A Knight of the Word by Terry Brooks

He held the staff before him and stared into its rune-scrolled length. He gripped it in frustration, as if to break it asunder, giving way to an inner core of rage and heat that sought to drag the recalcitrant magic from its hiding place. But no magic appeared, and he was forced to consider anew that perhaps it was forever gone. As he had often wished, he reminded himself bitterly. As he had often prayed.

Cars moved past him on the streets in a steady line of headlights, rush-hour traffic heading home. Horns honked, more in celebration than in irritation. It was Halloween, and everyone was feeling good. Some passersby wore masks and costumes, waving their hands and yelling, holding up plastic weapons and icons against the night. Ross gave them a momentary glance, then faced the museum anew. The magic of the staff was a crutch he did not require. He would not have to do more than ask Simon why. There need not be a confrontation, a struggle, or a death. The dream need not come about. It was the truth he was seeking, and he thought it would make itself known quickly when he had Simon Lawrence before him.

But still he hesitated, torn in two directions, caught between choices that could change his life inalterably.

Then he took a deep breath, hefted the staff, set the butt end firmly on the ground, and walked into the museum.

It was loud and cavernous in the lobby, where the servers were scurrying about in final preparation. He stood in the doorway, glancing about for an indication of where to go. Ahead and to his left was a reception desk, the museum shop, and doors opening into an auditorium where the announcement of the dedication of city land for a new building for Fresh Start would be made. To his right, the Grand Stairway climbed through a Ming dynasty marble statuary of rams, camels, and guardians past the mezzanine to the upper floors. The prominent, distinctive arches draped from the ceiling were spaced at regular intervals so that Ross could imagine how the inside of the whale must have looked to Jonah. Where the rough-edged exterior was formed of limestone, sandstone, and terra-cotta, the softer interior was comprised of polished floors of terrazzo set in cement and of walls of red oak. Ross had visited the museum only once during the time he had lived in Seattle. He admired the architectural accomplishments, but still preferred the green, open spaces of the parks.

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 came, 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 artefacts 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.