Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I (59 page)

I pictured soaring among the stars, taking my siblings on rides to share with them the glory and marvel of it all. How fast did that beautiful bird fly? Was it limited to mortal speeds? We had just lost the Lear. Could I switch to a more magical form of transportation?

But this was foolishness, of course. Much of my traveling was for mundane business. I could just imagine the confusion of air traffic control when I tried to land the giant swan at SeaTac or LAX. Besides, just because Astreus gave me the creature’s name did not mean that it would obey me, or that it would not carry me away only to strand me in some foreign sky.

Sadly, I shook my head. “No.”

Astreus leaned toward me, his eyes a sparkling violet. “Tonight you heard the Music of the Spheres. Few mortals can say the same. So compelling was its music to you that it drew your soul out of your mortal flesh. Do you want to hear it again?”

My mouth had gone dry. Flying filled me with joy, but this music had transported me beyond myself, beyond the mortal world. Compared to that, what did anything else matter?

Astreus continued, “I will give you a flask of stardew. If you sip it on clear nights from a tower balcony or a mountaintop, you shall be able to hear the Celestial Choir. I shall even throw in a vial of mothan juice, so your servants can call you back to your body again.”

Of all his offers, this one was the most tempting. I had already experienced the effects of stardew and mothan juice, so I did not fear that his offer
was somehow a cheat. The very strength of my desire, however, warned me of the dangers of this course. If I had a flask of the milky stardew and heard the Celestial Choir again, would I ever elect to return? I could not accept and run the risk that I might leave Father’s work undone.

“Thrice asked and thrice refused,” I said. “I am excused and need not consider your gift.”

“Wait, Miranda! I shall agree! If you do not take my gift, I will give you the apology you seek.” His eyes went an eerie violet. “For if you do not accept my gift, you are not the woman I take you to be. Nor shall it matter whether I apologize or no.”

I frowned, uncertain what to make of this last speech. “Show me this mysterious gift, then, but keep in mind, I want an apology very much. Even were I tempted to take the gift, I would refuse it, thanks to this wager.”

“We shall see,” Astreus replied, smiling enigmatically. He refilled the two goblets, handing me one and raising the other. I shook my head to clear it of strange sensations, my heart beating rapidly. Elves were not good companions for men, regardless of their intent.

“To our wager: may fortune smile upon us both!”

“I do not see how she can,” I replied, touching my cup against his. The silver goblets rang like bells. “That is the nature of wagers.”

“If you are pleased with the present, and I gain a coat of arms, we both prosper,” he said. When I continued to frown, he said, “You do not approve of that toast. I will propose a new one: To freedom!”

“To freedom,” I agreed.

Lifting his cup, Astreus drained it in a single draught. I sipped mine cautiously and wondered anxiously how well elves held their liquor.

“May we elves be released from the tithe, that terrible curse laid upon us by the Powers of Hell,” he finished.

“I have heard Hell once excused the seven-year tithe, and you were given the credit for having orchestrated it,” I said. “Perhaps, the same thing could be done again?”

A haunting shadow passed across Astreus’s face, contorting his handsome features. His eyes grew the horrible red-brown of old blood.

“The price was too high,” he whispered grimly. Then, as quickly as it had come, the shadow was gone. “But let us speak of joyful things, such as Christmas tidings and the gift I have for you.”

“Astreus, why are you even bothering?” I asked wearily. “You know as
well as I—better, I am sure—what sorts of things elves do to unsuspecting mortals. How could I trust a gift from an elf, even if I wanted to?”

The wine had turned his eyes a warm azure blue. “How cautious is wise Miranda,” he laughed, “a gentle dove, fearful of sharp elven talons. You are wise not to trust my people, for we are capricious and would do you mischief in the blink of an eye. Such mischief is not my purpose here. By my troth, I swear it.

“Besides,” he added, “I am bestowing it in Bromigos’s house, the Mansion of Gifts. Were it not wholesome, he would not have allowed it.”

This last thought cheered me, and I felt mildly less foolish. For the first time, I found myself curious. Was this the same present Father Christmas had promised me? What might this creature, who offered me rainbows and stardew, expect me to want? Did he believe he knew enough about me, from a single dance on one star-studded night, to guess what my heart desired?

“Behold,” he said, “the gift I have been keeping for you these three hundred years, for I had intended to gift you with it when we met beneath the willow by the Avon. Nor was it an easy task to find it. It is this we journeyed to my stronghold to fetch.” He held out the little package to me. The green paper sparkled. “Open it, sweet Miranda, and you shall not regret it. Refuse it, and you shall regret evermore.”

An eerie premonition came upon me. What if he were telling the truth? Elves sometimes did. What if all chance of future happiness lay within this fey gift? I closed my eyes to pray, and felt the warm steady calm of my Lady’s presence.

“You unwrap it,” I insisted. Had he really gone to so much trouble, or was that just the elven version of poetic license?

“That is not how things are done within the House of Christmas,” he replied, extending it again.

Slowly, I untied the ribbon and opened the wrapping paper. The green foil rustled and fell away. I breathed in the pleasant odor of leather. Inside, lay a small black volume, no thicker than a pamphlet, unblemished by any title or ornament. From the style of the binding, I judged it to be from the fifteenth or sixteenth century, about the time I first met Astreus. A shiver of anticipation tingled along my spine.

“What is it?” I whispered, as my fingers touched the soft supple leather. As I lifted the cover, a strange tremor danced skittishly through my limbs. Startled, I tried to jerk away, but it was too late. My eyes had lit upon the
first page. All the apologies in the universe could not have torn that book from my hands. Written there, in a beautiful looping script, were the words:

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

Here ends Part One.

______

To be continued in Part Two:

P
ROSPERO IN
H
ELL

In which we meet the remaining Prospero siblings,
and many secrets are revealed.

This is L. Jagi Lamplighter’s first novel. She lives with her husband and children in northern Virginia, where she’s working on
Prospero in Hell
, book two of Prospero’s Daughter. For more information, visit her website at
www.sff.net/people/lamplighter
.