The fourth king should have been Ophion, called the consort of Eurynome, though in truth, he was more like Her bodyguard.
“He should rest here.” I gestured with my flute toward the empty pedestal. “But I don’t know where Father actually put him. I’ve never even seen his jar. Perhaps Father fears that I might feel obliged to free him, out of loyalty to my Lady, and therefore hid him from me. I don’t know.”
We left the Elemental Chamber and continued clockwise. The Treasure Chamber contained a plethora of new pieces. In addition to objects I knew well—the mermaid’s cap, the tarnhelm, a series of clay jars holding the innards of the great pharaoh Ozymandius, the Brisingamen necklace, and the Cauldron of Rebirth—there were a number I did not, including a mottled rock on a velvet pillow, a huge horn carved with Viking runes, a gleaming golden ring with a plaque that read, RHINE GOLD—that was what became of the dwarf king Alberich’s treasure! I felt a moment of pity for his brother Mime, who had spent the last several decades clapped in irons for the alleged theft of it—a crown that shone with a pale, starry light, and a full-sized donkey of gold standing upon a golden circle of floor surrounded by an oval trench filled with a black liquid. Pinned to the side of the donkey was a sheet of gold with a message carved into it that read, DO NOT TOUCH!!!
Joining me, Caurus moved around the room, poking at things and sniffing them. He moved gingerly around the donkey, careful not to touch it, but he sniffed all of Ozymandius’s organ jars and would have stuck his head in the Cauldron of Rebirth had I not shouted a warning. As I knelt to retrieve the key to the Fairyland door from its secret location, he squatted before a clay amphora painted with Orpheus and his lyre on one side and Hercules in his lion skin on the other. Beside it rested a ladle made of a horse’s hoof and a narrow trough lined with overlapping scales of horse hoof.
“What is in here? Smells . . .” He leapt back, rubbing his nose. “Frightening!”
“Water from the Styx,” I replied, chuckling. “Legend says it was brought back by Orpheus, though it was most likely Hercules who fetched it. Apparently, that jug has belonged to the Orbis Suleimani for a long time. It’s nearly empty now. Shame there’s no way to replace it. Styx water is so useful.”
“What is it used for?” asked Caurus, still rubbing his long nose, which I suspected was mildly numb.
“Swearing oaths and making things invulnerable. That trough to the right? Logistilla ladles a bit of the Styx water into it. Then, she runs a thread through those notches at either end. That’s how she made our invulnerable garments.” I brushed my fingers across the satiny cloth of my emerald tea dress.
“Ah! Like Achilles.” Caurus nodded. “He gained his invulnerability when his mother dipped him in the Styx. Only she forgot his ankle, poor tyke.”
Chuckling, I pointed at the black moat around the golden donkey. “It also makes a superior ward. Neither the living nor the dead can cross it, just like the River Styx. Come on.” I stood. “I want to glance in the last wing before we go.”
The fourth wing, the Holy Chamber, was much as I recalled it. The breastplate of Moses’s brother Aaron, with its decorations of shining Urim, hung on the wall. Beside it stood an entire suit of Urim, a glimmering metallic substance of gleaming silver-white. This armor, which once adorned a warrior angel, was missing the helmet, the breastplate, and the right gauntlet. The pressure of our footsteps upon the floor disturbed its stand, jiggling the Urim plates and causing them to ring like chimes.
On a table in the middle of the room rested a cart wheel made by the carpenter Joshua Ben Joseph, a tent made by the tentmaker Saul of Tarsus, and a net once used by Simon Bar-Jonah and his fellow fishers. The tent made by Saint Paul and the net that had once belonged to Saint Peter were ancient and delicate. Only the best efforts of science and magic had preserved them through the long years. The cart wheel made by Our Lord, however, was as sturdy and fresh as if the Savior had just finished planing it yesterday. It even smelled newly carved. There was something inspiring about its well-crafted simplicity. I always found it pleasant to gaze at it.
The last item on the table was a stand designed to hold the original Scepter of the Pope, made from a piece of the True Cross. The stand was there, but as I admired it I saw to my great dismay that the scepter was missing!
“Milady!” Caurus, who had bent down to examine the shimmering Urim greaves, leapt to his feet. “In the dark room! Something moves!”
I spun around. Within the darkened Elemental Chamber, I caught a glimpse of crimson eyes and a tiered opera cloak. Seir!
“You!” I cried. “What have you done with the Scepter of the Pope with its piece of the True Cross?”
Seir of the Shadows let out a peal of laughter. “Sweet Darling, I could no more carry away a scepter containing a piece of the True Cross than you could eat the sun! I know not whither it went.”
The demon stepped forward from the shadows, revealing his inhumanly handsome features. His sharp horns now gleamed in the phoenix light. In his hand, he held a black staff cut with red runes, from which puffs of darkness billowed. I caught a whiff of brimstone.
“Grave robber!” I accused.
The incubus raised his hands, feigning innocence. “Dread Prospero opened the coffin. We merely took what was ours.”
“Yours? How so? And where is my father? Is he . . .” I faltered.
“Dead?” he paused, red eyes glittering. “Alas for him, he is quite alive. He is held prisoner.”
“Is he well?”
“He endures his torture bravely.”
“Torture!”
“He could avoid all this unpleasantness, if he merely told us what we wish to know.”
“Which is?”
Seir’s scarlet eyes glittered. “Do you wish to tell us what your father will not, Darling? If you do, he can be set free from the Torturers who torment him.” He drifted closer, emerging out of the darkness. “Shall we embrace and whisper secrets to each other while we share what pleasures we may? You need not fear me. I will be gentler than summer rain.”
His sweet words and perfect face worked upon me like a narcotic. My mind swam and unpleasantly alluring images began crowding my thoughts. Desperately, I wished I had salt, or an athame, or water from the Styx, anything with which I might draw a ward between us, except Seir was one of those rare creatures who could cross the Styx. So, Styx water would not do.
A stab of fear numbed my limbs. I recalled Father’s dissertation on the effect of demons on the human soul. Could exposure to Mephisto be weakening my defenses against the incubus? I did not recall feeling so vulnerable last time we met.
With a snort of amused annoyance, I recalled why. I dared not look away from the demon, even for an instant, so I prayed with my eyes open, calling upon my Lady for her protection. Like a cool autumn wind, Her answer blew the cobwebs of the demon’s ensnarements from my mind, leaving me calm and alert.
My thoughts clear again, I turned my attention to defending the vault. Lightning symbols carved into the wall at various intervals marked places where Father had hidden electric batteries as part of the Vault defenses. I could draw from these nodes to cast lightning bolts with my flute. Lightning would harm the demon, but it would also damage a great many other things here, some of which were invaluable or would be dangerous if unleashed from their protective wardings.
Caurus stepped before me and raised his hornpipe, which was similar in nature to my flute, except it commanded only the winds and airy servants of the Northwest Wind.
The demon smiled indulgently and leaned upon my brother’s staff. “Trouble us not, Little Spiritling, you have no power here. You are underground, locked away from the sky. No winds will answer your call.”
Caurus eyed the walls of the Vault nervously, as if only now realizing that we were cut off from his element. I prayed he would not become claustrophobic. I had seen that happen to Aerie Ones. He held his ground, however, and said in a voice that was loud, if a bit shaky, “Keep your distance, mes
senger fiend. Milady has nothing to say to you!”
“Oh, but she does,” the incubus said as he leaned against the threshold of the darkened Elemental Chamber. “Or at least, she has things she would hear me say to her.” To me, he murmured in his syrup-sweet voice. “Send him away, that we might disport ourselves together. Or, if it would please you, he may join us. It matters not to me.”
This time his blandishments had no effect upon me. Frowning sternly, I pointed two fingers at the nearest lightning symbol, then raised my flute to my lips.
“No! Wait!” Seir cried, alarmed. “I will answer your question!”
I hesitated, torn. At this moment, I had the advantage. If I waited, he might catch me unaware. On the other hand, I was mightily curious about what Hell wanted from my father. Curiosity won out. I lowered the flute.
“Tell me.”
“What we seek from the Dread Magician Prospero is the secret of unbinding our more unfortunate brethren.”
“Unbinding who?”
“Our fellows whom Prospero bound. We cannot free them, and he will not tell us how to accomplish it.”
“What brethren of yours has Father bound? You mean someone in there?” I gestured toward the Elemental Chamber.
“How innocent you are.” The incubus wet his black lips with a scarlet tongue. I raised the flute again. “Ah, yes. Well . . . perhaps, I should start at the beginning. . . .
“During King Solomon’s reign, he lost his throne to the great devil Asmodeus for a space of three years, during which Asmodeus impersonated the wise king and performed many blasphemies in his name.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that,” I replied. “Asmodeus stole his ring, and Solomon had to get it back before he could reclaim his kingdom. Meanwhile, Asmodeus built temples to devils and false gods in Solomon’s name.”
“Exactly so.” Seir smiled. “You are so wise, my Incomparable. What is known only to a few is this: After King Solomon regained his ring, he did not return immediately to his throne. Instead, he descended into Hell, claiming to be Asmodeus. Since it was known that Asmodeus was impersonating Solomon, this subterfuge succeeded, for we demons did not expect a mortal to walk willingly into the maw of the Inferno.
“Posing as the Great King Asmodeus, one of the Seven Rulers of Hell, Solomon called up all manner of wicked spirits and used his unaccursed ring to compel them to swear allegiance to him and to cease acting in accordance with their wicked nature. Once this was done, Solomon moved among the demons themselves, tricking nine of the greatest lords, those known for doing the most harm to mortal men, into his service.
“Solomon then smuggled these nine great demons out of Hell and bound them into nine scrolls. He put these scrolls into the keeping of a secret society created to watch and guard them, a living ward that he called his Circle.”
“The Orbis Suleimani,” I murmured. “The Circle of Solomon.”
“We Infernal Ones eventually discovered the whereabouts of the missing lords. With our help, they nearly escaped, but the Circle of Solomon, the Orbis Suleimani, as you call them, discovered our attempt and bound the demon lords anew into great tomes.
“Solomon’s heirs were vigilant, but where mortals are concerned, time is always on our side. We never grow bored or tire of our efforts to corrupt—just as I will never grow bored or tire of you, once you yield to my enticements. The very foundations of the Earth will shake from the fervor of our passion. Stars will collide and a new constellation will be born to celebrate the pleasure of our union.”
“Shall I blow him to Kingdom Come? Not a pleasant place for demons, I hear,” asked Caurus, holding his hornpipe just before his lips. Apparently, he felt there was something he could do down here, despite Seir’s claims otherwise.
“If he doesn’t get back to the point, be my guest,” I replied grimly.
“We worked our influence upon Solomon’s heirs,” Seir continued, smiling graciously. “The Orbis Suleimani grew vain and corrupt. They began listening to the whispering of the tomes, to accept gifts the trapped demons offered, thus loosening the bonds binding the great lords of Hell.
“After centuries of waiting, our patience was rewarded. Two brothers came along who were ideal for our purposes. One was petty and power-hungry, the other obsessed with the pursuit of dangerous knowledge. The trapped Lords of Hell offered them gifts. Great King Paimon offered power over the minds of men, while King Vinae offered wisdom and secrets no mortal knew. When the brothers accepted, the demon lords began to describe the greater gifts that they could grant to the brothers, if the binding trapping the demons were released.
“All was in readiness. The day of release had been agreed upon and was approaching. The brothers were showered with gifts. Arcane secrets unknown to any other human were made known to them.”
Seir paused here, his scarlet eyes glittering.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Treachery. One of the brothers betrayed us. He stole the tomes and fled.”
My heart thumped oddly in my chest. An Orbis Suleimani member who stole great books of magic and fled? That sounded uncomfortably familiar. Unbidden, the memory rose of Uncle Antonio upon the battlefield in Milan, clad in his splendid armor, accusing Father of having stolen tomes of power from the Orbis Suleimani.
Could the pair of wicked brothers Seir spoke of have been Uncle Antonio and Father? If so, despite Father’s equivocal comment to me about which one of the two of them—Antonio or himself—would be more likely to take what was not his, Father must have been the brother who fled with the books.
If so, what caused his change of heart? Why had he decided not to go through with freeing the demons?
I recalled warm nights upon the bluffs of Prospero’s Island during which my father had spoken of his great love for my mother and how it had altered the course of his life. Could my mother’s love have caused him to break faith with the demons? That was a lovely thought indeed, one that lived up to all my childhood ideals about my parents’ marriage.
And what of these demon tomes? Were they the books of magic I remembered from my childhood?
Cold fingers of dread touched my spine. “These books . . . back on St. Thomas, you claimed Father transformed them into . . .” I looked at my flute.
“Into staffs,” purred the incubus.
“Merciful Heavens!” I whispered in Italian.
“Exactly, Sweetest darling. Staffs such as the one you hold in your hand, which, unless I am mistaken, is the aforementioned Great King Vinae himself.” Leaning toward the flute, Seir called. “Greetings, old friend, or should I say, old adversary? For what demon is friend to another, we who strive constantly against each other, seeking each to better his own position in our infernal home?”
“What a horrible way to live,” Caurus murmured.
I stared at my flute, repulsed by the very instrument that, until this moment, had been so dear to me.
Could this be the secret Baelor had hinted at, the cause of my family’s destruction? I recalled his inhuman voice: I know . . . why Theophrastus’s wrath leads him to embrace death, and Titus grows too slothful to maintain his vigil; why Logistilla is consumed by envy, while despair gnaws upon the innards of the once-proud sorcerer.
Suddenly, I remembered our victory celebration at the Hound and Eagle after our successful raid on the Vatican when we stole the magic that had been collected by the popes of old. Fierce Titus, who carried the Staff of Silence, was unusually reticent that night, a quality that grew in him in ensuing years until sloth became his ruling vice. Good-natured Theo, whose staff caused devastation, provoked a bar fight. Was not wrath one of Theo’s greatest vices, one he retired partially in hopes of overcoming? Mephisto, whose staff summons, found himself irresistible to ladies, a trait that has increased with each passing year. And Father had taken note of all this and frowned.
He knew! Father knew the price we paid for carrying these staffs! Father, who constantly emphasized how our family fought for Heaven and the preservation
of Solomon’s legacy; Father, who had written such graphic descriptions of the distortions that exposure to the presence of demons caused to the human soul!
But, if he knew, why did he give us the staffs? Why did he not tell us, warn us? Could it be he, too, had been corrupted by the staff he carried for so many years: the Staff of Persuasion, which can alter a man’s mind? Could the demons finally have succeeded with him in his age, where they had failed in his youth?
If so, why did he now allow himself to be tortured, rather than revealing the method for releasing the demons, which presumably would have allowed the Three Shadowed Ones to free the demon trapped in Gregor’s and Mephisto’s staffs?
Of course, the incubus could be lying. . . . I stared at the four-foot length of demon-infested wood I had formerly called my beloved flute and shuddered as I wondered what ill effect its proximity had worked upon my soul.
“Milady! The Kings!”
In staring at my flute, I had taken my eyes off the incubus. My head snapped up in time to see Seir bring the butt of the Staff of Darkness down upon the brittle lead seal on the copper pot that held the King of Fire.
CHAPTER SIX
The Staff of Eternity
The ancient lead seal broke with a resounding crack. With a tremendous cry of exultation, the King of Fire rose from the copper jar that had been his prison for nigh unto three thousand years. His coal-black eyes hung in the midst of the mass of flames that made up his body. Heat radiated from him like water cascading over Victoria Falls.
“Iblis al-Shaitan am I, King of Flame! Lord of Djinn! Master of Salamanders! Prince of Efreeti! Look upon me and tremble!” he cried in a great voice.
Seir of the Shadows smiled. “Welcome, your majesty, tarry but a moment while I free your companions.”
Iblis al-Shaitan’s fiery body moved rapidly between Seir and the copper pot containing the Queen of Earth. The intense heat radiating from his body scorched the floor and wall near the djinn to a sooty black and filled the Vault with the smell of burnt paint. The incubus, however, did not seem disturbed. Perhaps he was used to fires hotter still.
Prospero in Hell Page 8