"Now accounts differ exactly how it happened. I've heard it told a dozen different ways. Some say the palace midwife glimpsed a terrible portent in Bill's afterbirth which she proclaimed before expiring from fright. Others whisper that he was born with the date tattooed on his forehead. But the way I've heard most, the way I like best, is that as the newborn prince was being placed in his crib for the first time, the nursery doors flew open and in stepped the withered, gray figure of Death himself.
" 'Bill,' the specter pronounced in an appropriately terrible and frightening voice, 'I have come for you.'"
Gwurm stretched out a hand, index finger extended.
"Naturally, this sent most everyone scurrying in fear. Only the prince's nursemaid had the bravery to stand before Death and plead for the child's life.
"Death of course would have none of that. But out of respect for the nursemaid's courage, he showed her his Black Scroll upon which the names and dates of every death that was, is, or ever will be is written. Just to quiet any further arguments.
"The nursemaid took one look at the scroll and observed that while Bill's name was on it, it was the wrong date. That the prince was fated to perish ninety-three years from this night."
Gwurm was an excellent storyteller, and Newt couldn't stop from asking, "What happened?"
Gwurm shrugged. "Death double-checked his list, discovered the maid to be right, apologized to everyone involved, and went on his way
"But that wasn't the end of it. For Bill was cursed with the knowledge that no man should ever carry. He knew his day of death. In fact, because the nursemaid couldn't keep a secret, soon everyone did. And Prince Bill became quickly known as Doomed Bill.
"And from that moment on, poor Doomed Bill spent his life, all ninety-three years of it, waiting for death. Just waiting and waiting and waiting. Accomplishing nothing. Enjoying nothing. While others lived and loved and went about discovering the pleasures and pains of being, Bill just sat in his castle and moped. And when the fateful day arrived, Death came for him again."
Newt shifted on my lap. "So he wasted his life? That's the moral of the story? Some ridiculous prince throws away his life because he's stupid, and this is supposed to enlighten us?"
I hadn't noticed Wyst had slowed to ride closer. He kept looking ahead. I only knew he'd been listening by his sudden remark. "That's not the end of the story."
"Oh, good." Newt glowered at the Knight and troll.
Gwurm grinned slyly. "So Death taps Doomed Bill on the shoulder with one gnarled finger, holds the Black Scroll be fore Bill, and apologizes for the lateness of his arrival. Naturally, this surprised Doomed Bill who knew Death to be right on time.
"But as it turned out, Death had been correct the first time. Doomed Bill had been fated to perish his first night on this world."
Newt grunted. "Wait a minute. Death made a mistake?"
"According to the story."
"Death doesn't make mistakes."
"Everyone makes mistakes. Occasionally."
Newt snorted. "But people don't not die because of misread scrolls."
"It's just a story."
"Yes, but it doesn't make sense. Fate doesn't make mistakes. If it did, it wouldn't be fate. It would be, well, I don't know what. But it wouldn't be fate."
"I'm only repeating it as I've heard it."
"Fate makes mistakes," I said. "Quite frequently, in fact. It's just rare for someone to be in a position to notice."
Gwurm chuckled. "You're missing the point. There are things better left unknown."
"No. You're missing the point. He didn't know anything. He just thought he knew."
"That's the same thing."
"No. It's not."
"It's just a story," Gwurm relented. "Take from it what you will."
It grew quiet again, and I used the time to sift through my vision. The four trials ahead could come in any order, and each would surely be more dangerous than the last. Such was the nature of all worthwhile quests. Although I didn't know what form each would take, I thought us well prepared. Gwurm had strength and good wits. Wyst of the West was both virtuous and brave. Newt had an eagerness to slaughter whatever might need slaughtering. My own witchly powers were formidable. And Penelope could keep the clutter at bay.
Newt spoke up. "Do you know what I've learned from that story?"
"That life is not in the knowing," I replied, "but in the finding out."
"No."
"That the wasted life is not worth living," Gwurm said.
"No."
Wyst of the West turned his head in our direction. "That no one, not even Fate itself, knows exactly what tomorrow brings?"
"No." Newt puffed out his chest and glared at the world in general. "Death should take more care with his paperwork."
16
A worthwhile quest always involved a great deal of nothing happening. Nothing noteworthy anyway. These are the forgotten moments of legend, twenty years of dull and unremarkable wandering condensed into a line or two on an epic poem. A good storyteller knows what's worth telling and what's not and what merits mention without excessive details.
Nothing happened, and nothing kept happening for nine days and nine nights.
But on the tenth day, an event of note finally came to pass. Our small band of traveling vengeance-seekers came across a pack of disagreeable elves. It wasn't so much a trial as an inconvenience.
My mistress had told me of elves and their sorry lot. As bastard children of mortals and faeries, they were of two worlds and master of neither. It was a poor mating. Faeries were innately magical creatures, but their magic was wildly chaotic. Mixing it with mortal flesh halved its already dubious reliability while in no way dimming its potency. Elves were nature spirits wrapped in smothering mortality. Though mostly harmless, they could be dangerous in the same way a monkey carrying a torch might set a forest ablaze.
We happened upon the elves late in the morning. They'd set themselves up as guardians of an assemblage of planks bridging a short ravine. There were six of them. The tallest was half-ogre and stood a little over four feet. The shortest was half-goblin and barely a foot and a half. The other four were half-men. Like all elves, each looked like a short, thin version of their mortal parent with pointed ears, bushy eyebrows, and silver eyes. The half-ogre held a spear twice his height. The others were unarmed, but this didn't stop them from standing in our way. "Halt!" the tallest elf growled. "None shall pass without paying the toll."
As a troll, Gwurm knew something about bridge-tolling. He appointed himself our negotiator and stepped forward. From my perch atop his shoulders, the elves seemed very, very small.
"How much?"
The spear-carrying leader smiled. "All your money."
"All of it, you say?"
The elf squinted. "Yes, all of it."
"Everything we have?"
"Yes! Every piece of gold, every scrap of silver, every worthless copper coin in your pockets."
"A little expensive, isn't it?"
The elf smacked the blunted end of his spear into the ground. "If you're thinking you can cross without paying, I wouldn't try it. We've got powers you couldn't possibly dream of."
"Is that so?" Gwurm glanced about our party from undead witch to animate broom to demon duck to invincible White Knight.
"You doubt our magic?"
"I say we make them pay double," the half-goblin shouted.
"Yes, double!" another seconded.
"Very well." The half-ogre raised his spear in proclamation. "Double the toll for you!"
"Double all the money we have?" Gwurm asked.
The flaw in such a toll seemed lost on the elves.