Prospero in Hell (7 page)

“That jerk! How dare he besmirch our lady Maeve,” Mab cried loyally, adding quickly, “Begging your pardon, Ma’am, I realize she wasn’t very nice to you, but that is only to be expected. Humans should not truck with elves—no one should, for that matter,” he muttered, perhaps recalling his unexplained night on the coat rack.

“It’s an understandable error.” I gestured toward the queens. “Various poets mistakenly refer to the Elf Queen by the title ‘Queen of Air and Darkness.’ My addle-brained brother might think they are the same person.”

“Humans!” Mab gave a snort of disgust. “Can’t tell elves from incubi!” Then, the humor died out of his eyes. “Weird thing is the Harebrain doesn’t show that kind of discernment problem elsewhere.” He gestured at the carvings depicting events in the Inferno. “I’ve never been Below, myself, but I used to have—well, you’d call ’em drinking buddies—who knew about such stuff. Your brother has lots of accurate details here in the way he’s depicted particular imps and demons, uncomfortably accurate. And that curtain with the eyes strung up on it?”

“That’s not in Dante!” I shivered.

“Exactly, and yet I’ve heard of it before. It’s a fixture in Hell. But how did Harebrain find out about it?” He paused. “Pretty damning evidence, Ma’am, pardon the pun. The chameleon cloak—have they ever been worn by anybody other than Unicorn Hunters? Either way, they’re as accursed as magical talismen come. The ‘Mephistopheles, Prince of H…’ quip he made before he vanished back at St. Thomas’s, and now this. I think we can rule out the idea that the big, black, bat-winged body of his is a party favor.”

“I think we knew that in the warehouse.” My voice was low. “I just didn’t want to believe it. Our family has always been so loyal to the Powers for Good! How long has this been going on?”

“For all we know, Ma’am, your brother may be Prince Mephistopheles, the same Mephistopheles who tempted Faust.”

“I forgot to check when Kit wrote his play, was it 1608?”

Mab flipped through his notebook. “I looked it up. Here it is: Marlowe wrote in the late 1500s, but the first mention historically of the demon Mephistopheles is in the German legends of Faust that appeared in 1587. Of course, historical records are only so accurate, thanks to your friends the
Orbis Suleimani
.”

“Not
my
friends,” I murmured, adding, “Mephisto was still a member back then. Who knows what historical evidence he could have had altered or destroyed?”

“Or maybe that’s when the demon Mephistopheles first appeared. Back on Logistilla’s island, I asked questions about what everyone in your family was doing in 1589, when your Father moved back to Italy.” Mab flipped through his notebook again and tapped his finger beside a particular note. “Here it is. Mephisto reported, and I quote: ‘I was in Germany, learning a new trade.’ ”

“You think he was learning…”

“. . . to steal men’s souls? I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“But if so…” I gazed in consternation at the larger-than-life depictions of Hell looming about me.

“If so, what?”

“Why isn’t he more evil?” I cried. “Why does he never seem to harm anyone? When he was in his big demon form all he did was save us. Could his goofiness all be an act?”

“Maybe, if the maenad was lying about him being more forgetful when you’re not around. Though when she did lie—about not knowing about the bat-winged form—it was as obvious as a garden fence that had been visited by a Mack Truck, so maybe she’s telling the truth.” Mab shrugged. “Or maybe, he’s forgotten he was supposed to be evil, ma’am, along with everything else. He neglected to stick up a Post-It reading:
CORRUPT SIX SOULS WEEKLY.
So, he doesn’t.”

“Could be…” I chuckled in spite of myself. Then, all laughter died. “If so, Mab, then I’m very glad we’re leaving him here. I recently read an essay of Father’s on the effect of exposure to demons on the human soul. It was… horrifying! Each demon is associated with some sin or vice. Just being in the vicinity of the demon increases one’s susceptibility to its ruling sin. Father described it with the analogy: imagine our soul was made of iron filings and the demon was a magnet. Whenever the demon comes near, the whole mass of filings moves in that direction. If Mephisto is a demon…” My knees felt suddenly weak.

“Maybe the effect only happens if he’s in his demon form,” Mab suggested. “We only saw him that way for a few minutes.”

“Maybe…” But I was thinking about Mephisto’s way with women, and how I had let Ferdinand kiss me by the hearth in the Lesser Hall. Had I really wanted to kiss him? Or had I been swayed toward weakness by exposure to my brother, the fiend from the Pit?

Mab, meanwhile, scanned the third wall, his gaze pausing upon the face of each of the Seven Rulers of Hell, all of whom Mephisto had painstakingly depicted. “You never did find out who was behind the Unicorn Hunters, did you? Whoever gave Mephisto that cloak is depicted somewhere on this wall. His note said that he made it to remind him of things. And the note on the chameleon cloak hanger said
GIVEN TO ME BY—SEE MURAL HALL.
This has got to be the mural hall!”

“You think the secret enemy of Eurynome is here?” I spun and began searching the infernal bas-relief, but the Nine Circles of Hell revealed no secrets to me. Lilith was portrayed there, of course, my Lady’s enemy of old. Could she have been behind it? As I turned slowly, examining the rest of the carvings for any hint or clue, however, my eyes fell upon a pale yellow Post-It on the floor beneath the carving of the River Lethe. I knelt and retrieved it. It read:
THIS IS MY BEST FRIEND ASTREUS.

My heart thumped oddly in my chest. “Wh-where’s this supposed to go, I wonder?”

Coming to join me, Mab paused before a figure kneeling just to the left of the river. “Hey, shouldn’t he be drinking from a horse’s hoof? I’ve always heard if you want to drink from the Styx or the Lethe, you have to use…” He stopped talking abruptly and leaned closer to the wall. “Well, I’ll be… it’s Lord Astreus.”

I moved closer, the Post-It in hand. Mab was pointing just beyond the procession of the Tithing of the Elves, to the scene surrounding the River Lethe itself.

On one side of the river knelt a lone elf. He held an hourglass-shaped goblet near the bank, as if he prepared to scoop up the river’s waters. On the other side of the river, a lone dark
peri
stood with a similar goblet upraised in merriment. The
peri
was vaguely reminiscent of our favorite incubus, Seir of the Shadows. The expressionless features of the stony-faced elvish knight were definitely those of Lord Astreus.

Mephisto had portrayed the angels and fairies so vividly. Why had he carved Astreus with no expression?

I bent closer, running my fingers over the smooth rock forming the handsome face. No, not stony-faced; the knight with the elf lord’s face was grief-stricken.

I drew back, pondering. Grief was not an emotion elves normally experienced; sorrow yes, but not grief or regret. My brother Gregor believed this was because the elves knew if they allowed themselves to regret, they would be so consumed by their memories of Heaven, now lost to them, that grief would incapacitate them. Yet, Mephisto had masterfully portrayed grief as it might come upon an elf: the hollowness of expression, the glitter of unshed tears in the eye. Even as I wondered, I marveled at the mastery of his craftsmanship.

Had Mephisto portrayed this grief-torn elf with the face of the Lord of the Winds merely to remind himself of Astreus’s features? Or was there some deeper significance to this scene? The repetition of the face of the queens suggested the first interpretation.

Mab drew a hand through his grizzled hair, muttering, “How… odd.”

“What’s that?”

“Ma’am, I haven’t had a chance to tell you, but last night… I happened to overhear a conversation between Lord Astreus and your brother Mephisto. I… I hesitate to repeat it, because I’ve always been a great admirer of Lord Astreus. But, in light of what I see here…”

A strange cold sensation came over my limbs, but before Mab could say more, Mephisto burst into the room accompanied by a small circus.

Dinner was reminiscent of the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Our company included two humans, an incarnated Aerie One, a maenad, a harpy, a yeti, a singing hamadryad who hung from the ceiling and swallowed his dinner whole, a centaur, a little leathery
bwca
still clad in his cleaning apron, and a mermaid who flipped about the pool at the center of the room, flashing her girlish bosom as she leapt from the water to catch tidbits Mephisto tossed to her.

Afterward, I was able to retreat to the library, a dark, quiet chamber on the second floor that bore a faint fragrance of apples. Curling up in a leather armchair just below a will-o-wisp globe, I pulled out the
Book of the Sibyl
.

My hand caressed the soft black leather. At last, and when I had nearly lost hope, the secrets of the Sibyl were finally mine! The answers I had been searching for all these years could be here, in this little volume. Compared to that, everything else faded into the background.

Giddy with anticipation, I drew out the little book. It was a short volume, only a handful of pages, but this was only to be expected, considering that it had originally been written on ancient scrolls. I opened the cover, breathing in its leathery scent. The vellum felt smooth and cool beneath my fingers. I spread the pages and read the entire thing:

I, Deiphobe of the Seven Hills, Sibyl of Eurynome, herein do record the secrets of my order:

The greatest secret in the Universe is no secret because it is known to all, though few pay attention. That secret is: Love. All the world was made for Love, and Love obliged Her creator by coming to dwell within the world; a gift to all created therein. Love rights all wrongs. Love banishes all fear. Whatever is impossible but good, is possible with Love.

Love is of the highest order of servants of the Alcreate, the Most High, the One Altogether Lovely. Her sisters are Truth and Spirit and her Handmaiden is Bitter Wisdom.

Love cannot be compelled. The other name of Wide Wandering Love is Free Will.

Sing out! Rejoice without ceasing; for unto us has been given such joy as the world cannot sunder.

Descent into Darkness

Wide Wandering Love looked down upon the inverted world of matter-and-darkness and knew pity. Departing the bower of the Alcreate, She descended into this darkness to bring the light of Love back to those who had strayed. She moves among the Shadowlands, but She is not of the Shadowlands. For She knows the true mystery of the ages—that sorrow is a sham, and death but a cheat.

The Purpose of Sibyls

Wide Wandering Love, being a primary emanation of the Alcreate, cannot perceive the murk of our low estate. Thus, the necessity for Sibyls. A Sibyl is one who dwells in these Shadowlands but whose mind so resembles Hers that the two may become as one. Only one who loves as She loves, who sees as She sees, whose heart is devoted to the will and purposes of the Most High, is worthy of the stature of Sibyl.

The Gifts of the Sibyl

Here follows an explanation of the six gifts granted to Sibyls:

Open Locks

What can bind Love? To open locks and free captives from their bonds, a Sibyl has but to touch her Holy Mark to the offending lock, and it will spring apart.

Cure Poison

Love is life. The Sibyl has but to glance at one who has been poisoned, and the strength of Her love will purify the sufferer, removing whatever is harmful.

Purify Water to Create Water of Life

Love brings forth abundance. The Sibyl has only to love the water, and the water will be made wholesome.

Command the Lightning

Where the Sibyl looks, love flows. Where a Sibyl loves, lightning from the heavens will follow.

Where the Sibyl disdains, Love is withdrawn. Without Love, life flees.

Only a fool would anger a Sibyl.

Seeing Visions

When two merge, one can see as the other. A Sibyl need only close her mortal eyes and open Eurynome’s eyes to see as She sees.

Absolve Oaths

Free Will cannot be fettered. A Sibyl has but to draw attention from her Holy Mark to the offending oath, and the chains binding the spirit will part.