Ross wheeled about in desperation, searching everywhere at once, his heart pounding, his mind racing…
And police burst through the doors and windows, shattering wood and glass. Someone was yelling, Throw down your weapons! Now, now, now! The women and children were screaming anew, scrambling out of their seats in terror, and someone was yelling, He's got a gun! Shoot him, shoot him! Ross was trying to tell them, No, no, it's all right, it's okay now! But no one was listening, and everything was chaotic and out of control, and the feeders were leaping about in a frenzy, climbing over everything, and there were weapons firing everywhere, catching the kidnapper who was just coming to his knees in front of the stage, still too stunned to know what was happening, lifting him in a red spatter and dropping him back again in a crumpled heap, and small bodies were being struck by the bullets as well, hammered sideways and sent flying as screams of fear turned to shrieks of pain, and still the voice was yelling, He's got a gun, he's got a gun! Even though Ross still couldn't see any gun, couldn't understand what the voice was veiling about, the police kept firing, over and over and over into the children. . ,
He read about it in the newspapers in the days that followed. Fourteen children were killed. Two of the kidnappers died. There was considerable debate over who fired the shots, but informed speculation had it that several of the children had been caught in a crossfire.
There was only brief mention of Ross. In the confusion that followed the shooting, Ross had backed away into the shadows and slipped out through the rear of the auditorium into a crowd of parents and bystanders and disappeared before anyone could stop him. The teacher who had been held hostage told of a mysterious man who had helped free them, but the police insisted that the man was one of the kidnappers and that the teacher was mistaken about what she had seen. Descriptions of what he looked like varied dramatically, and after a time the search to find him waned and died.
But John Ross was left devastated. How had this terrible thing happened? What had gone wrong? He had done exactly as he intended to do. The men had been subdued. The danger was past. And still the children had died, the police misreading the situation, hearing screams over the kidnapper's dropped cell phone, hearing the AK‑47 go off, bursting in with weapons ready, firing impulsively, foolishly …
Fourteen children dead. Ross couldn't accept it. He could tell himself rationally that it wasn't his fault. He could explain away everything that had happened„ could argue persuasively and passionately to himself that he had done everything he could, but it still didn't help. Fourteen children were dead.
One of them, he discovered, was a blond, blue–eyed little boy named Teddy.
He saw all of their pictures in magazines, and he read their stories in papers for weeks afterward.. The horror of what had happened enveloped and consumed him. It haunted his sleep and destroyed his peace of mind. He could not function. He sat paralysed in motel rooms in small towns far away from San Sobel, trying to regain his sense of purpose. He had experienced failures before, but nothing with consequences that were so dramatic and so personal. He had thought he could handle anything, but he wasn't prepared for this. Fourteen lives were on his conscience, and he could hardly bear it. He cried often, and he ached deep inside. He replayed the events over and over in his mind, trying to decide what it was he had done wrong.
It was weeks before he realised his mistake. He had assumed that the demon who sought to inspire the killings had relied on the kidnappers alone. But it was the police who had killed the children. Someone had yelled at them to shoot, had prompted them to fire, had put them on edge. It took only one additional man, one further intent, one other weapon. The demon had seduced one of the police officers as well. Ross had missed it. He hadn't even thought of it.
After a time, he began to question everything he was doing in his service to the Word. What was the point of it all if so many small lives could be lost so easily? He was a poor choice to serve as a Knight of the Word if he couldn't do any better than this. And what sort of supreme being would permit such a thing to happen in the first place? Was this the best the Word could do? Was it necessary for those fourteen children to die? Was that the message? John Ross began to wonder, then to grow certain, that the difference between the Word and the Void was small indeed. It was all so pointless, so ridiculous. He began to doubt and then to despair. He was servant to a master who lacked compassion and reason, whose poor efforts seemed unable to accomplish anything of worth. John Ross looked back over the past twelve years and was appalled. Where was the proof that anything he had done had served a purpose? What sort of battle was it he fought? Time after time he had stood against the forces of the Void, and what was there to show for it?
There was a limit to what he could endure, he decided finally. There was a limit to what he could demand of himself. He was broken by what had happened in San Sobel, and he could not put himself back together again. He no longer cared who he was or what he had pledged himself to do. He was finished with everything. Let someone else take up the Word's cause. Let someone else carry the burden of all those lives. Let someone else, because he was done.
CHAPTER 5
Ariel paused, and Nest found that she couldn't keep quiet any longer.
`You mean he quit?' she demanded incredulously. `He just quit?'
The tatterdemalion seemed to consider. `He no longer thinks of himself as a Knight of the Word, so he has stopped acting like one. But he can never quit. The choice isn't his to make'
Her words carried a dark implication that Nest did not miss. `What do you mean?'
Ariel's childlike face seemed to shimmer in the midday sun as she shifted her stance slightly. It was the first time she had moved, and it almost caused her to disappear.
`Only the Lady can create a Knight of the Word, and only the Lady can set one free: Ariel's voice was so soft that Nest could barely hear her. `John Ross is bound to his charge. When he took up the staff that gives him his power, he bound himself forever. He cannot free himself of the staff or of the charge. Even if he no longer thinks of himself as a Knight of the Word, he remains one'
Nest shook her head in confusion. 'But he isn't doing anything to be a Knight of the Word. He's given it all up, you said. So what difference does it make whether or not he really is a Knight of the Word? If he's not only stopped thinking of himself as a Knight, but he's stopped functioning as one, he might as well be a bricklayer.'
Ariel nodded. `This is what John Ross believes, as well. This is why he is in so much danger:
Nest hesitated. How much of this did she really want to know? The Lady hadn't sent Ariel just to bring her up to date on what was happening to John Ross. The Lady wanted something from her, and where Ross was concerned, she wasn't at all sure it would be something she wanted to give. She hadn't seen or heard from Ross in five years, and they hadn't parted under the best of circumstances. John Ross had come to Hopewell to accomplish one of two things–to help thwart her father's intentions for her or to make certain she would never carry them out. He had seen her future, and while he would not describe it to her, he made it clear that it was dark and horrific. So she would live to change it or she would die. That was his mission in coming to Hopewell. He had admitted it at the end, just before he left. She had never quite gotten over it. This was a man she had grown to like and respect and trust. This was a man she had believed for a short time to be her father-a man she would have liked to have had for a father.