I grabbed my fan and prepared to fight, but my mother stopped me with a hand. She drew me against her side and surrounded me with a single soft, fluffy, white seagull wing. As its warmth wrapped around me, I again felt safe, protected, as if hid in the secret place of the most high.
The hordes of demons dived toward the single five-winged angel, cursing and shouting. A legion contains five thousand individuals. Prince Sitri reigned over sixty legions, according to Mab, though no more than half a dozen could have been currently present. Still, the sky grew black with beating wings.
Had it been my family and I with all our magic, we would have been hard-pressed to fight off such an assault!
Only, the moment the golden light shed from Muriel Sophia’s top-most halo fell upon the winged monstrosities, they burst into flame. Screaming, they writhed. Some wheeled away. Others plummeted to the ground, burning. They dived toward us and then plummeted from the sky like shriveled black rain. The field of wildflowers near us grew black with their bodies.
Snarling, Prince Sitri called a retreat. His minions turned and fled.
When the skies were again clear, my mother drew back her wing and glided over to where the fallen demons lay. Most of their form had burnt away, leaving only a glossy, black, wormlike thing, such as what had remained after Theo blasted Osae.
Her face shining with compassion, my mother the Virtue knelt and gave a comforting stroke to each shriveled black thing. Lifting one, as a mother might cradle a child, she whispered to it: “Rejoice!”
For an instant, the burden in her arms turned a brilliant gold. Then, it grew black and ugly again. My mother lay it gently back among the flowers.
“They are not ready for heaven yet,” she sighed, rising. “The day will come.”
I gazed around us, my jaw dangling slackly. In my mind’s eye, I could see what this scene would have looked like if it had been my family and our staffs who faced Sitri’s legions—the destruction, the carnage, the glassy craters, and the drops of Water of Life spent to heal our wounded. An entire legion of demons, maybe even several legions, had been vanquished without a single weapon being lifted.
“But, M-mother,” I struggled to find my tongue, “You can destroy them! Just like that! Why don’t the angels sweep through here and conquer the demons?”
Humor and sorrow danced together in my mother’s emerald eyes. She gestured across the plain toward the Mountains of Misery. “We did defeat them. That is why they are here.”
“Oh!” I felt immeasurably foolish. “Right … of course.”
“We could attack again, but to what end? Why should we destroy the home they have forged from their own desires and replace it with a prison of our making? What would they learn from that? Besides, no one can be touched here unless they consent. Occasionally, even some demons remember this.”
“Couldn’t you at least … I don’t know…”
“Help the innocents?” She shook her head. “There are no innocents here.”
“Ah.” I nodded. “Good point.”
“We do harrow these lands from time to time. As souls burn off their sins, we bring them Heavenward. Also, the Hellwinds will deposit lighter souls in Limbo. The Hellwinds are the work of one of the half-fallen.”
“Half-fallen?”
“Men call them elves. Come!” The angel took my hand. Together, we took a single step.
We were in Limbo, standing outside the Gate of False Dreams. Mother pointed at the words carved into the black, adamantium wall.
“You ask if the suffering and sorrow is worth it, if you have only managed to save one demon?” her beautiful voice sang, a lone soprano from the Heavenly choir. “Only one is needed.”
“You mean, the success of one will give the others hope?” I asked.
She nodded.
Another step, and we stood beside a similar gate, only it was flanked by horn rather than ivory. Atop the gate were engraved the words:
THROUGH ME IS TRUTH.
ENTER AND HOPE.
“The Gate of True Dreams,” my mother said. “Behold.”
Gazing through the door, I saw a vast hollow cavern that stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions. Everyone, everywhere, lay sleeping, both the mortals and the demons. The sleepers twisted and turned. They writhed, flailing and thrashing, as if they fought off unseen assailants, yet nothing threatened them. Over each slumbering soul hovered its own great, enormous being of light. The immensely tall bodies of these beings stretched upward, farther than my eye could see. These guardians stood guard over both the men and the fallen angels, comforting them and softly calling them to awake.
“They are all sleeping!” I cried.
“Did not you enter through the Gate of False Dreams? What else could it be?” the Angel of Bitter Wisdom replied.
“Why was it that I could see through the illusions we came upon, but no one else could?”
“Because of the angelic portion of your nature, you saw part of the truth—that there was no good, no pleasure to be had below. But because of your human nature, your eyes were still deluded, and could not see that the pain, too, was an illusion. These beings are all here because they have chosen false dreams over true. The moment they change their minds, they awake, and we whisk them off to Heaven—though they seldom wake so completely as to glimpse this version of things.”
I swallowed twice, astonished and unable to find words to express my surprise.
“But … how…” I cried. “So, the churches are just wrong. Hell is not eternal?”
“The Church is not wrong.” My mother’s voice was as gentle as a spring zephyr, and yet an uncomfortable tingle spread up my spine. “This is not Hell.”
She spread her hand, and the earth beneath us became transparent. Far, far below, flames burned, but not flames of light and brightness, as I was used to, but cold, lifeless, flames of nothingness. As if the nothingness were coming into being, consuming itself, and ceasing to exist, all in an instant of conflagrated horror.
My entire being rebelled. I felt as if my very innards were repulsed and fleeing my body.
“That,” the angel intoned, “is Hell.”
“Take it away!” I screamed, covering my eyes. “Make it stop.”
The earth returned, and the terrible vision was gone.
“What … what was that?” I cried. “I mean, I know you said it was Hell, but … why was it so horrible?”
“Because the Alcreate is Good, as in goodness itself. If good is present, in any form, the Alcreate is there. Only where there is no good, nothing of any worth at all, could He be absent.” She spread her five pairs of wings. It sounded like a thousand fans opening. “Hell is the absence of God.”
“But … why are … the … who…” I paused and caught my breath. “What poor wretched souls were so vile that they are down there?”
“No one.”
“Wha-what?”
“No one. Many do not see God. Many are not ready to approach his face. Many are sent here, in the hopes that they will change their ways. But no one, not even the Fallen Angels themselves, has ever abandoned God—abandoned love, abandoned affection, abandoned hope—so completely as to deserve to be put down there.”
“So, Hell … real Hell is empty?”
“Yes.”
“And nobody knows this?”
“As to that, you must ask your brother, the Churchman. There are a select few among the clergy who hope it might be so.”
Disorientated, I took a step away. I turned in a circle and then peeked through the Gate of True Dreams again, gazing once more at the tall beings of light who so lovingly guarded the dreamers.
“Then … if what you just showed me is real Hell,” I pointed at the dreamers, “where are they?”
“In a cavern beneath the mountain of Purgatory, much as Dante described it.”
“You mean … that’s why the tunnel at the bottom of Hell comes out at the foot of Mount Purgatory?”
“Exactly.”
“So.” I felt strangely disorientated, as if I were floating or spinning. “Hell is nothing. It is empty for all eternity?”
Sorrow clouded the shine of my mother’s beautiful face. “Only if the Fallen Ones repent. The place you just saw, the real Hell, will become their home, should mankind fail to save them.”
Stricken, I turned away and peered off into the dark mists of Limbo. What strange disorienting things my mother was saying. I was not sure what their significance was, or even if I believed them. I felt shocked and somewhat numb … until it occurred to me that, if it were true, it was a very good thing indeed.
After all, I had known that Eurynome intended to save everyone—including the damned and their fallen masters. Had I not believed it was possible?
The longer I thought about it, the more proud I was of my family for our part. It made all our suffering seem worthwhile.
Beyond the mists on the Limboside of the door, something caught my eye. A single figure dressed in black armor with a Greek helmet sat upon a throne, the same one I had glimpsed on our way down, just before we went through the Gate of False Dreams. There was something disturbing, something horrible, about this dark-clad form. A chill ran down my spine.
“I thought everything here was an illusion.” I shivered. “He’s real.”
“The First Born?” asked Muriel Sophia. “He received forgiveness at Calvary and now seeks to make reparations for his past misdeeds.”
“Hades? What terrible past does he have?”
“Cronos’s first born stepped down long ago, passing his titles, station, and wife on to this one.”
Another chill assailed me as I realized whose first born son must now sit upon the throne of Limbo. Shivering, I drew back, stepping closer to my mother. She wrapped her sea gull wings around me again, and for a moment, it was as if I was upon the ocean, surrounded by salt and sea spray, warm and joyful.
“There is much work to be done. You must return to your family.” My mother spoke in her beautiful melodious voice, but her tone was as stern and relentless as the tides. “Angels will strive to limit the harm being done to mankind by the Aerie Ones whom you let free when you selflessly sacrificed your flute to save your brother. But not all upon the earth can hear us or will heed our counsel. Go quickly now and bring the Family Prospero back to the mortal world, where they belong.”
“How ironic,” I said softly. “We have saved only one demon, and that work was done by the basest of us. I am so ashamed of my former opinion of Caliban.”
“Credit goes as well to Mephistopheles, who first did to Caliban what Caliban then did in turn to Vinae.”
“Mephisto?” I asked, “He works for you, doesn’t he?”
She smiled and nodded. “Though sometimes wayward, he is sincere and loyal. A true servant of Heaven.”
“And it was you who helped Father while he was imprisoned, wasn’t it?” I asked. “You who made it so that the pain thorns could not harm his spirit?”
The angel nodded again. “Yes, Child. Your father is a brave and noble hero whom all Heaven honors.”
“One last question!” I cried, the words ripping unexpectedly from my throat. “Why did I never see you? Why did you never come to me?”
“Nonsense, Child.” My mother cupped my cheek in her shining palm. Joy radiated from it, like heat radiates from the sun. “I came every time you called me. And now you must go. But fear not, Child, for I am with you always, even unto the ends of the world.”
* * *
I FOUND myself alone, kneeling in flowers—violets and daisies, bluebells and buttercups, forget-me-nots and snowdrops, and Queen Ann’s Lace. The lavender plume of an immortal amaranth poked up here and there, where Eurynome’s foot had actually touched the ice. Giddy with joy, I pressed my face to cool petals, inhaling sweet perfume.
I raised my hand to wipe my face and encountered something sharp upon my brow. Drawing my hand away quickly, I found blood on my fingertip. My stomach clenched painfully as I recalled how my Lady had pierced my skull. Was there a hole in my head with jagged, broken bone sticking out?
I raised my hand again, and my heart skipped a beat, then two, then three.
Upon my forehead was a hard, smooth spiral about the size of a dime. It grew larger under my touch until it was as large as a quarter. The center rose to a point, the tip of which was still so sharp that it had cut my finger. Moving down, the arms of the spiral opened outward, ending in five curving pieces, like the petals of a flower, or a starfish that had curled all its limbs so that each one pointed at the next. Touching it caused a joyous sensation to run through my arm.
The mark of the Sibyl!
I touched the mark again, and a sensation of vitality and strength ran through my arm and down into my body. The sharp point at the center had already grown blunter; it now had a smooth nub for a tip. I put my injured finger in my mouth.
At long last, it had happened,
I was a Sibyl.
Sitting up, I glanced across the field of wildflowers to the glacier far beyond. To my great surprise, flowers sprang up in the wake of my gaze. I tried it again, looking off in another direction. Again flowers followed my line of sight.
What was happening?
I recalled what the Book of the Sibyl had said about the Gift of Visions. I did not know what “closing my mortal eyes and opening Eurynome’s eyes” meant, but I tried closing my eyes and picturing the scene in my mind, imagining my Lady was with me.
In my mind’s eye, I saw an image of the scene, just as it looked with my eyes open, only a white light, like a search beam, came from the mark on my forehead. I raised my hand and put it in the way of the beam. It was like touching love. A warmth spread through my body, and I felt stronger, more wholesome. I recognized that feeling! It was like drinking Water of Life, only more so.
Wherever I looked, a beam of my Lady’s love came from my forehead and struck the object I was beholding. It tingled and sweetened the air, so that I felt as if I were in a holy place. When I paid attention to the flowers, they leaned toward me, as if I were the sun. When I looked across the landscape, the gleaming beam struck the snow of the remaining glacier and brought life, flowers, where previously there had been only ice.
So that was what the Book of the Sibyl meant by: Where the Sibyl looks, love flows!
And that was what flowed from my forehead: Love! A hundred things I had read about Sibyls over the years, a thousand subtle references, all came together and made sense at last. This energy, this invisible, liquid light, was Eurynome! Or rather Her spirit, Her love, flowing forth at the Sibyl’s bidding. It drew from the endless reservoir of Her heart—a never-ending stream of joy upon which a Sibyl could call, assuming she could maintain the right state of mind. It was the very stuff of which souls were made.
I had to keep my heart filled with joy for this to occur. If I started thinking about mundane things, the beam diminished, and flowers ceased springing up. On the other hand, the more I loved, the more I thought about joy, and gratitude, the wider the beam and the more quickly the blooms spread.
I knelt there, laughing and spelling out words in wildflowers by tracing letters along the bare ice: “Truth,” “Joy,” and “Astreus Stormwind,” which I wrote in long looping letters much like his own handwriting from my copy of the Book of the Sibyl.
Blushing, I quickly blotted out the last by glancing rapidly back and forth, until new blooms sprang up over the whole area.
The wonder of it—to be able to bring life out of nothingness, even in Hell—awed me. Despite having yearned for this for centuries, I could hardly believe such a gift had been granted to me.
In the distance, a minotaur cavorted among the flowers. Beyond that lay the fallen Tower of Thorns. Summoning up all the love and joy I could muster, I focused the white beam on its dreadful thorns.
They did not hurt my eyes. The entire length of the tower that had once so terrified me burst into brilliant red roses.
When Ulysses fo
und me, I was laughing, surrounded by flowers.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
Seir of the Shadows
Ulysses and I appeared amidst a sea of arms, all reaching for the Staff of Transportation. Somewhere in the mass of family, I caught sight of Mab. With a quick gesture, I pulled out the pins that held my hair up. Shaking my tresses over my face, I grabbed Mab and drew him over beside me.
“Psst,” I whispered. “Can I borrow your hat?”
Mab gave me a long odd stare, but he handed the fedora over without a word. I put it on, pulling it low, so that it covered the mark. It was too much to talk about right now, too much to explain.
There would be time enough to share this with my family once we were all safely home.
“Ready?” Father called. “Let’s go!”
Ulysses tapped his staff. A moment later, I was sinking into the Swamp of Uncleanness. The great adamant structure of the Gate of False Dreams towered over us.
“Sorry,” Ulysses called cheerfully. “Forgot about this. This happened last time, too, and when I was fleeing Abaddon. Really gave me the heebie-jeebies, because I thought, having renounced hope and all that, I could never get out, but it’s really all right. We just have to walk through the gate on foot, and we can teleport again on the far side.… Oops!”
“Oops?” asked Logistilla. “Oops, what?”
A rising sense of panic threatened to consume me. Before I had sunk very far, however, Titus picked me up and threw me over his shoulder. Holding me began to affect him, and he began to sink as well.
“Hurry, ye wee man!” Titus boomed. “Get us out of here!”
“Can’t!” Ulysses called back. “The gate is locked! It was locked when I tried to bug out during the battle with Abaddon, too, but I forgot about it. Or rather, I thought it might be open again, because Mephisto was able to summon his creatures.”
“Can’t you go around?” Erasmus asked. He looked pale. His face had been raked by thorns and was now marred by bloody scratches.
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