A Nameless Witch

15

Wyst trusted me to guide him on the right path. Or perhaps he expected to not understand a witch's guidance. Either way, questions would have been pointless. All the answers I possessed made little sense to me at the moment, and I wouldn't have given them to him in any form he might have understood.

We passed the morning in silence. Sometimes Wyst rode slightly ahead. Sometimes, a little behind. Never alongside. Occasionally, he'd glance over his shoulder, or I'd glance over mine, and we'd look briefly into each other's eyes. And I would have no idea what he was thinking.

Wyst could be thoroughly inscrutable. It was part of his trade. White Knights were paragons of unflappable heroism. Underneath that stoic nature and righteous enchantments, I knew he was very much a mortal man. Perhaps this was merely wishful thinking on my part. Perhaps years of unspoiled virtue had killed any fleshly desires. Yet, in those glances, I felt certain I saw something, but did I see something because it was there or because I wanted it to be there? And did I really want it to be there?

Of course, I did.

Which begged the actual question, were these the desires of a smitten heart or accursed appetite? I suspected a little of each. Desire was often a many-headed beast.

My thoughts on the subject were interrupted by Newt. "You do realize that we're traveling northeast?"

I tried to ignore him, but this was merely wishful thinking.

"And that the horde came from the south?"

"Quite aware."

Newt took a moment to groom his wing.

"Just making sure you knew."

He groomed the other wing.

"Because, it just seems to me, that if we were to follow the horde to its origin, south would be a better direction."

"I can see why you might think that. That's why you are the familiar and I am the witch."

Newt frowned, and Gwurm chuckled.

Newt couldn't argue, but the demon in him couldn't drop the point entirely. "So how far north is this sorcerer?"

My vision was making more sense with every passing hour. I shared what I knew, well aware it wouldn't satisfy him.

"Four trials. Trial by peril. Trial by strength. Trial by combat. And trial by magic."

"Trials? Didn't the vision mention perhaps something along the lines of miles or days?"

I merely smiled.

"I was hoping for something more practical," Newt said.

"Visions are rarely practical. Useful, sometimes. Insightful, often. Practical, hardly ever."

"It's a poor arrangement, if you ask me."

"I don't know about that," Gwurm said. "Always seems to me that knowing too much takes the fun out of it. It's the not knowing that makes life worth living. Who can forget the lesson of Doomed Bill?"

"Who?"

I was glad Newt asked because I was curious too. Asking would have gone against my witchly training. Gwurm was only too happy to share the tale.

"It happened that one day a prince was born in a small kingdom. Now a great many people are born any given day, and enough of those people are princes that Bill's arrival into this world wasn't all that special an event. The king already had four sons, so more heirs weren't really needed. In fact, an overabundance of heirs has been the undoing of as many kingdoms as a deficiency. But this isn't the story of a political back-stabbing and courtly intrigue it well might have been under different circumstances because Bill was born under the shadow of death.

"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."