It wasn’t so strange to imagine there were Barnes being played with human lives. It had happened before, and it had happened to her. Pick had warned her the Word never resealed everything, and what appeared to be true frequently was not. He had warned her to be careful.

That triggered an unpleasant thought. Perhaps the Lade knew Nest’s presence would affect John Ross’s dream, would change it to include her, jolting Ross out of his complacent certainty he was not at risk.

If so, it meant the Word was using her as bait.



When John Ross left Nest, he didn’t go back to Pass/Go or to his apartment. He walked down First Avenue to a Starbucks instead, stepped inside, bought a double-tall latte, took it outside to a bench in Occidental Park, and sat down. The day was still sunny and bright, the cool snap of autumn just a whisper on the back of the breezes blowing off the sound. Ross sipped at his latte thoughtfully, warmed his hands on the container, and watched people walk by.

He kept thinking he would have a revelation regarding the demon’s identity. He was certain that if he thought about the puzzle hard enough, if he looked at it in just the right way, he would figure it out. There were only a handful of possibilities, after all. A lot of people worked at Fresh Start and Pass/Go, but only a few were close to him. And once you eliminated Ray Hapgood and Stef and certainly Simon, there weren’t many candidates left.

But each time he considered a likely suspect, some incongruity or contradictory piece of evidence would intervene to demonstrate he was on the wrong track. The fact remained that no one seemed to be the right choice. His confusion was compounded by his complete failure to understand what his dream about killing Simon Lawrence had to do with anything. The demon’s subterfuge was so labyrinthine he could not unravel it.

He finished the latte and crumpled the empty container. He was running out of ideas and choices. He would have to keep his promise to Nest and subtract himself from the equation.

Dumping the latte container in a trash can, he began walking back to his apartment. He wouldn’t even bother going in to work. He would just pack an overnight bag, call Stef, have her meet him, and walk down to the ferry terminal. Maybe they would go up to Victoria for a few days. Stay at the Empress. Have high tea. Visit the Buchart Gardens. Pretend they were real people.

He was almost to the front door of his apartment building when he heard his name called. He turned to watch a heavyset, rumpled man come up the sidewalk to greet him, “Mr, Ross?” the man inquired, as if to make sure.

Ross nodded, leaning on his walking stick, trying to place the other’s fact.

“We haven’t met,” the newcomer said, and extended his hand. “I’m Andrew Wren, from The New York Times.”

The investigative reporter, Ross thought warily. He took the proffered hand and shook it. “How do you do, Mr. Wren?”

The professional face beamed behind rimless glasses. “The people at Pass/Go thought I might find you here. I came by earlier, but you were out. I wonder if I could speak with you a moment?” Ross hesitated. This was probably about Simon. He didn’t want to talk to Wren, particularly just then, but he was afraid that if he refused it would look bad for the Wiz.