"Brooks, Terry - Knight of the Word 02 - A Knight of the Word 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brooks Terry)

He had been back from Wales far almost a month when he met her. He had returned defeated in spirit and bereft of hope. He had failed in his effort to speak with the Lady or return the staff of power. His parents were dead, and his childhood home sold. He had lost contact with his few relatives years earlier. He had nowhere to go and no one to go to. For lack of a better idea, he went up from New fork to Boston College, where he had studied years earlier, and began auditing classes while he worked out his future. He was offered a position in the graduate-studies program in English literature, but he asked far time to think about it, uncertain if he wanted to go back into academia. What he really wanted was to do something that would allow him to make a difference in people's lives, to take a job working with people he could help. He needed human contact again. He needed validation of his existence. He worked hard at thinking of himself as something other than a Knight of the Word. He struggled bravely to develop a new identity.
Each day he would take his lunch in the student cafeteria, sitting at a long table, poring through his study books and staring out the windows of the dining hall. It was winter, and snow lay thick and white on the ground, ice hung from the eaves, and breath clouded in the air like smoke. Christmas was approaching, and he had nowhere to spend it and no one to spend it with. He felt incredibly lonely and adrift.
That was when he first saw Stefanie Winslow. It was early December, only days before the Christmas break. He wasn't sure if she had been coming there all along and he just hadn't noticed her or if she had suddenly appeared. Once he saw her though, he couldn't look away. She was easily the most beautiful woman he had eves seen -.exotic, stunning, and unforgettable. He couldn't find words to give voice to what he was feeling. He watched her all through the lunch hour and stayed afterward when he should have been auditing his class, continuing to stare at her until she got up and walked away.
The next day she was back, sitting at the same table, off to one side, all alone. He watched her come in and sit down to have her lunch for five days, thinking each time that he had to go over to her and say something, had to introduce himself, had to make some sort of contact, but he always ended up just sitting there. He was intimidated by her. But he was compelled, as well. No one else tried to sit with her; no one else even tried to approach. That gave him pause. But his connection with her was so strong, so visceral, that he could not ignore it.
Finally, at the beginning of the following week, he Just got up and walked aver, limped over really, feeling stupid and inadequate with his heavy staff and rough look, and said hello. She smiled up at him as if he were the most important thing in her life, and said hello back. He told her his name, she told him hers.
'I've been watching you far several days; he said, giving her a deprecatory shrug.
`I knowД she said, arching one eyebrow speculatively.
He flushed. `I guess I overdid it if I was that obvious, I was wondering if you were a student at the college.'
She shook her head, her black hair catching the winter light. `No, I work in administration:
░Oh. Well, I'm auditing some classes: He let the wards trail away. He didn't know where else to go with it. He felt suddenly awkward about what he was doing. sitting here with her. He glanced around. ░I didn't mean to intrude, I just..
`John,' she interrupted gently, drawing his eyes back to hers, holding them.
'Do you know why I've been sitting here alone every day?'
He shook his head slowly.
`Because,' she said, drawing out the word, 'I've been waiting for you to join me'

She always knew the right thing to say. He had been in love with her from the beginning, and his feelings had just grown stronger over time. He sat watching her now as she gave their order to the waiter, a young man with long sideburns and a Vandyke beard, holding his attention with her eyes, with her voice, with her very presence. The waiter wouldn't look away if a bomb went off, Ross thought. When he left with the order, the wine steward, who had been by earlier, reappeared with the bottle of Pinot Grigio Stef had ordered. He poured it for Ross to taste, but Ross Indicated Stef was in charge. She tasted it, nodded, and the wine steward filed their glasses and disappeared.
They sat close within the dim circle of candlelight and stared at each other without speaking. Silently Ross hoisted his glass. She responded in kind, they clinked crystal softly, and drank.
'Is this some sort of special occasion?' he asked finally. `Did I forget an important date?'
'You did,' she advised solemnly.
And you won't tell me what it is, will you?'
As a matter of fact, I will. But only because I don't want to see how long it takes you to remember.' She cocked her head slightly in his direction. 'It was one year ago today, exactly, that Simon Lawrence hired you to work at Fresh Start.'
'you're kidding.'
'I don't kid. Josh, yes. Tease, now and then. Never kid' She nook a sip of her wine and licked her lips. `Cause for celebration, don't you think? Who would have thought you would end up writing speeches for the Wizard of Oz?'
Ross shook his head. 'Who, would have thought 1 would have ended up living with Glinda the Good?'
Stef arched her eyebrows in mock horror. ░Glinda the Good? Wasn't she a witch?' 'A good witch. That's why she was called Glinda the Good'
Stef gave him a considering look. `John, I love you deeply, madly, truly. But don't call me Glinda the Good. Don't call me anything that smacks of the Wizard of Oz or the Emerald City or Munchkins or Dorothy or the yellow brick road. I get quite enough of that at work. Our life is separate and distinct from all this Wiz business:
He leaned back, looking hurt. 'But it's the date of my hiring. Isn't the analogy appropriate under those circumstances?'
The waiter returned with their salads, and they began to ear. The sounds of the main dining room seemed distant and disconnected from their little haven. Ross thought about all the years he had dreaded night's coming and sleep, plagued by the knowledge that when he slept he was condemned to dream of the future he must prevent and of the horror he must live if he failed. Once, he had thought he would never escape that life, and that even if he did, its memories would haunt hire forever. Stefanie had saved him from that, helped him find his way free of the labyrinth of his past, and brought him back into the light of possibility and hope.
`Have you finished your polish of the Wiz's speech?' she asked. `Hmnm, good salad. I like the bits of walnuts and blue cheese.'
`It's all done' he replied with a sigh. Another masterpiece. Simon will be quoted for weeks afterward.' He grinned. `I Shall live vicariously through him, his words my own'
`Yes, well, I don't know how much of this vicarious-living business you want to indulge in' she mused, lifting her wineglass and studying it speculatively. 'He seemed pretty on edge after Andrew Wren's visit.'
Ross looked up from his salad. `Really? What was that all about anyway, did you ever find out?'
She shook her head. `But it's never good news for a public figure when an investigative reporter cones calling,'
'No, I suppose not'
'Jenny told me Simon asked for the books cataloguing donations and expenditures to be brought up for Wren to loots at. What does that suggest to you?'
'Financial impropriety: Ross shrugged. `Wren will hunt a long time before he'll find evidence of that. Simon's a fanatic about keeping clean books. He can account for every penny received or spent:
He went back to eating his salad. Stef continued to study her wineglass, finally taking a sip from it. `I just don't like the way Simon is behaving,' she said finally. `He isn't himself lately. Something is bothering him'
Ross finished chewing, kept his eyes lowered, then forced himself to look up at her and smile. `Something is bothering almost everyone, Stef. The thing to remember is, mostly we have to work these things out by ourselves'

John Ross dreams. It is the same dream, the only dream he has anymore that he can remember upon waking. It is a dream of the future he was sworn to prevent as a Knight of the Word, and each time it reoccurs it is a little darker than it was before.
This time is no exception.
He stands on a hillside south of Seattle, watching as the city burns. Hordes of once-men and demons pour through gaps in the shattered defenses and drive the defenders steadily back toward the water that hems them in on all sides but his Feeders cavort through the carnage and drink in the terror and frenzy and rage of the dying and wounded. It is a nightmarish scene, the whole of the scorched and burning landscape awash in rain and mist, darkened by clouds and gloom, wrapped in a madness that finds voice in the screams and cries of the humans it consumes.
But the feelings that fill Ross are unfamiliar ones. They are not of
frustration or anger, not of despair or sadness, as they have been each time before.
His feelings now are dull and empty, devoid of anything but irritation and a faint boredom. He stands with a group of the city's survivors, but be has no regard for them either. Rather, he is a shell, armoured and invulnerable, but emotionless. He has no idea bow he became this way, but it is a transcending experience to realize it has happened. He is no longer a Knight of the Word; he is something else entirely. The humans he stands with are not a part of him. They do not meet his gaze as he looks over at them speculatively. They cower in his presence and huddle before him. They are frightened of him. They are terrified.
Then the old man approaches and whispers that be knows him, that he remembers him from years earlier His hollow eyed gaze is vacant, and his voice is flat and toneless. He looks and speaks as if be is disconnected from his body. He repeats the familiar words. You were there, in the Emerald City! You killed the Wizard of Oz! It was Halloween night, and you were wearing a mask of death! They were celebrating his life, and you killed him!
He shoves the old man away roughly. the old man collapses in a heap and begins to sob. He lies helpless in the dirt and rainwater, his ragged clothes and beard matted with mud, his frail body shaking.
Ross looks away. He knows the words the old man speaks are true, but he does not care. He has walled away all guilt long since, and killing no longer means anything to him.
He realizes in that moment that he is no longer part of the humans clustered at bis feet. He has shed his humanity; he has left it behind him in a past he can barely remember.
Suddenly, he understands why the humans look at him as they do.