‘What is he?’
THE EIGHTH SON OF AN EIGHTH SON OF AN EIGHTH SON, said Death, unhelpfully. The wind whipped at his robe, driving the black clouds overhead.
‘What does that make him?’
A SOURCERER, AS YOU ARE WELL AWARE.
Thunder rolled, on cue.
‘What is his destiny?’ shouted Ipslore, above the rising gale.
Death shrugged again. He was good at it.
SOURCERERS MAKE THEIR OWN DESTINY. THEY TOUCH THE EARTH LIGHTLY.
Ipslore leaned on the staff, drumming on it with his fingers, apparently lost in the maze of his own thoughts. His left eyebrow twitched.
‘No,’ he said, softly, ‘no. I will make his destiny for him.’
I ADVISE AGAINST IT.
‘Be quiet! And listen when I tell you that they drove me out, with their books and their rituals and their Lore! They called themselves wizards, and they had less magic in their whole fat bodies than I have in my little finger! Banished! Me! For showing that I was human! And what would humans be without love?’
RARE, said Death. NEVERTHELESS
‘Listen! They drove us here, to the ends of the world, and that killed her! They tried to take my staff away!’ Ipslore was screaming above the noise of the wind.
‘Well, I still have some power left,’ he snarled. ‘And I say that my son shall go to Unseen University and wear the Archchancellor’s hat and the wizards of the world shall bow to him! And he shall show them what lies in their deepest hearts. Their craven, greedy hearts. He’ll show the world its true destiny, and there will be no magic greater than his.’
NO. And the strange thing about the quiet way Death spoke the word was this: it was louder than the roaring of the storm. It jerked Ipslore back to momentary sanity.
Ipslore rocked back and forth uncertainly. ‘What?’ he said.
I SAID NO. NOTHING IS FINAL. NOTHING IS ABSOLUTE. EXCEPT ME, OF COURSE. SUCH TINKERING WITH DESTINY COULD MEAN THE DOWNFALL OF THE WORLD. THERE MUST BE A CHANCE, HOWEVER SMALL. THE LAWYERS OF FATE DEMAND A LOOPHOLE IN EVERY PROPHECY.
Ipslore stared at Death’s implacable face.
‘I must give them a chance?’
YES.
Tap, tap, tap went Ipslore’s fingers on the metal of the staff.
‘Then they shall have their chance,’ he said, ‘when hell freezes over.’
NO. I AM NOT ALLOWED TO ENLIGHTEN YOU, EVEN BY DEFAULT, ABOUT CURRENT TEMPERATURES IN THE NEXT WORLD.
‘Then,’ Ipslore hesitated, ‘then they shall have their chance when my son throws his staff away.’
NO WIZARD WOULD EVER THROW HIS STAFF AWAY, said Death. THE BOND IS TOO GREAT.
‘Yet it is possible, you must agree.’
Death appeared to consider this. Must was not a word he was accustomed to hearing, but he seemed to concede the point.
AGREED, he said.
‘Is that a small enough chance for you?’