Read Online Prospero Regained by L. Jagi Lamplighter - Free Book Online

I asked. “What is their purpose?”
    “To fool the lost souls,” Malagigi replied.
    “Why in tarnation … and, in this case, I mean exactly that … why, here, in tarnation, would anyone bother?” Mab asked. “The souls are already damned, aren’t they?”
    “Not as damned as they could be.” Malagigi’s voice was unexpectedly grave.
    “What do you mean?” asked Gregor.
    “This”—Malagigi spread his arms indicating the swamps—“is not the lowest level of Hell. There are lower levels. Those on Earth are told that once a man dies, his spirit dwells forever in the same place, but it is not the case in either direction. Not only can those in Hell be saved, but the fallen can fall still farther. The more they indulge and debauch themselves—the more they prey upon their fellows—the heavier their souls become. Soon, their souls grow so heavy that they are caught up by the next sweep of the Hellwinds.” Malagigi’s hands worried the golden knot of his belt.
    “Ridiculous!” exclaimed Erasmus. “You’re pulling our leg, right?”
    “I wish I were, mon ami, but it happened to me.”
    We all stared at him.
    “It did?” I leaned forward with great interest. Gregor’s gaze also was fixed upon the ex-sorcerer’s face.
    Malagigi met Gregor’s disbelieving stare evenly before continuing. “After I died, instead of repenting—as any sensible sinner would have—I sought revenge for the destruction of my family. I called upon my friends—elemental spirits of the fire, air, and water who owed allegiance to me alone—and set them upon those who were responsible for dragging us from our home. Only … spirits are not wise. They cannot see the world clearly. Without me there to direct them…” He slapped his forehead. “ Zut alors! Did it go awry!”
    “Oh! Never turn revenge over to spirits!” Mab shook his head mournfully. “They’ll muck it up. Take it from me, I know!”
    “Needing guidance, they picked a man who could vaguely hear them and influenced him to kill those who were responsible. Only they did not know who was responsible—we humans look much alike to them. Unless they have a drop of blood or a piece of hair to identify a particular soul, they have trouble telling us apart. So, they prodded this man, Maximilien his name was, to kill many people … many, many people.”
    I could feel my eyes grow round with horror. “Not Maximilien Robespierre?”
    “That was it.” Malagigi’s voice trembled softly.
    “You mean the terrible bloodshed and violence of the reign of Robespierre was your fault?” I cried. “The glory of France was destroyed … by you?”
    Malagigi’s shoulders slumped. An immaterial tear slid down his narrow cheek. “I received my revenge, biensur , and with it, my just deserts—incarceration in a lower circle of Hell than my initial sins had earned me.
    “Only at this point,” Malagigi explained, his voice heavy with self-mocking pity, “did I begin to repent. Finally, after torments too horrible to tell, a fellow of the Brotherhood of Hope named Benedetto found me—he was rescuing others to earn off his own sins. Since then, I have devoted myself to this order and to helping others. I dwell in hopes of earning forgiveness for my transgressions. I especially try to save souls who were killed because of the urgings of my elementals.”
    “So, you yourself were a damned soul who was saved!” Gregor marveled. “Then it is true!”
    “Indeed.” Malagigi spread his arms. “I am living proof.” Then, he chuckled. “Or proof, at any rate. The ‘living’ part is a matter of opinion.”
    Erasmus sighed wearily. “You mean we are expected to pray and to be contrite even if we find ourselves in Hell? That hardly seems fair. I thought the one virtue of Hell was that it gave rest to those who were tired of such nonsense. That there were no churchmen to prod you.”
    “It depends,” Malagigi answered cheerfully, “on whether or not you wish to get out