Free Word & Void 02 - A Knight of the Word by Terry Brooks Page B

deciphering the meaning of life for a long time.
    He stood with his hand gripping the polished walnut staff that served as his crutch, wondering again what would happen if he simply cast it away, if he defied the warning that had accompanied its bestowal and cut loose his final tie to the Word. He had considered it often in the last few months, thinking there was no reason for further delay and he should simply make the decision and act on it. But he could never quite bring himself to carry through, even though he was no longer a Knight of the Word and the staff’s power was no longer a part of his life.
    He ran his fingers slowly up and down the smooth wood, trying to detect whether he was still bound to it. But the staff revealed nothing. He did not even know if the magic it contained was still his to command; he no longer felt its warmth or saw its gleam in the wood’s dark surface. He no longer sensed its presence.
    He closed his eyes momentarily. He had wanted his old life back, the one he had given up to become a Knight of the Word. He had been willing to risk everything to regain it. And perhaps, he thought darkly, he had done exactly that. The Word, after all, was the Creator. What did the Creator feel when you told Him you wanted to back out of an agreement? Maybe Ross would never know. What he did know was that his life was his own again, and he would not let go of it easily. The staff, he reasoned, looking warily at it, was a reminder of what it would mean for him if he did.
    Raised voices, high-pitched and tearful, chased Della Jenkins down the hall. Della swept past his doorway, muttering to herself, giving him a frustrated shake of her head. She was back a moment later, returning the way she had come, a clutch of papers in one hand. Curious, he trailed after her up the hallway to the lobby at the front of the old building, taking his time, leaning on his staff for support. Della was working the reception desk today, and Mondays were always tough. More things seemed to happen over the weekend than during the week—confrontations of all sorts, exploding out of pressure cookers that had been on low boil for weeks or months or even years. He could never understand it. Why such things were so often done on a weekend was a mystery to him. He always thought a Friday would do just as well, but maybe weekends for the battered and abused were bridges to the new beginnings that Mondays finally required.
    By the time Ross reached the lobby, the voices had died away. He paused in the doorway and peeked out guardedly. Della was bent close to a teenage girl who had collapsed in a chair to one side of the reception desk and begun to cry. A younger girl was clinging tightly to one arm, tears streaking her face. Della’s hand was resting lightly on the older girl’s shoulder, and she was speaking softly in her ear. Della was a large woman with big hair, skin the color of milk chocolate, and a series of dresses that seemed to come only in primary colors. She had both a low, gentle voice and a formidable glare, and she was adept at bringing either to bear as the situation demanded. In this instance, she seemed to have abandoned the latter in favor of the former, and already the older girl’s sobs were fading. A handful of women and children occupied chairs in other parts of the room. A few were looking over with a mix of curiosity and sympathy. New arrivals, applying for a bed. When they saw Ross, the women went back to work on their application forms and the children shifted their attention to him. He gave them a smile, and one little girl smiled back.
    “There, now, you take your time, look it all over, fill out what you can, I’ll help you with the rest,” Della finished, straightening, taking her hand from the older girl’s shoulder. “That’s right. I’ll be right over here, you just come on up when you’re ready.”
    She moved back behind the desk, giving Ross a glance and a shrug and settling herself into place