Prospero Regained

To Franchezzo and A. Farnese,

whomever you may be,

with much gratitude!

THE FAMILY PROSPERO

Eldest to youngest

T
HE
D
READ
M
AGICIAN
P
ROSPERO
carries the
Staff of Eternity

M
IRANDA
carries the
Staff of Winds

M
EPHISTOPHELES
carries the
Staff of Summoning

T
HEOPHRASTUS
carries the
Staff of Devastation

E
RASMUS
carries the
Staff of Decay

C
ORNELIUS
carries the
Staff of Persuasion

T
ITUS
carries the
Staff of Silence

L
OGISTILLA
carries the
Staff of Transmogrification

G
REGOR
carries the
Staff of Darkness

U
LYSSES
carries the
Staff of Transportation

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

DEDICATION

THE FAMILY PROSPERO

ONE:
   
Once More Back into the Swamp

TWO:
   
The Late Lord of Arden

THREE:
   
The Greatest Swordsman of Christendom

FOUR:
   
In the Belly of the Kronosaur

FIVE:
   
Some Are Born with Souls …

SIX:
   
The Hellwinds Cometh

SEVEN:
   
The Black Bog of the Sullen and Slothful

EIGHT:
   
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream …

NINE:
   
In the Bowels of Hell

TEN:
   
Promises of Marriage

ELEVEN:
   
The Battlefield of Wasted Lives

TWELVE:
   
There Once Was a Girl Named Maria

THIRTEEN:
   
Bite the Angel’s Finger!

FOURTEEN:
   
The Duchess of Infernal Milan

FIFTEEN:
   
Leader of the Family Prospero

SIXTEEN:
   
The City of Dis

SEVENTEEN:
   
Sycorax’s Child

EIGHTEEN:
   
The Mountains of Misery

NINETEEN:
   
Prospero’s Purposes

TWENTY:
   
Which Way I Fly Is Hell

TWENTY-ONE:
   
From Hell’s Heart, I Stab at Thee!

TWENTY-TWO:
   
The Staff of Wisdom

TWENTY-THREE:
   
Such Stuff as Nightmares Are Made Of

TWENTY-FOUR:
   
Master of a Full Poor Cell

TWENTY-FIVE:
   
Thy Mother Was a Piece of Virtue

TWENTY-SIX:
   
Alcestis’s Bargain

TWENTY-SEVEN:
   
The Queen of Air and Darkness

TWENTY-EIGHT:
   
The Serpent of the Winds

TWENTY-NINE:
   
Seir of the Shadows

THIRTY:
   
The Battle of Limbo

THIRTY-ONE:
   
Tears for the Living

THIRTY-TWO:
   
Into the Tempest

THIRTY-THREE:
   
Prospero’s Secrets

THIRTY-FOUR:
   
O Brave New World

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

TOR BOOKS BY L. JAGI LAMPLIGHTER

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER

ONE

Once More Back into the Swamp

“What we need now is a cheer weasel!” My brother Erasmus pulled his boot out of the thick ooze with a sucking
pop.
Mud spattered across his dark green breeches, his justacorps, and the hem of Mab’s trench coat. Erasmus winced. “Sorry about that, Company Detective. This not-letting-go-of-each-other business makes things rather cramped.” He lifted Mab’s right hand, which he held in his own. “Still, beats being led astray by demonic illusions, I suppose.”

“What in tarna…” Mab muttered in his Bronx accent. He glanced nervously at the infernal landscape that stretched around us in all directions: the dreary swamps, the cypresses dripping with dead moss, the lurid red sky, the Wall of Flame burning in the far distance. His left palm, slick with sweat, was slippery in my grasp. “What in Creation is a ‘cheer weasel’?”

“It’s something Mephisto says when people are glum: ‘Nothing a good whack with a cheer weasel won’t fix!’” Erasmus tentatively stepped onto a shaggy gray hummock. The lump of dead grass sank beneath his weight. Pulling his foot back, which now dripped with more goo, he made a face. “I have no idea if it’s a modern pop-culture reference or an invention of my brother’s deranged brain. Either way, I think I might benefit from a whack of the old cheer weasel about now. Might increase the appeal of being trapped in Hell, searching for my lost family members with my brother the former pope, an Aerie One trapped in a human body who thinks he’s Humphrey Bogart, and the sister I hate.”

“Not Bogart.” Mab glanced up at his fedora—he would have pulled it low over his eyes, but he did not have a free hand. Under his breath, he muttered, “Well … maybe Philip Marlowe.”

Erasmus, Mab, Gregor, and I moved slowly through the Swamp of Uncleanness—where dwelt the souls of those who had fallen prey to the sin of lust. Walking hand in hand was easy enough on a paved road. When the ground underfoot was spongy and sinking, it became both treacherous and aggravating, particularly for those of us who were in the middle. We could neither wipe sweat from our faces nor pinch our noses to block out the horrendous stench.

It was so hot here that steam rose from beneath our feet. Worse than the stench were the sinners themselves. Yet, we could not lower our eyes and ignore them, as if wearing imaginary blinders. Instead, we had to peer into every nook and cranny, searching for our missing brother.

And our presence here was entirely my fault.

On my other side, my brother Gregor stuck his staff, a length of ebony carved with blood red runes, under his arm, and gave my hand a comforting squeeze. His crimson cardinal’s robes, with their billowing half cape, stood out against the landscape, a bright spot in the literally God-forsaken gloom.

For most of his life, Gregor had been a bulky, almost brutish, bully of a man, consumed by hatred, mainly toward the Protestants. Our youngest brother Ulysses, to save himself from the demon Abaddon, imprisoned Gregor for many years. Yesterday, we discovered this and rescued him. We found him a changed man. The new, more contemplative Gregor was slender. He had dark, shoulder-length wavy hair and a calm, almost saintly, expression. What sparked this change in Brother Gregor, we did not yet know. I had to admit to myself that I was curious about what had happened during his imprisonment to bring about this transformation. It had to be something more significant than losing four stone of weight.

Gregor slipped his arm up so that our elbows were hooked together. This freed his hands, which he cupped around his mouth with its close-trimmed black beard.

“Mephisto!” Gregor shouted for the umpteenth time. Lowering his hands, he spoke, his voice hoarse and breathy due to a magical mishap in his youth. “I do not see him anywhere. Are you certain he is here, Miranda?” Then, looking across the swamp, he called out again, “Mephisto! Mephistopheles Prospero!”

“No sign of him, Ma’am. I’m with Father Gregor, here. Are we sure this is where the Harebrain landed?” Mab muttered. His “this” sounded like “dis.”

“In the vision the angel showed me, his besetting sin was lust.” Sweat ran into my eyes. I blinked rapidly. The heat still was opressive, but the memory of the angel and the sense of peace she brought momentarily lifted my spirits. “That means the Hellwinds would have dropped him here. So, he’s here … somewhere. Unless he’s found his way out on his own.”

We glanced across the tremendous expanse of swamp that stretched out in every direction as far as the eye could see.

“It’s hopeless,” sighed Erasmus.

*   *   *

AROUND
us, fetid quagmires, dotted by bracken-covered islands, stretched beneath a lurid sky crisscrossed with bands of steely gray. Souls damned for excessive lust floundered in the muck, crying out for succor—until they were dragged down by their more licentious compatriots. On the larger islands, groups of the damned engaged in massive orgies, resembling a battle more than any erotic acts. Others clambered onto smaller islands, upon which great corpulent demons disported with them. On one nearby isle, a six-horned demon whipped the damned until they dropped to their knees and performed acts of obscene obeisance.

The whole sordid scene, with its noxious gases that left the four of us reeling and retching, was made even worse because we now knew that the liquid in the swamp was not water but the accumulated drippings of the wanton desires of those on earth. Qualities that were merely spiritual upon the material plane had a physical nature here. Just the memory of having had to swim through the stuff left me queasy, and here I was, voluntarily walking into it again.

I would not have done it, not for any price, had there been another way to find my missing siblings and rescue our father. But there was not, and I could not leave my family stranded in Hell forever.

Gritting my teeth, I choked back my gag reflex and forced myself to scour the unseemly landscape, searching each passion-contorted face for the features of my brother Mephisto … the brother who held the crystal ball that could lead us to the others.

Beside me, Gregor bent his head in low, breathy prayer, “Lord Jesus, hear my prayer. Help us in our hour of need.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Erasmus scoffed. He stood ankle deep in reddish mud waiting for the rest of us to jump onto the next hummock. His staff was strapped diagonally across his back. His Urim gauntlet hung on his belt. When we first set out, he had worn it in order to be ready in case of attack. But since he could not use the
Staff of Decay
while standing so close to the rest of us, he eventually decided there was no point in wearing the hot, unyielding gauntlet. “God does not heed the prayers of those in Hell.”