“Okay, Mab. Where is he?”
“Chicago, Ma’am.”
“I’ll have Ariel pack the usual gear, and we’ll leave first thing in the morning.” I rose. “But first, I need something from the Great Hall.”
CHAPTER
TWO
The Great Hall
The doors of the Great Hall were vast and ornate with a large windrose, depicting the eight ordinal directions of the compass, painted upon the dark wood. A heavy iron chain bound them shut. The padlock that secured it was in the shape of a fanged serpent. I fitted the cast-iron key into the serpent’s mouth and twisted. The lock sprang open.
“Always wondered what was behind these doors,” Mab remarked as I unbound the chains. “Considering all the unrestrained supernatural iniquities in this house, it’s hard to imagine what could be so dire that even Mr. Prospero thought it should be locked up with cold iron.”
“Let’s do this quickly, Mab,” I said. “There is much to do before we depart.”
Planting my feet, I yanked on the iron door handles. The massive oak doors parted slowly, splitting the windrose. Their hinges groaned. Beyond lay a long sunny hall of reddish stone. Alcoves set into its walls held statues carved from different shades of marble. At the far end of the hall, two thrones sat on a raised dais.
It was late afternoon and shafts of sunshine, falling from small, round windows high overhead, pierced the chamber, illuminating the statues along the right wall. Dust motes danced in the light. The effect was striking. Mab took off his hat.
“Whoa!”
Despite the brightness, the air here was cold and dank. Shivering, I walked briskly toward the far end, my footsteps ringing out against the gray and black marble checkerboard floor. Mab followed more slowly, stopping to squint at the first statue on the left: a gray marble figure of a slight young man dressed in a tuxedo and a domino mask.
“That’s Mr. Ulysses . . . I never forget a perp,” Mab scowled. “Nice likeness.”
Smiling, I paused in a sunbeam and gestured toward the statues. The afternoon sunlight sparkled off my emerald tea gown, causing flashes of green fire to chase each other across its enchanted satin.
“Behold, the family,” I announced. “From youngest to oldest: Ulysses the Gentleman Thief; Gregor the Witchhunter, who is dead; Logistilla the Sorceress; Titus the Silent, whom spirits fear; Cornelius the Cunning, who is blind; Erasmus the Enchanter, whom I abhor; Theophrastus the Demonslayer, whom I adore; and Mephistopheles, who is mad. The last two, down near the thrones, are myself and Father.”
“Impressive!” Mab stalked over to the next statue, examining it closely. “I notice each statue has a round opening between the fingers and thumb of one hand, as if it were meant to hold something.
“Very perceptive of you, Mr. Detective. Long ago, Father used the most potent magic from his books to fashion staffs of immense power. He made one for each of his children but did not feel we were ready for them yet. So, Mephisto fashioned these statues to hold the staffs. They remained in the grip of the statues for many years. Eventually, a day came when Father decided we were mature enough to use them wisely, and he handed them out.” I recalled those carefree days, when Father held all the magic, and only Erasmus and Logistilla showed any interest in the arcane, and sighed. “Sometimes, I wish he had kept them longer.”
“I wish he’d never made ’em at all. Or better yet, that he had drowned his books like that Spearshaker fellow said,” muttered Mab. “Where’d he get those accursed tomes anyway?”
“Father would never say.”
“Bears looking into,” Mab growled. He screwed up his face and scratched at his stubble. “I think I’ve been in this room before. In the old days, before Mr. Prospero put me in a body. My memory worked differently back then, though.”
“You probably were,” I replied. “The stones of this hall have been part of every mansion our family has owned. We had a Great Hall when we lived in Illinois, before that when our family home was in Boston, and even before that, back in Scotland. Once, long ago, these same stones were part of the great Castello Sforzesco, my family’s ancestral home in Milan.”
From the pocket of his trench coat, Mab pulled out his notepad and stubby blue pencil. He examined the statues and noted down the inscriptions above each alcove, which recorded the name of the staff once housed there.
“Must you dawdle, Mab? Time’s a-wasting.”
Mab tipped the brim of his hat. “Ma’am, if I am to find your siblings for you, I need to have some notion of who they are. This seems as good a place to start gathering that information as any.”
I glanced around at the family statues. “True. Very well, Mab, carry on.”
Mab continued taking notes, and I strode forward, seeking that which I had come to find. The click of my heels against the marble echoed through the chamber. I passed the marble likenesses of my various siblings: The statue of my dead brother Gregor, carved from red marble shot through with black, portrayed him as a Catholic cardinal; my sister Logistilla, sculpted in a deep blue stone, looked splendid in her flowing robes with their high pointed shoulders; enormous Titus, portrayed in earth tones, wore his kilt. The statue of Cornelius was of a rare type of purple marble—it pleased him tremendously that his statue was more valuable than all the rest of ours put together. His likeness bore the symbol of “the eye within the triangle” upon its chest, and bandages, carved into the stone, covered its eyes, so that he looked like a male Blind Justice.
Erasmus, who could do nothing without competing with me, had chosen for his statue a dark green marble shot through with black, as if changing the shade made it a different color. The marble of his gauntlet was pitted and dull from years of holding the Staff of Decay.
My brother’s many cruel barbs and unprovoked abuses of me rose to mind, and a burst of wrath swept over me. I clenched my fists. It was hard to think rationally about anything related to Erasmus.
Mab came up beside me and ran his hand over the damaged stone.
“Looks deadly. How’d he wield it?”
“He has to wear a gauntlet of Urim.”
“Urim! You mean that imperishable shining stuff the warrior angels wear?” Mab whistled. “That’s . . .”
“. . . a waste of good Urim.” I glared at the statue.
“I gather you and Mr. Erasmus don’t quite see eye to eye, Ma’am. How did that come about?”
“Frankly, I don’t know. Erasmus is malicious and spiteful and delights in tormenting me.”
Mab eyed me skeptically and raised his stubby pencil. “Can you give an example? Just in case it turns out to be important?”
I caught a strand of my hair that had come free. It gleamed like spun silver in the sunlight. “Our family is from Milan, Mab. Six of us are entirely Italian. The other three are half-Italian. With the exception of Ulysses and Mephisto, we all have Roman noses. Have you ever wondered why I am the only one in my family who is not a brunette?”
“Does seem incongruous,” Mab grunted. “What’s the cause?”
“Ask Erasmus,” I growled, “and the Staff of Decay.”
Only one alcove held a statue of traditional white. A handsome youth in an armored breastplate stood with legs braced, as if attempting to restrain something unwieldy, such as a fire hose. His hair and cloak flared about him, as if he faced into a strong wind. He smiled bravely, showing his teeth. A pair of goggles covered his eyes. The inscription above the alcove read The Staff of Devastation.
Mab looked up from his notebook and jerked his thumb at the statue. “Any idea of his whereabouts?”
“No. Theo turned his back on us in the 1960s. He declared we’d turned into a bunch of unruly criminals and left the family. He gave up magic completely. Said he was tired of all the violence and horror. Even started aging. Must be an old man by now,” I concluded sadly.
My dear brother Theo, how I missed him! The thought of him as aged and weak, or, worse yet, dead, was excruciating. I preferred to think of him as th
e statue had captured him: young, confident, and filled with joie de vivre.
“Sounds like a decent guy, Ma’am. My heart goes out to him.”
“You two would get along swimmingly,” I replied. “He was the only one of the youngsters with sense. If he’s really put aside his magic, he might be safer left alone. It is unlikely a supernatural enemy could find him. Yet, I’m certain he’d want to know that Father is in trouble. It was Theo who nursed Father the time he became so ill, after Gregor died.”
Mab glanced at the inscription above the statue. “What’d his staff do?”
“Blew things to smithereens.”
“Why’d the peace lover get the war staff?” Mab asked.
“Back then, he was Theophrastus the Demonslayer, the bane of dark powers everywhere.”
“Oh,” Mab lowered his voice respectfully. “That Theophrastus!”
“He used to love his staff,” I recalled. “Its blast was so hot that it would tan his skin and bleach his forelock. You should have seen his face when he fired it. Mephisto almost caught his expression on the statue, a sort of exquisite glee.”
“Perhaps we should leave him alone, Ma’am. Our showing up might do him more harm than good.” Mab looked across the hall, squinting. “Who’s that?”
Over the years, my memory of the next statue had dimmed. Startled by the tears that unexpectedly rose to my eyes, I halted and stared. Portrayed in shiny black marble, a heartbreakingly handsome youth stood with his arms thrown wide and his head tossed back in exultant joy. A keen intelligence lit his elfin features. He wore high boots, loose pants, and long loose sleeves covered by a quartered surcoat, the livery of which depicted a unicorn, three interlocking rings, a curling grass snake, and an eye within a triangle.
“Lively fellow. I don’t remember you mentioning him.” Mab crossed the hall and read the inscription above the alcove. “ ‘Staff of Summoning’? Hey, isn’t that the one Mr. Mephistopheles lost?”
“That is Mephistopheles. Or, rather, was. . . .”
“Seriously?” Mab peered closer as I came to join him. “Doesn’t look like the same fellow at all. No . . . now that you mention it, the features are the same; however, the resemblance ends there.”
“He has his cheerful periods and his morose periods. He was in one of his morose periods when you met him. But this statue is from the days before he lost his wits.”
“So, he wasn’t always crazy? What happened?”
“No one knows. One day, he came back, and he was different.”
“Did he change over a period of years? Or all at once?” Mab asked.
“We don’t know.”
It had been so very long since Mephisto had been sane that, even with the statue before me, I could hardly recall what he had been like. I wondered if perhaps Mab and Theo were right about the nature of magic. On the other hand, even mundane men could go mad. If it were not for magic, Mephisto would have been dead long ago. Madness was preferable to death.
“He doesn’t have his staff anymore. Lost it to some woman who seduced him. I don’t know why she’d keep it. She can’t use it. No one can use the staffs except our family. Perhaps, without his staff, Mephisto’s in no danger from the Three Shadowed Ones.” I shook my head, still finding it difficult to contemplate the notion that my crazy brother could be a rapist.
“Let’s hope,” Mab muttered. He walked by the next column and stopped before the last alcove on the right wall.
“Mr. Prospero.”
My father’s statue held a tome in one hand and pointed toward the horizon with the other. Kind but penetrating eyes peered out from beneath bushy brows. A full beard framed his mouth. Mephisto had done a good job of catching Father’s age and wisdom in the yellow marble. I could almost imagine he stood here before us. If only it were true!
“Nice likeness,” Mab commented again. “Looks just like him.”
“Mephisto did Father’s statue first,” I replied, “That’s how Father got the idea for the others. In fact, Mephisto carved all the statues, except for Ulysses. By the time Ulysses was born, Mephisto was just too far gone. Father hired some Englishman to carve it.”
“What about the inscription here?” Mab peered upward. “It says . . . ‘The Staff of Eternity.’ ”
“What!” I hurried to examine the inscription. “That wasn’t there last time I came!”
Our nine staffs had existed, had been an intrinsic part of our experience, for so very long that the idea of a new one was more shocking than I could find words to express. Where had it come from? Why had Father never mentioned it?
“When were you last here?” Mab asked, pencil poised.
“About six years ago.”
Standing on my toes, I ran a finger over the engraved letters. The stone was smooth with crisp sharp edges, with little flecks of stone dust still in the letters. “This carving seems recent. I wonder if Father added it before he retired. Or even last time he was here.”
“When was that?”
“September.”
“That would be about three months ago.” Mab squinted at the inscription, but the mute stone revealed no secrets. He straightened. “Has Mr. Prospero been heard from since then?”
“No. The last time any of his servants saw Father was when he departed for America.”
“So, this ‘finding your brothers’ thing isn’t urgent,” drawled Mab. “I mean, if your father left you a message three months ago . . .”
I cut him off. “His message was only just brought to my attention by an urging from my Lady. I am certain She would not have taken the trouble had the matter been unimportant. Therefore, until I know otherwise, I must assume some member of my family is in immediate, or at least imminent, danger.”
He walked over to the red stone thrones, splashing through a shaft of sunlight as he went. His footsteps echoed loudly in the empty hall. When he reached the dais, he sat down upon the arm of Father’s throne and began scribbling in his notebook.
I sat down on the arm of the second throne, the “Wife’s Chair” we called it, but the stone was icy cold. Standing, I rubbed my arms and gazed at the painting that hung behind the chair. It was a portrait of my mother, whom I had never met. She had died in childbirth, bringing me into the world. Giovanni Bellini had painted her portrait upon the occasion of her engagement to my father. It showed her young and fresh and vibrant with life.
Beneath the portrait, a brass plaque held an inscription:
Portia Lucia dei Gardelli
Duchess of Milan, 1456
“Thy mother was a piece of Virtue.”
The last was from The Tempest; Shakespeare’s rendition of my father’s description of the only woman Father ever loved.
Beside me, Mab halted his scribbling and asked, “Hey, do you think there could there be a relation between this new staff and these Three Shadowed Ones? What does the Staff of Eternity do?”
“I don’t know. Father never mentioned it.”
“Do you think this new staff could have anything to do with Mr. Prospero’s disappearance?”
I shook my head in puzzlement. “I could not tell you, Mab.”
Mab straightened and scowled at me. “Begging your pardon, Ma’am, but you must know something! Think back. When did you last talk to him?”
“Early September.”
He began scribbling again. “What about?”
“At the end of December, the treaty between the djinn and the efretes comes up for renewal. The djinn have great respect for Father and are more biddable in his presence. And you know how dangerous they can be when they get incensed! Last time they rioted, the resulting earthquake killed over twenty thousand people! Anyway, Father promised to come.”
“Early September. Was that while he was here at Prospero’s Mansion?” Mab’s pencil scratched away.
“No, he was here in late September.”
“You didn’t speak to him then? What? The house is so big you couldn’t find each other?”
I laughe
d. “Unfortunately, his visit coincided with Prospero, Inc.’s once-a-decade rendezvous with the kami of Mount Fuji, so I was in Japan at the time.”
“No leads there,” Mab grumbled. “Any idea what’s he been working on recently?”
I sighed. “I’ve often asked him what he was up to since he retired, but he always replied with the same answer: ‘Keeping busy.’ ”
“Mr. Prospero was always one to keep matters to himself,” Mab grunted, “Still, bears looking into. I’d wager my hat . . .” His voice trailed off. He was staring at the remaining alcove.
Within the last alcove stood a statue of pale jade-green marble. The subject was a young woman. The high stiff collar of her Elizabethan gown framed a strikingly fair face. Her eyes gazed demurely down, but there was a proud cast to her upturned chin. Her delicate green hands were carved so as to hold a flute. Her lips were pursed as if to play. Her features were my own.
In the statue’s delicate hands rested a flute, four feet in length and made of the palest wood. It had been fashioned long ago, wrought from the cloven pine in which the witch Sycorax had imprisoned the spirit Ariel. Its virtue was to command wind, weather, and the Aerie Ones, the race to which Mab and Ariel belonged. Even the lightning bolt, the symbol and servant of my Lady, bowed before its song.
Mab had drawn back his lips, exposing his teeth. “So this is where you keep it.”
Reverently, I drew from the statue’s grasp the gift Father had bestowed upon me. Holding the instrument close, I brushed its cool polished length against my cheek. My flute. My birthright. The key to mystery and magic, to tempests and storms, and to everything I held dear, save my Lady Herself.
Feeling the flute between my fingers brought back memories of the first time I ever heard it. I had been on the island, out by the bluff, plaiting daisies into a wreath for my hair and gathering orchids to brighten up Father’s cold stone study. Caliban had followed me, as always, slinking among the shadows of the trees and ogling me, but, though his presence filled me with revulsion, I no longer feared him, for I knew he dreaded Father’s wrath and dared not approach me again.
Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I Page 3