Prospero Regained

by L. Jagi Lamplighter

  Mab had a soul. Caurus must have a soul, too. And Windflower? How many Aerie Ones with souls had I compelled with the flute?

  Slowly, I turned and looked down from our great height at the figures, now tiny, who moved upon the Paths of Pride. I could make out a band of men and some women, roped together and suffering under the scourge of their driver imp.

  Slavers.

  The morality of commanding spirits, fickle soulless things, could be argued ad nauseum, but there was no debating the wrongness of enslaving creatures with souls.

  Tears stung my eyes. I reached back and touched my flute lovingly. After we rescued Father and were safely home, I could approach the family magicians about whether it would be possible to release Mab and the other souled Aerie Ones from the flute’s control without breaking it. If so, wonderful. If not … there would be time enough to think about that then. In the interim, I could hand out a lot of earplugs!

  After this, my attempts to cheer myself failed. Soon, I could hardly bring a happy thought to mind. Instead, my thoughts were filled with the misery of our situation, the futility of our task, the irony of Astreus’s death, the burden of my true parentage, how much I wanted to knock Erasmus’s head into the sharp-edged rocks—the arrogant bastard! How dare he manhandle me!—and other topics equally glum, all of which clamored for my attention as I plodded slowly upward along the narrow trail.

  * * *

  WE rested briefly several times. Despite Logistilla’s repeated requests for a longer break, I insisted we push on. We did not know how much time it would take us to cross the mountains, or what obstacles might wait beyond.

  The longer I walked, the more miserable I felt. Then, as I stumbled on a loose boulder, an unpleasant sensation gripped me. It was that horrible feeling that comes when one suddenly realizes that one has forgotten something of extreme urgency, as if the previously solid ground beneath one’s feet suddenly transformed into shifting sands.

  These plans for the Aerie Ones—these stratagems involving bodies and souls—it was all for naught. Everything that Father had set in motion depended upon one thing: time—long, uninterrupted durations of time. And time, we no longer had.

  We were living in the heyday of humanity, the best of times. The dreams of better times that men cherish in their hearts—often expressed as visions of sleek, silver spaceships and world-encompassing peace—these dreams would never come. For, when the spirits broke loose, modern science would fail, and mankind would be cast back into an earlier age.

  Columbus sailed to America in 1492. There was a reason why no one had reached the New World before him—before Father bound up the winds and commanded them to serve man’s sails instead of smashing any ship that crossed the equator. The more winds Father captured, the more superior grew man’s control of the sea and skies. The age of the explorers, of clipper ships, and even ocean liners and airplanes, all grew out of the Prospero Family’s mastery of the winds.

  What was going to happen in a hundred years or so when we all died of old age, freeing the Aerie Ones from their oath?

  Had we had years enough, perhaps we could have given them souls, and perhaps they would have developed good souls and choose not to do harm, and perhaps pigs would have learned how to fly …

  But we did not have enough Water for any of us to live long enough to complete that project.

  Had their service run out while we still lived, any wind who misbehaved would have been hunted down by my brothers and forced to swear a new oath. Most likely, the Aerie Ones would have been given the same kind of deal Prospero, Inc., offered the other spirits, where we provided them with something they wanted in return for them living up to a set of laws—what scientists called the “Laws of Nature”—and limiting the harm they did to mankind. There might have been a short period of dire havoc, but it all would have been well in the end.

  Only, now, when the Aerie Ones got free, my brothers would be dead.

  True, the Orbis Suleimani would still exist, but without us, they would be hard pressed just to keep guard over the demons in the staffs. Running Prospero, Inc.—without Water of Life or the help of the Aerie Ones—was out of the question.

  So, mankind would be cast back to the days before sea travel or air travel. And that was assuming that the other sprites we had bound did not all rebel when Prospero, Inc., stopped honoring its contracts. If that happened, it would not be the Renaissance civilization fell back to, but the Dark Ages.

  Should the Orbis Suleimani fail, on the other hand, the results would be far worse than the Dark Ages. It would set mankind back to the time before Solomon bound the elements. Back before fire would smelt iron! Back to the days of volcano kami who demanded virgin sacrifices, and rivers who would rise up at their whim and outrage maidens; back to the days before mankind ruled the earth.

  This wonderful world that man had built, where so many ate, so many lived in comfort, so many lived without slavery or fear of imminent death, it would all be gone in a twinkling of an eye. And it would be all my fault!

  If I had not been taken in by Seir, if I had not trusted the false Ferdinand, the future would still be shining and bright. I covered my face with my hands and wept as if the sorrow of my heart were a river that would never run dry.

  We were living in the last days.

  * * *

  WE continued, silent, cold, and miserable. The three peaks we had already climbed eclipsed much of our view. Occasionally, we caught glimpses of the Plain of Wasted Lives, the nightmarish forest, and, in the far, far distance beneath a red-orange sky, infernal towers rising from behind the dark wall of the City of Dis.

  The trek was wearying and depressing. Luckily, I had a secret weapon. Every time I felt too sorrowful, I glanced back at Theo, walking among us, hale and strong. Just the fact that he looked himself again, with his fierce gaze and his chiseled cheekbones—that he was the most handsome of my brothers was generally agreed by both men and women, though there were those among the fairer sex who preferred Mephisto, who was the prettier of the two—lifted my spirits, if only a notch or two.

  To my right, the Mountains of Misery trailed away into the distance, growing ever taller. Gazing at them, I forgot, for an instant, that I was in Hell, regarding peaks hewn from sorrow and misery. During that instant, the vista seemed breathtakingly beautiful, complete with “purple mountain majesties.”

  The sight stirred long-buried memories. I had almost forgotten how much I had loved to journey to new places. In my first few centuries, my family had traveled a great deal. I recalled wind-tossed sea voyages into unknown waters, cresting the Rhipaeans to catch my first glimpse of the ever-dawn of Hyperborea, our first visit to Japan and the Far East. Best of all, of course, had been the secret and wonderful journey of a year and a day to the Well at the World’s End—a journey, I realized with a sudden pang of sorrow, I would never make again.

  It was a journey upon which no human could accompany me, but I seldom went alone. In my youth, I would travel with a dog, whichever of the family’s curs or hunting hounds I was fondest of at the time. Later, after Father had presented us with our familiars, I made the trip with my familiar, Tybalt, Prince of Cats.

  All that had ended once I took over Prospero, Inc. The pressures of running the company crowded in upon me, and there was no time for frivolities such as journeys to unknown lands. And yet, I still longed to discover what was beyond the horizons I knew: to visit the halls of Forestholme; to cross the arched bridge between Mount Urnath and Mount Amaranth in fell Avernus; to see the silver fields where my Lady walked; and, of course, to behold the wonders that Astreus had tried to tempt me with at Father Christmas’s mansion, the wonders that only seven had seen beyond the Brink of the World.

  But, it was not to be.

  With the eerie certainty that comes from glimpsing the present as if it were a far distant age, I realized that, assuming I lived, this grueling and heart-racking trek across Hell would one day be numbered among my most cherished memories. While it
was true that I had been made uncomfortable, injured and humiliated—not to mention living in constant terror for Father and my other loved ones—this journey had granted my heart’s dearest wish: our family worked and traveled together once again!

  * * *

  AFTER seven hours, we finally surrendered to fatigue and made camp. Titus and I still wanted to continue, but Logistilla, Cornelius, and Mephisto were nearly dropping from exhaustion. Truth be told, I was so tired I could not properly focus my eyes.

  Mephisto tapped his staff, and again the seven young hoodlums appeared among us, their arms overflowing with bags of fast food and clothes. Mephisto sent them home immediately, instructing them to collect bedding for us. He handed a pair of shiny new Nikes to Ulysses and the bandana to Cornelius, who immediately tied it around his head, covering his eyes. Then, Mephisto divvied up the food: hamburgers and fries, tacos, a bag of nachos smothered in liquid cheese, and a bag of carrots. When combined with our wine, milk, and honey, it proved a surprisingly satisfactory meal.

  By the time Mephisto summoned the seven young men back again, they had gathered six sleeping bags, four blankets, a linen bedspread, some towels, a tablecloth and a shower curtain. We spread the shower curtain over a flat ledge that was tucked under an overhang, facing away from the wind. Then, we made do as best we could with the rest.

  Though totally exhausted, I lay awake upon my sleeping bag for a time, contemplating what was to come. A little over a day and a half from now, either all would be lost, or Father would be safe, and I would be home again. I pictured what I would do, visiting the office, reading by the fireplace in the lesser hall, with Tybalt curled up on a silken pillow, the phoenix lamp emitting its cinnamony fragrance.

  Only, for the first time, I felt dissatisfied. What would I read by the light of the phoenix lamp? All my studying thus far had been in pursuit of Sibylhood. Without that search to sustain me, what purpose did my life have?

  Even my Prospero, Inc., duties—which heretofore I had enjoyed immensely—evoked no sense of excitement. After our trek through Hell, returning to the daily toil of running a company suddenly seemed like a step backward, as if a graduate were to return to college the following fall, instead of setting out to make his way in the world.

  As I drifted off to sleep, I dreamt I was the Sibyl destined to free the elves from their oath to Hell, but that I was unable to pursue this goal because there was no one else to run Prospero, Inc.

  * * *

  SLEEPING atop the hard rock of solidified misery, I slipped in and out of nightmares. Once, I thought I had awakened but perhaps that, too, was a dream. In the dream, Mephistopheles the demon stood beside me, his head lowered so he could fit beneath the overhang. He spoke with a man made entirely of shadow who crouched near me, watching me with blood red eyes.

  “I hear you are no longer recognized,” said the shadowy form.

  “And with whom do you side, Incubus? With myself, or the Queen?” My brother the demon spread his wings and flexed his glowing ruby claws.

  The sable incubus did not so much as glance at Mephistopheles. “I have always been one who acknowledges the Powers that Be, Great Prince! While I am here, where you are, I am certain you are a Prince of the Sixth Circle, with all the requisite honors!”

  “As well you should be.” Mephistopheles chuckled. He leaned over until he was practically breathing down the smaller demon’s neck. “I do not like the way you are looking at my sister.”

  “I cannot help it.” The incubus’s eyes remained fixed upon me. “My other self thought of nothing but her for almost four hundred years, and now I, too, can think of nothing else.”

  They paused a moment and regarded me in silence.

  Leaning forward, the incubus extended his hand toward the emerald light of my left wing. “You must not let Lilith have her! The Queen of Air and Darkness wishes to bring Miranda to the Tower of Thorns, and, once there, to do unspeakable things to her—by which I mean, literally, ‘things for which we have no words.’ My beautiful dove will not survive.” His fingers brushed my wings and he yanked them back, as if they stung, putting them in his mouth. “Though perhaps she is not a dove, after all.”

  This last was spoken by a third voice, familiar and airy, that belonged to neither demon, though the mouth of the sable one moved. Hearing it made my heart sing, as if, amidst the winding labyrinths of dreaming, I had come upon a lost portion of my soul that I had not realized was missing.

  “My sister is stronger than she appears,” replied Mephistopheles.

  “Not strong enough. Last time, she could hardly bear the Tower, even for a few moments,” countered the third voice.

  “Miranda has been in the Tower of Thorns?”

  “I brought her there in a dream.”

  “For that, I should rend you.”

  “It was not my intention to bring her. Besides”—the voice sounded like the incubus’s again—“you have already rent me once. Perhaps, that will do?”

  “Perhaps.”

  The incubus’s blood-red eyes drank in my face. “If Lilith captures her, call upon me. I will save her!”

  “You?” laughed my brother. “Resist Lilith?”

  The sable incubus rose catlike to his feet. “Thanks to your sister, I have a power far greater than Lilith on my side.”

  “And what power could that be?”

  As he faded away, his voice lingered behind him: “Ask King Vinae!”

  Before slipping into deeper dreaming, I wondered what secret Seir of the Shadows could know, that he could boast of resisting the Queen of Air and Darkness herself.

  * * *

  I WOKE to find that everyone else was asleep except for Titus, who stood watch. Apparently, my brothers had set a watch among themselves without including me in the roster. Not that I minded the extra rest, but it galled me to know that they had done this because they did not trust me.

  Rising, I glanced down, and my heart stopped in my chest. In the small rocks and dust beside my sleeping bag were the tracks of demon feet, a large set and a smaller set.

  It had not been a dream.

  I moved to the ledge and sat gazing out at the mountains below. What was out there, I do not know, for my mind never beheld what my eyes saw. I was too busy contemplating other things.

  Could Astreus still live? Could he have held out against the darkness, even without hope? Surely, that was his voice I had heard.

  Such joy rose in me. I felt as if the peaks had fallen away, and I was flying; as if my wings could pick me up and carry me; or, perhaps, as if the sheer force of my exaltation was so great as to repel all misery, throwing me thus into the heavens.

  The realization I had rejected in the City of Dis could no longer be denied.

  I loved him.

  When had it happened? I had thought myself wiser than to fall in love with an elf. And yet, in the midst of this ecstasy born of hope, I could not find fault with my choice. I loved the elf who wished to free all others from the clutches of Hell. Who could be more fitting?

  My joyous flight of fancy faltered. I had seen Mephistopheles and Seir. I remembered where they had been standing. This means my eyes must have been open, at least briefly—which meant that Seir could have seen that I was awake.

  My heart dropped like a stone. I had not soared. I was still anchored firmly upon the ledge of misery. I had gone nowhere.

  Was it so astonishing that the demon who had once been Astreus could reproduce the dead elf’s voice? Seir had played yet another trick upon me. Most likely, he hoped I might be led to believe that some part of Astreus still lived within him so he could lead me to some harm—which meant Astreus Stormwind really was dead.

  He must be dead, or Seir would not have allowed me to hear his voice. Seir would not have given me hope, if hope was real. He was a demon.

  Once before, I had allowed Seir to pluck my heartstrings, when he resurrected the image of my dead first love. My error, in trusting the false Ferdinand, had stripped my family of
their immortality.

  I would not fall for his blandishments again.

  But I still loved him.

  Eventually, others began to stir. I rose to join them, folding up my blankets and putting them into a backpack which Mephisto had requisitioned from his seven hoods. The milk had spoiled during the night, despite the cold weather, but the wine and honey were welcome.

  As I licked honey from my fingers, the latter part of the dreamlike conversation returned to me. A power stronger than Lilith? Ask King Vinae? What did it all mean? Vinae was one of the nine demons King Solomon originally captured—the one that had supposedly powered my staff—only instead, Ophion, the Serpent of the Wind, the ancient consort of my Lady, dwelled within my flute.

  So, where was King Vinae?

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  Prospero’s Purposes

  We pushed on, climbing and descending these heartless peaks. The mountains were an unrelenting gray-brown, the monotony broken only by changes in the type of terrain: sheer cliff sides of which to be wary, jagged boulders to scramble over, or loose rocks to avoid. As we struggled to navigate each new landscape, we reassured each other that the next stretch of path would be easier. Only, it never was. After a time, our muscles burned, our feet ached, and our supply of wine had run low.

  A strange rumbling sounded, and rain began to fall. At first, this raised my spirits. I loved rain and anticipated that the coolness would be refreshing.

  Icy cold slush fell from the sky. I loved weather, all weather … except for freezing rain. One never seems to be able to keep it away from one’s skin, no matter how one dresses. It dripped under my collar, sending freezing slivers down the back of my neck.

  I cringed all the more when I recalled that whatever was falling was, most likely, the product of some human sin and not water at all.

  “Oh, this is just too much!” Logistilla cried. She beat her hands about her head as if she could drive off the rain. “How can we have weather in Hell?”