Prospero Regained

by L. Jagi Lamplighter

  The Battle of Limbo

  Mephistopheles and I found ourselves standing back in Limbo, to the immense joy of our family. I glanced about but saw no sign of our incubus. Before we could cross the distance to where the others stood, the hordes of Hell descended upon us.

  Rank upon rank of incubi, ouphes, imps, goblins, skeletal warriors, and shambling ghouls now stretched as far as the eye could see. Above flew several of the superior lords. Great Prince Sitri, with his fanged beast head, led the airborne troops. Apparently, he had survived his attack on my mother, even if many of his minions had not.

  Ulysses screamed and vanished in a bright flash, taking Cornelius and Caliban with him. The rest, who had not been touching the staff at the moment that he departed, were stranded … again.

  Mephistopheles ripped the manacles from his wrists, slicing through the metal with his glowing ruby claws. Theophrastus threw him the Staff of Summoning.

  With his staff in one hand, Mephistopheles threw out his arms. “Demons and demi-demons, I call upon you to recognize me as a Prince of the Sixth Circle. Beware, it shall go badly for those of you who fail to do so, should Lilith lose!” The demons and monstrosities glanced dubiously at my brother. Mephistopheles gestured at Theo. “I have Theophrastus the Demonslayer on my side!”

  To my great surprise, about a third of the enemy host knelt and bowed their heads. Prince Sitri spat curses at them, but they remained resolute.

  “Well, look at that,” rumbled Prince Mephistopheles. “They did recognize me!”

  Of those who had bowed, nearly half rose and began to retreat from the field of battle. The others merely stood again, prepared to fight nonetheless, having recognized Mephistopheles as a Prince of the Sixth Circle, but not as their own superior.

  High in the gloom above—I could not tell if it was a ceiling or a sky—flew a black chariot pulled by what now appeared to be sleek golden lions with thick black manes. Within sat the Queen of Air and Darkness in her war gear.

  “Halt!” Lilith cried, her voice echoing across the vast host. “Do not depart yet. I propose a challenge. Single combat! If Prince Mephistopheles wins, you may depart in peace. If our champion wins, you will all continue to fight with me!”

  Mephistopheles, Prince of the Sixth Circle, yawned and patted his mouth. “Bring ’em on!”

  “Er, Mephisto, is this wise?” Theo hissed. “How do you know you will win?”

  My brother the demon just snorted derisively.

  Erasmus spoke up from where he stood surrounded by fat red imps who were poking at him with pitchforks, which he withered to dust. “Can we ask for more? If you win, the whole host goes home?”

  “No good,” Mephistopheles replied. “Those not beholden to me would just betray me afterward, anyway.”

  “Father?” Theo asked.

  “I do not see that we have much to lose,” Father said in a low voice. “Ulysses will come back eventually. If we can stall long enough, the rest of us may not need to fight. Son, are you willing to do this?” From his dubious expression when he pronounced the word “Son,” I gathered that Father had only recently discovered Mephisto’s demon side. He fixed Mephistopheles with a piercing gaze. “Are you sure you can win?”

  My brother the demon snorted again. “Of course.”

  He strode forward calling out, “I accept! Bring out your champion.”

  The crowd parted, and another demon came forward. It had two cruel black horns rising from its head. Its garments were doublet and hose of rich browns in the Italian Renaissance style. The rapier it carried gleamed with a wicked sheen, as if it were coated in poison.

  Of course, poison no longer frightened me. I concentrated; there was a tingle in my forehead, and the sheen grew less ominous.

  Mephistopheles’s opponent bowed. In the midst of his demon head, he had a perfectly normal human face. It was a face I recognized. The denizens of Hell had given this demon the face of Our Savior.

  No, not the Savior, the man who modeled for his portrait.

  “Cesare Borgia!” Gregor cried out, his voice dripping with hatred. Titus put a calm but restraining hand upon his shoulder.

  It was he. I recalled him from my youth, though I doubt Cesare and I had ever spoken to each other. I recalled that once, when my stepmother had summoned me to a party to parade me in front of my Gardelli relatives—whom, I now realize, were not my relatives after all—Cesare had made a rather crude pass at me. Ordinarily, this would be unusual behavior toward the daughter of a duke, except that as the son of the pope, he seemed to think he was omnipotent. Luckily, Theo had come to my rescue, slamming him in the face and then ushering me away before young Borgia could regain his feet.

  After that, I asked Father to have the Aerie Ones carry him to some high height and drop him, but Father merely nodded and continued reading his books, murmuring something about Cesare receiving his just punishment in due time.

  Apparently, he had. For now, he was in Hell.

  Cesare strutted forward like a peacock. “Finally, we meet again, old friend-foe. While you have been dawdling above, I have been studying with the masters here below—for those who rule here understood that the day would come when my expertise would again be needed. Prepare now to meet your final end.”

  Mephistopheles grinned, his sharp teeth gleaming and his sapphire eyes glinting with mirth. “Eager to be defeated again, are you? Step forward. I will oblige you.”

  “Wait!” Father shouted, his arm raised, palm out. “Halt! Pause!”

  “Yes?” Lilith purred.

  “How do we determine the winner?” Father asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Father stroked his beard. “Your champion is already dead. What is more, he’s probably been given magic to sustain his well-being as well.” Lilith pouted prettily. Apparently, Father was correct about that. “If you want this battle to take place, you have to make it possible for either of them to win.”

  Lilith rested her elbows on the edge of her chariot and leaned on them, still pouting. She tipped her head prettily, thinking.

  “Oh, very well,” she rose and tossed two pale lilies toward the contestants. “Wear these. Whomever first yields or whose lily is depetaled loses. Agreed?”

  Father nodded, though I noted that while his head was inclined, and only then, he was smiling. “Agreed.”

  Cesare saluted Mephistopheles with his blade. My brother returned the gesture. The two squared off and began to circle. The other spirits and shades nearby moved back, giving them room. My father motioned to all of us. We moved forward until we all stood together, ready to grab Mephistopheles and escape as soon as Ulysses and the others returned.

  With Cornelius and Caliban with him, Ulysses was sure to come back soon. I wondered what was taking him so long.

  Slowly at first, then more quickly, they traded blows, until their swords moved at lightning speed, the tips of their blades flying too fast for my eyes to follow. They were not too fast for Theo, however, he understood what he was seeing. He stood beside Mab and me, pointing.

  “A fencer’s success or failure depends nearly entirely on his footwork,” he explained. “Notice how they’re both bouncing on their toes, not even putting their whole foot down. That’s good. Oh! Look at that lunge! Meph really knows his stuff! Unfortunately, Cesare has reach on him. His sword is not made of ordinary matter; it keeps stretching beyond what would be possible up above.”

  Quick as striking serpents, the two opponents clashed. Their blades engaging, circling, parrying, striking. Shing-shing rang out again and again in the misty gloom. Both men—both demons—were light on their feet, but Mephistopheles was quicker to retreat, so as to keep the distance between them. To me, it looked as if my brother was on the run, but Theo was grinning and nodding his head in encouragement.

  Cesare charged my brother, slashing as he ran by. His attack looked terrifying. I gasped. Theo, however, snorted with disapproval.

  “Fleches look showy, but I have yet to see
one pay off. Look, Meph got a hit in on his back before he could come around again.”

  “Maybe,” Mab said uneasily, “but considering how quickly your brother won the other two fights he was in—Baelor and that corroding demon, Focalor—this Borgia guy must be good. Really good.”

  Theo stopped smiling. “He is very good. He was good in life, nearly as good as Mephisto. He’s even better now … I hope Mephisto knows what he’s doing.”

  The two continued to circle, stinging like bees. Occasionally, one got a hit, usually on a part of the body that was nearest. Their arms and hands were soon bloody. Cesare’s demon body bled a thick black ichor. Mephistopheles, though a demon, still bled red.

  Cesare kept my brother on the retreat. Mephistopheles lunged forward repeatedly, leaping huge distances, his wings allowing him to glide, but since Cesare’s telescoping sword gave him reach, my brother quickly retreated again.

  Cesare flourished his blade and lunged. Mephistopheles counterparried; his weapon whipped around his opponent’s and struck at Cesare’s shoulder. Grinning, the other demon dropped his head, parrying with his horns, knocking my brother’s sword aside.

  Theo snorted with derision. A moment later, I saw why. Mephistopheles’s blade, as quick as the blink of an eye, struck Cesare’s unprotected head while it was still bowed. It was only a small nick, but head wounds bleed profusely. Ichor ran into the other demon’s eyes in a steady stream. My brother got in more than one hit while Cesare paused to wipe his face.

  Cesare’s moves were becoming more sloppy. Three times, he feinted, but Mephistopheles did not fall for it. Cesare was forced to straight-arm his attack through, which meant that my brother got several hits on him. He even stabbed his opponent’s foot once, which, to gauge from Theo’s cheer, was a difficult maneuver. After that, Cesare limped.

  My brothers were cheering now, especially Erasmus and Theo, who best understood what we were seeing. Mab grinned, too, but whether from pleasure or from some other emotion, I could not tell. I breathed more easily, buoyed by my brother’s success.

  But it was Gregor who cheered the loudest, grinning all the while like a twelve-year-old boy. His red cardinal robes billowing around him, he leapt, punching the air and shouting, “Come on, Big Brother! Get that Borgia bastard!”

  Our elation was short-lived. Cesare’s wounds suddenly knitted themselves back together. He straightened and roared like a lion. Then he charged.

  Lunging forward, Cesare’s sword curled like a snake and bit Mephistopheles. I stared at the spot, willing myself not to lose track of it. Was there poison there? Sure enough, I felt a tingle in my forehead, as if the love flowing from Eurynome sensed some vile thing. I thought of the Gift of Curing Poison and concentrated on the spot. I felt energy flow from my forehead to my brother. The tingling stopped. Apparently, the poison had been denatured and was no longer harmful.

  This all took place in an instant. My brother did not falter. The move proved a mistake for Cesare, for his flexible sword, while in its snake form, could not block my brother’s thrust. Mephistopheles stabbed him through the heart, repeatedly.

  Cesare staggered back. Mephistopheles lunged, stabbing him through the shoulder.

  “The flower!” Father yelled. “Cut the flower!”

  It was too late. Cesare’s wounds healed again, and his sword returned to its rigid form. He grinned and pressed forward. Mephistopheles did not have Cesare’s supernatural advantage. His wounds were beginning to take their toll.

  But wait. Water of Life healed. Normally, we could not spare enough to heal wounds on the spot without Erasmus’s help. I suddenly realized that those limits no longer restricted us. I concentrated upon my brother, thinking of everything lovable about him, his guardianship of the family, his good nature, his willingness to fight for the rest of us, even his scatterbrained cheer. A wave of love for my brother enveloped me, and warmth flowed from my forehead.

  For a moment, I worried that this was interfering, but if it was legal for Cesare to use supernatural healing, then why not Mephistopheles?

  On the field of combat, Mephistopheles straightened. Some of his cuts closed. Others ceased bleeding. His grin became more ferocious, his step lighter. He charged.

  “What! No. That’s not fair!” Cesare glanced over his shoulder, up toward Lilith. “You told me he couldn’t do that.”

  “Keep your eyes on the battle, you fool!” Lilith cried.

  The fighting grew more keen. Cesare did not use the snake move again, or block with his horns, or even try a fleche. His face became grimmer and more set. Now, he was fighting with all his strength.

  Rapiers flashed. The opponents danced. My brothers watched in rapt fascination. I began to suspect that they had forgotten our dire surroundings, so entranced were they by the display of sportsmanship before them.

  And then, it happened.

  Cesare feinted right. Mephistopheles did not fall for it. Disengaging his blade, he pressed through and sliced the lily from Cesare’s chest, its petals falling like snow upon the dull black earth of Limbo.

  “It cannot be!” Cesare panted, huffing. “I cannot lose! I have studied so hard. I have learned everything!”

  “From the wrong people,” Mephistopheles chuckled, though he was panting as well.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You studied down here. I studied on earth.”

  “What difference does that make?” Cesare panted. “I have had centuries to perfect my art, to do nothing but study with the very best!”

  “Not the very best,” my brother corrected him, grinning. “You only studied with the best of those who came to Hell after they died. I studied with them all—both those condemned to Hell, and those who ascended to Heaven. Which group do you think worked harder at their art?”

  Cesare’s look of dawning horror was priceless.

  The crowd roared. Lilith’s forces hissed, but the fiends and foes beholden to Prince Mephistopheles bowed and withdrew, as promised.

  I was impressed. Honor even among demons; who would have thought? My brother must have made a good master—probably a very rare thing in Hell.

  Overhead, Lilith scowled, her pretty face twisting into an ugly mask. As I gazed at her, I wondered what drove her to do the terrible things that she did. While I had heard her speech by the Tower of Thorns, I could not sympathize. I could not understand how someone could become what she was.

  I did not believe I could ever grasp what motivated someone like her.

  And then, I did.

  For the first time I recognized the Great Compassion as it struck me. Suddenly, I was seeing the world from Lilith’s point of view: How would I feel if I disobeyed my father—as I just had, to save Erasmus—and in return, he had banished me from his presence forever?

  A painful, terrible sympathy constricted my chest. What would it be like if I could never go home again? Could never see my books? Never walk through the Great Hall and see what remained of our statues? Never again breathe the air of the enchanted garden or pass through the pine trees to visit the Chapel of the Unicorn? What if it were all forbidden to me?

  And what if my father owned, not just a mansion and some books, but everything: blue sky, rich earth, air, the stars, people, sunlight. What if I was cast from my home and all those things were forever forbidden to me—not for a week, or a year, or a century, but for eternity?

  Still, that was nothing, nothing at all.

  The real sorrow, the sheer agony, was knowing that no matter what I did, no matter how hard I labored, no matter how patiently I waited, I could never again achieve the only thing worth having: my father’s approval.

  Poor Lilith!

  Even as my heart ached, however, I laughed. If I had reached the point where I could feel Grand Compassion for such a miserable creature as the Queen of Air and Darkness—who had done such harm to my Lady, my fellow servants of Her will, and my family—perhaps I was finally worthy of being a Sibyl.

  How tremendously far I had come
from a cold, isolated creature, concerned only with family and duty, that I had been only a month ago. Looking back, I was appalled at my former self, who had cut herself off from mankind, preferring to dwell in her own solitary, icy cocoon.

  Had I really almost left Mephisto alone in Chicago? Had I really allowed a little dragon fire to keep me from saving my hapless brother from the chimera even if he had not really been in danger? What could I have been thinking? Water of Life cures burns. Why had I not rushed in to save him, letting nothing stand in my way? Had I truly considered saving the Great Hall rather than Mab?

  Mab?

  What an unpleasant person I had been!

  I realized with a start that I felt more sympathy for the wretched demoness who had nearly destroyed my family than I did for my former self. I had forgiven Erasmus. I had forgiven Caliban. Whether or not I had forgiven the Queen of Air and Darkness, I at least understood her better now. Only one person remained whom I had yet to forgive.

  Myself.

  It was surprisingly hard. Pride held me back—the pride of angels. I cast it aside. The result was painful. I staggered, shocked at the torrent of fault-finding, as more and more of my defects became obvious to me. Looking over my past behavior, I found myself sympathizing with Erasmus. No wonder he thought so badly of me. It was amazing that anyone could have seen me as anything other than glacial and loveless.

  But pursuing such thinking would do me no good. Admitting my flaws to overcome them was a virtue, wallowing in them was a vice.

  If my Lady had felt that I was worthy of her service, there must have been something good about me. If nothing else, I had been utterly loyal. Resolving that I would never return to my old ways, I forgave my old self.

  A horrible screech came from overhead. Above, Lilith’s chariot had burst into bloom: red lilies, white datura, and purple nightshade grew from its black body. Lilith herself screamed and held her head, while hundreds of small imps swooped around her, biting her and pulling her hair. The chariot careened out of control and spun off into the gloom.

  I laughed aloud again. My moment of sympathy had formed a bridge between her and my forehead. My Lady’s touch, so uplifting to me, affected Lilith as it had her servant—the one who had trapped me with his mind before he was devoured by his fellows. She could not bear its sacred touch.