Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I (20 page)

As I stood gazing into the dark, praying to my Lady, footsteps came echoing up the stairs. Sometimes, servants were sent to fetch me, should I be wanted at the festivities. The degli Gardelli, my relatives from my mother’s side, still took an interest in me. When they were in attendance, I would be paraded so they might admire my beauty and reminisce about my lovely, talented mother. Sighing, I smoothed my skirts and waited for the servant to reach the top, savoring my last moments alone with the night.

Only, it was not a servant who came tentatively into the cupola, but a little child with a head of black curls. He was a solid fellow with lithe brown limbs and dark eyes like clear pools under a midnight sky. I saw so little of my brothers that it took me a moment to recall which boy this must be. Erasmus was still a babe in arms, born the previous Christmas, while I was journeying back from the World’s End, and I vaguely recalled that Mephistopheles was taller and slenderer. So, this had to be the quieter and more stalwart Theophrastus.

“Sistah,” he asked, gazing up with his great dark eyes, “Mephto told me we can see whole world from up here. Is it true?”

“Not the whole world,” I said, smiling. As I let him admire the view, I pointed to some of the landmarks. Then, I showed him the sky. “You see those three stars in a row? That is Orion’s Belt. Now, behind Orion, you see that star and there? That is the constellation of Monoceros Unicornus, put in the sky by the Persian astronomer Abd al-Rahman al-Sufi, to honor my Lady Eurynome. It is a secret constellation, known only to Father’s people, which they use in their astrological predictions.”

This was true in those days. Not until over a century later, in 1612, did the Dutch astronomer Plancius leak the existence of Monoceros and several other
Orbis Suleimani
constellations to the general public.

“Your-ri-no-may,” my child brother repeated dutifully, gazing wide-eyed at the blanket of stars above us. “Father Julius did not tell me about Lady Yourrinomay. What is she? Saint? Angel? Or demon?”

“Do you think angels and men are the only children of God?” I replied, laughing. “The Almighty has more orders of servants than are known to mortal clergy. My Lady is one of these.”

“Father says you were con-consecated into her service when you were little, like me?”

“Consecrated,” I corrected him, recalling the ceremony and the smell of the spring rain as it splashed over the wet rocks of the chapel. “It is true. I was five.”

“Can I be consecated?” My little brother gazed up at me earnestly.

I shook my head. “No, only women can serve in this fashion.”

“What can men do?”

“A man may take a vow to serve Eurynome as her loyal knight, righting wrongs in her name.”

My tiny brother put his hand solemnly over his heart. “I so vow it!”

My heart softened, and, for the first time, I felt a chord of sympathy
with a human being other than Father or Ferdinand. That evening stands out in my memory as the single note of warmth amidst the arctic waste of my years in Milan.

THEO
recovered from his coughing bout and went to stand by the hearth, staring into the dark fireplace. As I watched him, it occurred to me that reminiscing might remind my brother of his younger, happier self. Fearing that if I took time to search for a suitable topic Theo would notice the lull in the conversation and send us on our way, I blurted out the first memory that came to mind.

“The spell today reminded me of watching Father and Mephisto set the wards before the French arrived. Do you remember the day we lost Milan?”

Theo uttered a short laugh. “What a disaster that was!”

“What went wrong? Did some unsuspecting mortal get his liver ripped out?” Mab moved over to the chair at the writing desk.

“The day, I meant,” Theo clarified. “The spell went well enough.”

“What happened?”

“We were betrayed.”

Mab leaned forward, his interest perked. “Betrayed? By whom?”

From the couch, Mephisto interrupted, “It wasn’t betrayal that did us in, it was Charlemagne’s Brood. Darn those sexy French sorceresses!”

“Take it from the top,” said Mab, pencil poised. “What exactly happened?”

“To begin with, we were overconfident.” Theo leaned back against the brick of the hearth and crossed his arms. “When we discovered the French were coming, we weren’t unduly concerned because we’d just beaten them five years before, under Charles VIII. It never occurred to us that this new king might pose more of a threat. After all, Milan had risen up and repulsed the Holy Roman Emperor when he attacked some centuries before. If Milan could defeat Barbarossa himself on their own, then how could we, with our magic, fail to defeat Louis XII?”

I recalled the event vividly. “The French came sweeping down from the north, just before noon on September 10, 1499. We rode out confidently to meet them. Back then, Milan was the home of the Missaglia family, the foremost armor makers in Europe, so our men glimmered like silver coins as they marched forward into battle. Between our soldiers and our magic, we were convinced we were invincible.” I smiled sadly. “Only the French brought magic, too.”

“Move back a step,” Mab interrupted. “How did you come to be involved in this battle to begin with?”

“Father was Duke of Milan,” I said.

Mab raised an eyebrow. “That really happened? I thought that Spear-shaker fellow invented it.”

“Shakespeare got his story straight from Father, though Father changed or omitted certain details, presumably to protect the play from the
Orbis Suleimani
.” I glanced at Theo, who nodded.

“As to how Father came to be duke . . .” Theo stroked his neatly trimmed beard. “Our family is descended from the great Visconti family that ruled the duchy of Milan for centuries. Our father’s father was a commoner who married the daughter of the last Visconti duke and rose to become duke himself. Father was his eldest son and heir.”

Mab raised an eyebrow. “Married the duke’s daughter and got the duchy! That doesn’t happen too often. Lucky guy!”

“Our grandfather had the backing of a secret organization, to which Father and my brothers also belong,” I said, despite warning glances from Theo and Mephisto. “They picked him out as a likely candidate and maneuvered him into position.”

“Interesting . . .” Mab frowned, then flipped a page in his notebook. “Back to that later. So, about this battle . . . you were defeated by a mixture of overconfidence, French magic, and treachery. Let’s focus on the treachery. Who betrayed who?”

“Who else? Uncle Antonio betrayed us . . . for the second time.” I pulled my feet up so that I was seated cross-legged on the trunk.

“Antonio? The name sounds familiar,” Mab scratched at his stubble. “Isn’t he the guy who was responsible for you and Mr. Prospero getting stranded on that island in the first place?”

“Yes, that was he!”

“That dastardly Antonio,” swore Mephisto. “And after he had gone out of his way to be so nice to me. He’s the one who taught me how to play cards and to ride drunk!”

“Still to this day, I have trouble believing his betrayal,” Theo sighed. “It may have been the French magic that destroyed us, but it was Uncle Antonio who found the sorcerers for the French king.”

“What happened?” Mab asked.

“We fled.” Theo closed his eyes. “Retreated to Switzerland.”

“Ran away like mangy dogs!” Mephisto chimed in enthusiastically.

As my brothers spoke, a scene from the past, long forgotten, presented itself to my memory.
A figure in armor of shining steel inset with filigree of gold on the back of a splendid chestnut charger galloped across the plains that surrounded Milan. Beside me, my father groaned, for he recognized the suit of armor, said to be the finest the family Missaglia ever wrought. As the armored figure rode forward, the enemy troops parted to let him pass. When he reached the place where we sat upon our horses, he lifted his face plate, laughing.

“Uncle Antonio!” I gasped.

My brothers, who admired their uncle, cried out in anger and anguish, but Father merely frowned grimly.

“Ah! Prospero!” my uncle cried, “How do you like my new allies? They are the bastard children of the great king Charlemagne and the fairy Morgana le Fey. I found them in some of the old records you left behind in your haste to rob us of our sacred library. In return for my rousing them from their tower in the vale of Orgagna, King Louis has promised to reward me with the duchy of Milan.”

“We shall see,” was my father’s sole reply.

We called up our magic, but it was a sorry second to the splendor of the French. Mephisto, not I, played the Flute of Winds that day, and while Father’s keen blue eyes shone with pride to see his eldest son perform a tempest, its song did not sing in his blood as it sang in mine. Nor could the flute yet call upon the other six Lords of the Wind Father later bound to it; only Ariel and Caurus bowed to its tune.

Desperate, I sought out Father and begged him to bring out his Great Tomes, the eight volumes he had kept locked away during my childhood, consulting them only in the most dire of circumstances.

“I cannot,” he replied gravely. “I do not have them. Or rather, they have been put to a greater purpose from which they cannot now be retrieved.
”

“But, Father, we shall be killed!”

“Not killed, my dear, just routed. We shall withdraw to fight another day.
”

HE
had been right, of course, though at the time, fleeing Milan had seemed inconceivable. Yet, many things changed that day. Years after the battle, I asked Father about Antonio’s “secret library.” He fixed his keen gaze upon me and asked whom I thought more likely to be in possession of a library not his own, himself or Antonio? I never reopened the topic, but to this day, I remain curious as to what actually transpired between my father and Antonio in their youth, and the fate of Father’s great tomes. I made a mental note to request that Mab add this subject to our list of questions.

Meanwhile, Mab asked, “Did this uncle of yours become the duke?”

“No. He died like the dog he was!” Apparently, Mephisto had already forgotten that, moments before, it was we whom he had likened to dogs.

“Who were these French jokers again?” Mab asked suspiciously.

“The sons of Charlemagne: the sorcerer Malagigi who could call up the dead, Eliaures the enchanter—his art was much like Cornelius’s—the devious, serpent-tailed Melusine on her chariot pulled by lions, the incomparable Alcina, who could sing men’s wits away . . .” Theo paused, sighing. “And the sweet, charitable Falerina. Weapons blessed by her never broke or misfired.”

“You’re going too fast,” Mab growled. “Describe them in more detail.”

As Theo answered Mab’s question, I recalled how it had been that day. The sorcerer Malagigi had ridden an enchanted charger, before whom none could stand. He called up spirits and colored them to resemble the great heroes of his land: Rinaldo, Astolpho, Turpin, and the Invincible Orlando. Our soldiers could not wound these phantoms, yet a mere touch of the spirits’ illusory blades caused them to clutch their chests and fall dead from fear.

Horses with fangs and scaled hides drew the war carriage of Malagigi’s brother Eliaures. As our soldiers fled before these demon beasts, Eliaures threw handfuls of twigs into their midst. Wherever they struck our men, the twigs were transformed into serpents that latched onto their limbs and could not be shaken off. I saw a soldier chop off his own leg in an attempt to rid himself of the serpent that had sunk its poisoned fangs into his flesh.

The vile enchantress Melusine, her serpentine tail protruding from beneath her richly embroidered robes, resembled a goddess of the classical age as she charged across the battlefield in a chariot pulled by lions. She summoned up the evil spirit Ashtaroth and sent him to rip out the hearts of our generals. Elsewhere, surrounded by a phalanx of guards, their younger sister, the incomparable Alcina, beguiled men with her sweet voice, singing away their wits and leaving them wandering aimlessly, believing themselves to be trees, birds, or beasts. And, finally, behind the French ranks, the last of them, the charitable Falerina, enchanted our enemy’s weapons so their blades could not break nor their muskets misfire.

“In later years,” Theo finished, “they could never have stood up to us, for their tricks depended predominantly upon hypnotism. With a wave of his staff, Cornelius could have protected the minds of any man within sound of his voice. The
Staff of Silence
would have banished Ashtaroth and the other spirits serving Malagigi. As to Falerina, while none of our magics
would counter hers directly, her blessings would not have been powerful enough to protect the French weapons from my staff. Back then, however, we had no staffs.”

“Nowadays, we’d a creamed ’em!” Mephisto bounced enthusiastically.

“How funny life is.” Theo gave a faint, ironic smile. “How we hated Charlemagne’s brood! For decades, I plotted my revenge. But time really does heal all wounds. Only two centuries later, when we met at the Centennial Ball—where the world’s immortals gather once a century to dance and swap stories—we were all the best of friends.” Theo sighed again, perhaps recalling the lovely Alcina, whom he once had loved.