Prospero in Hell (48 page)

“Ah, old friends! How I have missed you!” he laughed, and I was reminded of the joy with which the false Ferdinand had greeted Ariel and the other Aerie Ones at Prospero’s Mansion. At the time, it had puzzled me, because Ferdinand had hardly known of Ariel, but now it made sense. It was Astreus, not Ferdinand or Seir, who had been so happy to see the Aerie Ones—his people, if Caurus was to be believed: his children.

As I approached the balcony, a trick of the light made him appear to be merely a tall handsome Chinaman with a burnished tan. Then, he turned, and I was struck anew by the unearthly beauty of his elvin features. Something of this must have showed in my eyes, for he raised his hand as if to touch my cheek, though his fingers curled around a lock of my hair instead.

“Your quarrel has been mended.”

“Perhaps,” I muttered. “You were going to explain?”

“Was I?” His lips caught a smile the way a lake catches the reflection of midnight stars. “It is a sad tale. Perhaps, you would prefer to hear another? Something cheerier, so my last moments might be filled with laughter instead of tears. Would you hear how I traveled East of the Sun to woo the Rainbow’s Daughter? Or how once I surprised a bevy of nymphs in the midst of their water dances and what came of it? Or perhaps a tale of the beautiful Sylvie and the three quests I once undertook to garner her favor?”

I crossed my arms, frowning. I had no desire to hear tales of his dalliances with other women. “It won’t be your last moment, if you don’t convince me to kill you.”

“I have reached my end, willy-nilly. Only the manner of my demise remains undecided. But such things are not pleasant and are hardly fitting upon so lovely a day. Shall I tell you tales of my travels instead? Would you hear tell of the City of Night with its great pyramids and ziggurats and perfumed night gardens? Or shall I tell you of the Star Forge, where the great smiths fashion new ornaments for the dome of the heavens? Or perhaps of Bright Aldur, a fresh world, newly made? Or of Dread Avernus, where the Wayfarers plot their strange connivances? Or maybe you would prefer tales of the Silver Meadows, where it is always twilight and the Unicorn can be glimpsed walking through the argent fields, flowers springing up behind Her with each footstep?”

His words stirred a longing in my heart to hear more of these distant marvels. Fields where my Lady walks? Stars forged? Astreus could, most likely, tell me of places of which even Erasmus, with all his arcane learning, had never heard. But my longing for places wondrous and far away was nothing compared to the burning curiosity as to how Astreus would explain his death wish.

“Much as I would like to hear such tales, I would prefer to hear about the matter at hand,” I replied.

He did not speak for a time, but continued to gaze out at the storm, oblivious to the rain on his face. I leaned against the inner wall of the balcony, waiting. Cool orchid petals, bright orange with tiny yellow speckles, brushed softly against my cheek and eyelashes, their sweet scent wafting into my nostrils. How lovely it was here, nestled among the flowers in the rain. If only I could stay right here forever, and never face the cruel world again.

Astreus stirred and, hardly moving a muscle, leapt lightly to the top of the balcony railing, a move no human could perform. He gazed out at the sky, heedless of the narrow rim or tremendous drop beneath his feet, as if it had never occurred to him that balance was a thing that could be lost.

Seeing him, standing atop the balcony rail as casually as a cat, I was reminded of Mephistopheles—not the current zany Mephisto, but my brother back when he was clever, witty, and sane. He loved walking about on high narrow places, causing even Father to fear for his safety. The two of them were strangely alike, Astreus and my brother. I could imagine them striding about on a narrow rail together, Astreus gliding with the ease of a swan, while Mephisto casually spread his arms to steady himself. They would have made fine companions.

Finally, Astreus began to speak.

“Hell is not the cheery and amusing place your poet Dante described,”
he said. “Nor could he have put into words its true horrors. The creatures who dwell in the Pits are prey to sins and hungers no material being could comprehend. To this mockery of life, I have been consigned, my memory and wits stolen from me. Without them, I cease to be; we elves have not that sacred gift given to the race of Man—the Soul. No part of us safeguards our true selves when our memories are robbed.

“Elves who take the Last Walk become demons; their very nature transforms. The beautiful and fey thing we once were is no more. Instead, a creature of hideous evil is born. Their elvish self, all that makes them unique from others, is lost, gone forever, never to be seen again, even unto the end of time.

“The nature of a tithed elf is transformed; his strengths and abilities remain and are used by the nether powers for nefarious ends. For, without a Soul, he has no capacity to resist evil. Usually, those who are chosen to Walk are the feeblest of us: weaklings, petty criminals, beings of little consequence in Faery and of as little in their service to Hell.

“I, however, am no bogey or feyling—whose addition to the forces of Hell is like unto a drop of rain in the ocean. I am one of the Lords of the High Council, a creature of power and prestige, a lord of wind, and rain, of stars and sky. If
I am destroyed, and a demon comes to be in my stead—woe to all whom I once ruled and loved.”

Astreus fell silent and gazed up at the sky. When he continued, there was a different quality to his voice, something I could not place.

“Yet, even my position as a Lord of the High Council is of little consequence, when compared to my true estate.”

He turned his head. His irises burned with a golden fire.

“Once, I was an angel.” Might and majesty whipped about him like a cloak. It was as if he had suddenly grown in stature, filling the entire sky.

I stood, awed. I should have expected something like this. While we waited for our host back at Father Christmas’s, Mab and I had visited the mansion’s enormous sauna. Three other members of the elven High Council had come in, and I had glimpsed the long teardrop-shaped scars that marred their shoulder blades.

Yet, it was one thing to know that their wings had been shorn and another entirely to see Heaven’s fire burning in Astreus’s eyes. Even in the eyes of elves, I had seen nothing like it.

“No mere messenger was I,” Astreus’s voice was stern and majestic, “but a member of the Choir of Cherubim, the second highest order of angels. If I am destroyed, and a demon is born in my place… it shall be a dark day for all who love the Light.”

My jaw sagged open in astonishment. He had been of the Choir of the Cherubim? Only one level below Heaven’s highest? I felt suddenly unworthy to stand in his presence. Even Muriel Sophia, the angel whose visit had so filled me with awe had only been a virtue, two whole steps below Cherubim.

To have known Heaven’s warmth and lost it… I thought of my own recent loss and suspected I had an inkling of what that might be like.

“And, if you should die…” I asked.

“All that I am shall be extinguished like the flame on a candle, and Hell shall be robbed of its victory.”

“I’m confused…” I tried to sort it all out, but my mind whirled. “You’ve been Seir for some time, right? And yet, right now, you are Astreus.”

He touched the circlet upon his head. “I am only Astreus while I wear this crown. The horse hoof set into it protects me from the effects of the Lethe. While I am wearing it, I recall all the things its waters have caused me to forget.”

I remembered the first time I saw the circlet, resting on a pedestal at Father Christmas’s beside the barred and locked Uttermost Door.

“Father Christmas knew you were coming?” I asked. “He put the crown out for you?”

Astreus nodded. “He called me from the depths of Hell, so that I could present you with the gift you had requested.” A gentle smile curled the corners of Astreus’s lips. “Bromigos certainly takes his gift-giving seriously.”

I nodded, recalling that Bromigos was the elvish name for Father Christmas. “So you have been Seir all this time, since 1634, except for this Christmas and now?”

“There have been one or two other moments of clarity, but… yes.”

“But… if you are going to entirely turn into Seir and lose Astreus forever, wouldn’t this transformation have happened already? Why is today different from yesterday?”

“I had hope.”

“What changed?”

The heavenly light faded until his eyes became a dull lusterless black. When he answered, his gaze was focused far away, as if he saw some remote place or time, his voice distant and flat.

“For over three hundred years, I have endured horrors and hungers too
terrible to name. Yet, I have escaped total annihilation because I did not quaff the entire cup of Lethe water, but held some in my mouth and spat it out upon the black sand when none were looking—a trick taught to me by Mephisto. Because of this, I have been able to hold on to a tiny vestige of myself, hidden beneath the darkness of my incubus mind.

“Each moment I dwell in the Pit,” he continued, “this true part of me suffers unspeakably. If I were to succumb and forget myself, even for an instant, what little is left of me would be shredded into pieces and dispersed into the darkness, never to be reunited. Astreus Stormwind would be no longer.

“I have been able to resist this onslaught of torments because the hope burning in my breast was greater than any sorrow. Each time pain threatened to engulf me, I endured because I believed that someday I would be saved.”

“How?”

“By you, Miranda, daughter of Prospero.”

“By me?” I cried. “Saved how?”

“I would away, whither I will, even now—spirit myself to some secret glade or hidden grove and never return to the ravages of the Pit—except I cannot. My oath to Hell binds me.”

“A Sibyl.” My voice barely broke a whisper. “You needed a Sibyl to absolve you of your oath.”

No wonder he had copied Diaphobe’s book with his own hand!

“It had been my cherished hope that you would one day reach that high estate,” he replied. “Able to free men from unwise oaths. First, you would free your brother. Once Mephisto was able to remember the truth, he would recall what I had done for him, and how he had created an enchanted figurine in my image. Then, in gratitude for my efforts upon his behalf, he would summon me up and ask you to free me from my imprisonment. For three centuries, this hope kept me afloat amidst a sea of darkness and torment. A hope Osae has dashed, even as he stole from you your heart’s desire.”

Tears welled up and slid down my cheeks. I turned away, hiding my face in the orchids. He stepped lightly to the balcony floor, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone as he drew closer. He came up directly behind me, so close that, while we did not touch, I could feel the warmth of his body against my back.

Suddenly, I soared through the tempest-torn sky, storm winds for my wings, Father’s island far beneath me. My chamber, the balcony, my body,
all had fallen away and I could not find them. Panic rose, though I had no body in which to feel it. I strained vigorously to shake myself free, to awake, but this dream gripped me like a madness and would not relinquish its hold.

From somewhere, far away, I still heard Astreus’s words falling as softly as morning dew. Listening to them I was able to follow the sound back to myself, but the dream of the storm remained around me, joyous now instead of frightening. I wished I could dream this dream forever.

“I blame myself,” Astreus spoke calmly. “If I had been more vigilant, this tragedy would not have occurred. I knew of Osae’s scheme and had been shadowing him. When he came to you in the guise of Mab, I was present to protect you. Though I was not needed, due to the timely arrival of the Demonslayer. But, alas, this time I was recovering from grievous wounds—dealt me by the spear
Gungnir
and Prince Mephistopheles, whom I encountered outside the mansion of your brother Erasmus—and could not be there at your side.”

I recalled watching Mephistopheles launch himself from Erasmus’s roof, having scented one of the Three Shadowed Ones. Apparently, he found Seir and fought him before the incubus could enter Erasmus’s house. That explained why neither Ferdinand nor Seir ever showed up at the party.

My back still to him, I asked softly, “Astreus, what happened to Mephisto?”

“That fateful night when first you and I met, your brother Mephisto and I recognized in each other something of our own nature. We fell in together and swore an oath of eternal brotherhood. In return for his promise to me, I vowed to help him win the heart of the Faery Queen.

“Unbeknownst to me, Mephisto knew dark arts. Foolishly, he employed these arts to bind the queen. Only Queen Maeve had darker secrets of her own. She tricked him into swearing by the Styx, a terrible oath, too terrible to speak of.”

“To slay Eurynome,” my voice quivered.

“You know?”

“I also know that Maeve is Lilith. Were you… were you in league with her?”

He uttered a short harsh laugh, drawing back. The dream of storm and wings of wind vanished, and I stood upon my own two feet again, blinking and unsteady.

It was a frightening thing to lose touch with one’s senses. Mab’s admonitions against mortals trafficking with elves took on new meaning, and I
wished again that I had taken him more seriously. As I drew back, farther from the elf lord, I wondered if this was how Mephisto felt in his madness.