It was Gregor who saved us.
He strode forward, his hair flowing about his shoulders, and brandished the Seal of Solomon. Laughter, a strange grating sound we seldom heard, issued from his throat. He cried in a great voice, “Back, foul vermin! Or suffer my wrath! For I have been crowned Pope of the One True Church and have, at my beck and call, all the Armies of Heaven!”
Gregor’s crimson robes billowed, and a golden halo shone above his head. The demons drew back.
Then, they sneered mockingly and rushed at him.
My brother moved with rapid grace. Wielding his new staff like a rapier, he dipped it beneath the leading trident’s prongs and then rose to strike the haft, knocking the weapon aside. Facing the foremost demon, he slapped it in the face with the back of his free hand. Solomon’s Ring grazed its skin. Immediately, it withered into a tiny ball.
Gregor pulled a glass vial from under his robes, popped the shrunken remains of the demon inside, and capped it. He held it up for the rest to see. Cowed, they turned and scattered, gibbering. Gregor sealed the vial with his ring and replaced it beneath his robes.
Sighing, Mephisto sent his various friends away. “Gregor gets all the fun.”
Erasmus clapped. “Oh, bravo! Shouldn’t you blow across the top of the ring like a gunslinger, or something?”
Theo, his staff now humming and buzzing, looked Gregor up and down. “That was impressive, Little Brother. Where did you learn to fight like that?”
Gregor bowed respectfully to Theo. “You taught me, Older Brother. Right there.” He extended his staff and pointed at an area of rotting vegetation behind the Castello Sforzesco, where the Parco Sempione now stood in modern Milan.
Theo barked out a laugh. “And so I did!”
Titus, however, was frowning. “Be careful, Brother Gregor. Remember what you told us about not becoming angry.”
“Angry?” Gregor rasped, grinning. “I haven’t had such a good time in years! Brings back the old vampire hunting days, does it not, old friend?” He asked the snake, who was still curled about his neck. The snake hissed, and Gregor laughed again. “Pshaw. You were never in any danger.”
* * *
WE found Logistilla inside the castello. She sat upon the throne in the ducal presence chamber exactly as we had seen her in the crystal globe, a shard of crockery held in her hand as a scepter.
Gregor strode over the rubbish strewn across the floor of the chamber and offered his hand to Logistilla. “Come, Sister,” he said gently, “let us be gone from this place.”
“Noooo!” Logistilla shrieked, drawing herself up. “It is mine! It was always meant to be mine! I was meant to live here! You can’t take me away!”
Gregor went pale with fear. He lunged out and seized her shoulder. Then, his head sank forward, his face slack with relief. To the rest of us, he said merely, “I feared she had died.”
He tried to draw her to her feet, but she would have none of it. She beat on his hand with her sharp piece of pottery, drawing blood. The old man who huddled beside her on the dais looked up from his shard with some interest.
“Mine,” he intoned in a querulous voice. “Mine! Mine! Mine!”
“Definitely envy,” Theo poked at the debris on the floor with the butt of his staff. “She always wanted to live in the castello.”
“So, you all know this place?” Mab asked, looking about at the vast structure with its handsome courtyards. He gestured at the walls. “This reddish stone beneath the blood—it looks familiar. Isn’t the Great Hall back in Prospero’s Mansion built from this same stuff?”
I nodded. “The castello was our old home in Milan. Mephisto, Theo, and Erasmus were born here—or in the real version of which this is a dark copy…”
“Not copy!” interrupted Mephisto. “Evil twin!”
“By the time Logistilla was born,” I continued, “the Spaniards had taken over and were using the castello as their headquarters. So Logistilla grew up in a modest villa. She has always envied the rest of us for having once lived in the grandest place of which she knew.”
“And now she is here.” Titus frowned. “We should not have left her alone so long. Women are weaker than men.” He moved to where she sat and squatted down, gazing at her.
“And this other guy”—Mab jerked his thumb toward the old man—“you said he was her son?” Erasmus and Gregor nodded. Mab made a note. Then, he sniffed, grimacing. “This place smells bad, Ma’am,” he said, his voice low. “Really bad.”
“Of course it does, Dopey-head!” Mephisto replied. “The whole city is stinky!”
Mab shook his head, his expression quite serious. “Not rotten bad, Harebrain, evil bad. Someone’s been casting some vile magic here.” He cocked his head. “I’m gonna take a look around. Harebrain, where’d that fancy marble of yours show those voodoo dolls?”
Mab began moving slowly through the presence chamber, sniffing the air, and poking at things with his pipe.
As he moved away, I gazed at the familiar walls, shivering slightly. How strange to see them again, or to see their dark reflection, stranger still when I contemplated the time that had elapsed since last I lived in the castello. A month ago, I would have congratulated myself on how far I had come, on my many great achievements in the intervening centuries. But now? All the aspects of my life that I might have praised were either lost or proven an illusion.
Had I gained nothing in the intervening years?
Squatting, Titus took Logistilla’s hand and spoke to her softly.
“Titus?” She looked up hopefully. Comprehension began to dawn behind her eyes and then fled away. “No. He disappointed me. He would never do anything but watch TV. I turned him into a bear.”
“True,” Titus growled, sounding very much like a bear indeed, “but then you turned me back, and here I am.”
“I never turn my animals back,” Logistilla pouted. “At least, I would not have to if Cornelius hadn’t refused to help me anymore, the snake.”
“Actually, Ulysses is the snake,” Mephisto said gaily, pointing at the serpent curled around Gregor’s neck. “Cornelius is more of a bat or a mole.”
So, that was why Logistilla was angry at Cornelius!
I recalled her casting aspersions upon him when we visited her on her island. So, he had been using the Staff of Persuasion to influence her customers and then thought better of it. Good for him. Who would have guessed Cornelius would develop scruples?
Gregor hunched his shoulders like a wrestler taking a fighting stance and curled back his lip menacingly, a look I remembered well. It was as if New Gregor had vanished and Old Gregor stood in his place. “Titus,” he asked hoarsely, “why—precisely—did our sister turn you into a bear?”
“You will have to ask her,” Titus replied brusquely. His eyes were upon Logistilla, and he did not spare Gregor a glance.
“Because he was a couch potato!” Mephisto confided conspiratorially. “She doesn’t think much of lovers who only exercise their channel-surfing finger.”
“Lover?” Gregor repeated. He made a face as if the word tasted bad to him. “Titus, why would Mephisto refer to you as our sister’s lover?”
“Now, Gregor,” Theo began, stepping forward.
“Off with you, Theo.” Gregor shoved him away. “If I need your help, I’ll ask for it.”
“Uh-oh. He’s reverted to Old Gregor, hasn’t he?” Erasmus murmured to Mephisto. “I hope it’s a temporary change, like calling up Shazam or something. I was getting to like the new Gregor.”
“You and me both!” Mephisto responded. “Old Gregor can be a royal pain in the patooshie!”
Gregor stalked forward, but Titus did not spare him a glance.
“I have no time for your theatrics, Little Brother,” Titus growled. “Saving Logistilla is more important than your moral qualms. I have already explained myself to the others. Logistilla turned me into a bear because she was disappointed with my performance as her husband. Apparently, she wanted a more active man. Though I recall he
r turning several husbands into toads or boars for the crime of being too active, in one way or another.”
“Husband?” That caught Gregor up short. “You married our sister?”
“You have a problem with that?” Titus stood and glared down. He towered above Gregor. “Historically, there are precedents for marriage between brothers and sisters. The gods did it. The Egyptian pharaohs.”
“Pagans,” Gregor spat.
The two men glared at each other. The rest of us backed away, except for Theo, who stood lightly upon his feet, ready to dive in, if necessary.
But what could Theo do? He could not threaten his brothers with his staff. Like an atomic bomb, the Staff of Devastation was of little use as a weapon of deterrent when dealing with one’s own. True, Theo was a decent fighter, but he was out of shape, and the others had both height and breadth over him.
If Titus got his hands on Gregor, any fight would be over. On the other hand, Gregor was faster and meaner. He might try maneuvers from which Titus would never think to protect himself.
The two of them circled each other. Titus loomed like a Scottish giant, clad in his highland jacket and tartan kilt with a lacy jabot collar at his throat. Gregor moved lithely, his splendid crimson robes and half cape swirling about him. The chamber grew entirely silent, except for their footsteps and the swoosh of kilt and robe. Around his neck, Ulysses the Snake hissed.
The tension in the room made my skin crawl. My mouth had gone dry, but I felt as if I dared not move even to swallow.
“Enough!” Theo snapped.
Theo looked at Mephisto. Mephisto looked at Caliban, who was even brawnier than Titus. Caliban cracked his knuckles and stepped forward, ready to knock heads.
Gregor and Titus ignored him, their eyes locked on each other. Titus’s big meaty hands slowly closed into fists. His arm drew back. Caliban stepped forward, grinning.
This was about to turn into an all-out brawl.
With a bellow, Gregor struck Titus with a right cross, taking the big man by surprise. Titus’s head snapped back, but he recovered quickly. He waded forward, shaking the blood from his mouth and grinning. Gregor backpedaled quickly, throwing out jabs at Titus’s face and chest, but Titus merely raised his massive arms, and the blows bounced off the huge muscles of his shoulders and arms like tennis balls off the side of a tank.
Titus lunged, expecting Gregor to dart backwards, but Gregor closed with him and pummeled his stomach repeatedly with solid punches. Titus oophed and then did a leg sweep and a hip throw.
It was a simple jujitsu move. But Gregor had disappeared from the face of the earth before the martial arts of the East became all the rage. None of the ruffians he boxed during his days as a priest in Ireland had used moves like that.
“What in the world was that?” Gregor yelped unceremoniously, from where he lay on his back.
Titus slammed his enormous meaty fist into his hand and moved toward the prone Gregor.
“Titus!” I croaked, “What’s the point of being the easy-going guy, if you can’t walk away from a fight when your wife needs you?”
Titus blinked sleepily. He thrust forth the Staff of Darkness, and asked, “Do you want your staff back?”
With this reminder of his recent good deed, the wrath drained from Gregor’s eyes. When he stood up, he looked less like a brute and more like a Spanish poet again. Frowning, he stroked his short-cropped beard.
“Did you get married in a church, at least?” he asked gruffly, brushing of his robes.
“We were wed at St. George’s Episcopal in the British Virgin Islands.”
“Anglican…” Gregor frowned and then shrugged, muttering, “could have been worse.”
“What about your Great Church Lady, from your vision? Doesn’t she approve of all denominations?” Erasmus asked mockingly. Gregor spun around and glared at him, his shoulders hunching forward again.
“Right.” Erasmus made a casual gesture in the air. “Forget I said anything.”
Mab called from the far side of the room, “Mr. Theophrastus! Come take a look at this!” Theo gave his brothers one last stern look. Excusing himself, he went to join Mab. That left the rest of us to puzzle over Logistilla.
Walking forward, I lay my hand on Logistilla’s shoulder, hoping to dispel the illusion that gripped her, but my touch had no effect. She remained upright and unseeing, a regal duchess before her imaginary subjects, unaware of the squalor about her in this pathetic mockery of our ancient home.
Apparently, it was not an illusion of the senses that gripped her, but one of her own mind’s making.
Watching Logistilla sit like a noble sovereign reminded me of her real reign as Duchess of Saxe-Weimar, one of the tiny Germanic states. Her husband had died young—or perhaps he was the one she turned into a stag after he had strayed with a particularly comely lady-in-waiting. I had trouble keeping Logistilla’s husbands straight—after which she ruled, first as regent and then through her son, for over fifty years. My sister had proved a fine sovereign. Under her reign, the kingdom expanded, the laws were enforced, and the people grew richer.
True, a few of her political rivals had gone hunting never to return, at least not in human shape, and a few hostile neighbors had abruptly withdrawn their threats after a visit from her brother. (Napoleon, who forced the duchy of Saxe-Eisenach to combine with Saxe-Weimar and then handed control of both duchies over to Logistilla’s son, was recorded as having remarked: “A charming man, the dowager duchess’s brother; a pity that he is blind in both eyes.”) All in all, however, her people had been pleased with her.
What a shame that Logistilla had not yet been born when our family ruled Milan. There would have been such a natural meeting of minds between Father, who wished to rule in name only, and Logistilla, who cared little for titles, desiring instead to preside over the details, to rule in truth. All my other siblings either wanted the prestige of being duke or had no interest in ruling whatsoever.
It was too late, of course, as the days of dukes and princes were no more. Nowadays, my sister’s competence as a ruler was a wasted talent, of no use to a recluse who made her livelihood by selling new shapes to criminals and cripples.
Suddenly, I wondered if Logistilla, too, realized what a help she could have been to Father. Could that be the reason she disliked me so? Because she resented Father’s reliance upon me when, in her mind, she could have done a better job? Unappreciated talents could become a heavy burden. I felt unexpectedly sorry for her.
“I do not know what to do,” Titus admitted, his voice low. “Miranda, could you ask your La…” His voice trailed off and he flushed. He lowered his head again, muttering, “Er … sorry.”
I turned away, my eyes wet with unshed tears.
“Honey, can you hear me?” Titus asked, chaffing Logistilla’s arm.
“I will not leave! I belong here! You cannot make me think otherwise!” cried Logistilla. “It is my due!”
“Here?” Titus rumbled. “In this dilapidated shack? With no servants? No running water? None of the comforts of home? Ha! Woman, you can have it and with my blessing. Me? I’m going back to our real home. Remember our house? A beautiful mansion with heat and air conditioning and all the benefits of modern life! Handsome furniture, electric lights, and our children. Children who will not grow old and die, but who will live as long as we do, so long as the Water lasts.”
“Argh!” The withered old man who clawed at Logistilla’s throne gave an inarticulate cry and lunged at Titus, slapping at him weakly. “Water! Water!” he cried in his high shrill voice. “Life! Life! Why should your other children have it, if it is denied to me? Why?”
“Cease, Galeazzo,” Logistilla cried. Apparently, she was aware of him. “He is not your enemy. My sister Miranda is! She is the one who slew you! She is the one who has everything, when I have nothing. She is the one who lived in this glorious home, a princess! While I was barred outside, forced to live in obscurity.”
This dark version of Milan,
the loss of my Lady, and horrors I had seen all crowded around me, closing in as if to smother me. On top of all this, my sister’s accusations were unbearable.
“This heap?” I cried. “This prison? I did live here—if you can call my existence here ‘living’—but hardly as a princess! Once, Father suggested I make myself scarce, and so I did so. I lived here, haunting the halls, without speaking to my stepmother, my uncles, our guests, or even to my wise Aunt Ippolita, whom I tremendously admired. I spoke to no one, unless directly spoken to, except the Aerie Ones, the servants, and…”—I glanced back toward where my brother and Mab crouched before a pile of debris—“and little Theo.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “… For fifteen years.”
There. The truth had finally come out. I did not think I had known it myself consciously until I had spoken.
My brothers stared at me, appalled.
“Fifteen years?” Erasmus repeated. “You did not speak to anyone? Not Mother? Not Ludovico? Because of one stray comment from Father?”
I bowed my head, ashamed.
“God’s Teeth, Miranda, I had no idea!” Logistilla exclaimed. She looked directly at me. An unfamiliar emotion—could it be pity?—filled her dark eyes. Suddenly, she threw the broken pottery shard from her and, standing, snatched up her shoulder bag and the Staff of Transmogrification. “What is this filthy place? Get me out of here!”
Gregor and Titus both rushed forward to help her. Logistilla looked back and forth between them, frowning. Stepping away, she slid her arm through that of the rather startled Caliban, who glanced around warily, clearly not wishing to provoke my brothers.
Erasmus, meanwhile, confronted me, demanding, “Are you telling the truth?” I nodded. “Then, Father really did have you under a spell!” His face had gone strangely pale. “And all the time I was growing up, I never noticed!”
I could not answer. I wondered why I had never noticed Father’s influence over me, and yet, it had seemed so normal to do exactly as he said. I had always done so.
I pictured my father, the wise and brilliant man who had guided my life and kept our family on an even keel. How could I reconcile this man with the subtle sorcerer who hid secrets and ensorcelled his children? My current image of my father seemed as transformed from what it had been a month ago as this bloodstained, fungus-covered hall was from the castello I remembered. I wept.
Prospero Regained Page 22
