Shadow of the Lion hoa-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  "What do I have to do?" asked Marco, a bit doubtfully. A summoning? Just what was Luciano going to summon? Not necromancy, dear Jesu!

  "Be within the circle of invocation. Give some of your blood." It seemed simple enough. Some of his blood--that couldn't hurt. Not here. It was a token sacrifice, not an actual one; something, perhaps, to remind a greater spirit of a promise from long ago.

  Blood to blood.

  "I'll do it," said Kat decisively. "It says Montescue, doesn't it?"

  Luciano shook his head. "The script is faint, but it clearly says 'a son.' This--this is a Christianized attempt at a far more ancient ceremony, but it is all that I have. Hence--" he waved an ancient bronze knife vaguely at the rest of the room "--all this. According to this it should be the Metropolitan who is doing this, but--"

  He didn't finish the sentence.

  "What will this do?" Marco asked, feeling oddly detached and strangely calm.

  Luciano shrugged. "The spell has only been used twice before. Yet this is a very ancient copy of an even more ancient spell. It is called the Lion's Crown and it invokes the spirit of the lion of the marshes. One of the oldest of the great neutral spirits. The Guardian of the lagoon, the marshes, the islands. And, yes--the Lion is still here, and strong. It influences much, still. But mostly it slumbers, waiting for Venice's hour of need. It is what Chernobog has feared most all along, and why he maneuvered so stealthily. If the Lion awakes--awakes fully, as only you can do--not even Chernobog can stand against it. Not here, not in Venice."

  The memory of a brushing of wings passed through Marco's mind, but was gone before he could snatch at it.

  Luciano looked directly into Marco's eyes, as if weighing the heart behind them. "I think this is that hour of need. And not only do you bear the blood, you carry the mark of that Lion. Scrying glasses turn to you. I've long known you would wear the Mantle after I'm gone, but you can also wear the Crown--and do it now. Are you willing?"

  The mark of the Lion? Mantle? Crown? But this was no time for questions, not now. Questions could wait until after, when this was over. If they all survived. This might be the only way for them all to survive. Certainly the enemies of Venice, whether they were evil spirits or came with fire and the sword, would not leave any of them standing. Marco nodded. "It's my city. And they are my people."

  "I am your person too," said Kat quietly. "And I'm scared for you, Marco. I don't understand any of this--and--and--it sounds like a sacrifice!"

  He leaned forward and--for the first time--kissed her cheek, gently. "It'll be all right. And . . . if we don't do something it won't matter. The city is burning. Caesare and Count Badoero's men are winning."

  Somehow, she composed her face, stilled her trembling, drew herself up, and stood like the daughter of Montescue that she was. "I love you, Marco Valdosta."

  His heart swelled with pride for her. "And I love you too, Katerina Montescue."

  Luciano stamped his foot impatiently. "Come on! There are auspicious times for doing these things. And one of them is dawn. It's hard to tell in this fog, but that must be soon. Step inside the circle and let me close it behind you. This is a great spell and it will tax me to my utmost."

  * * *

  Kat was left standing, head bowed, disconsolate, his kiss still warm on her cheek, to watch as the ward-fires flared. A tear trickled down her nose. This was dangerous, horribly dangerous. She felt it in her bones, no matter that Marco didn't seem to think anything of it. A Strega mage practicing a Christian version of a pagan spell? It was crazy--how much could go wrong, or had gone wrong in the transliteration? Luciano was taking on more than he should ever have dared and he had dragged Marco in after him. Or was she just getting overprotective about Marco? She fumbled out her talisman and took comfort from the fact that at least the medal was cool.

  The door opened, and Kat whirled, one hand on her Saint Hypatia medal, the other on her dagger. The medal flared with heat.

  Lucrezia Brunelli stood there, smiling in triumph. "Crying for your lover, little Montescue?" she asked smirking cruelly. "It's a waste of time and tears."

  Kat gasped. "You're supposed to have left!" Then, as the words themselves penetrated: "And damn you! I'm crying for a good man."

  Lucrezia laughed, throwing her handsome head back. "There's no such thing, girl. Believe me--I've tried them all, from Capuletti to my brother Ricardo."

  Kat gaped, for a long moment, as Lucrezia waited for the sense of that to penetrate, unable to believe what she had actually heard. "Your b--your brother!?"

  Lucrezia smiled lazily, but the smile had a nasty edge. "Cleopatra slept with hers. He did crawl into my bed when he thought I was too young to understand, but in the end, he was just a man. And I did have my revenge, after all. I've had him killed for it."

  The words, so cool, so unemotional, chilled Kat to the bone.

  "And now," Lucrezia continued, "I need to kill these two while I still have the strength. Weather magic is wearisome."

  "B-b-but--" Kat was trying to ask why, but the words wouldn't come. By now the Hypatia medal was almost burning her hand. But was that caused by what Luciano was doing, or was it Lucrezia's presence? Or both?

  Lucrezia obviously understood what she meant to ask. "Oh, for many reasons--but among others, it's enough that they are two of the three who ever turned me down. Strange. Those potions you brought me from Ascalon were very effective, you know, and to have them fail so significantly on two occasions, your sweet little boy and that upright priest . . ."

  Priest? "Dottore Marina isn't--"

  "I wasn't talking about him. Unfortunately, Luciano disappeared before I had access to those philters. If I'd had them--" she licked her lips, as if she tasted something bitter "--perhaps we wouldn't be having this discussion now."

  Rafael, who had been standing ignored on the other side of the room, chose this moment to try to deal with her in a rush. He stopped as if he had hit a wall, paralyzed. Kat's medal enveloped her in warmth.

  At Lucrezia's gesture, Rafael dropped the knife and folded, to sprawl before her feet.

  Lucrezia shook her head. "I am far too powerful for little Strega with their little knives. Lie there, little Strega, and watch as your friends die--for I believe that I will allow you to die last of all."

  She turned back to Kat. "I learned a great deal from the Grand Duke of Lithuania's emissary, you know--in no small part, what not to do. She allowed Chernobog to possess her, in exchange for her beauty and power. I have not made that error."

  "You--" Kat tried to speak.

  Lucrezia smiled viciously. "And oh, my dear little virgin Montescue! Luciano made a most incalculable mistake in allowing you here, for you will make the perfect sacrifice to break the circle of power."

  * * *

  Inside the circle, Marco was unaware of all of this. Luciano's words were like the droning of bees as he walked the sevenfold circle. Why seven? Why not three or five or nine? He tried to remember what Brother Mascoli had been teaching him. Seven wasn't a Strega number, though it was pagan. It went back a lot farther than that, to the Romans, or the Etruscans. It felt right, though; each time Luciano completed a circuit, the rest of the room receded a little, the sound from outside faded, and the less important what was outside seemed. He noticed vaguely that someone had come into the room, but--

  Well, it just didn't matter.

  Marco found himself transported with the words of power; they carried him somewhere else, or perhaps it was that the interior of the circle became somewhere else. The air was not full of incense. Instead it was a smell he knew far better that: the smell of driftwood fires. Of the marsh-reed pollen. Of the delicate scent of water lilies, of marsh-mallow, of sweet-flag blossom. The air glowed with the thick, amber light of the sun cutting through the mist.

  Luciano beat on a drum; or was it a drum? It was more like his own heartbeat, but slow, slow, and full of heat. The air thickened until it was as sweet and heavy as honey, and Luciano's voice wasn't chanting wo
rds anymore, it was the bees that were droning the chant.

  Then came a rumble that built up slowly, and from a distance in the thick air. Thunder?

  No--not thunder. A roar. Marco heard a roaring echoing across the marsh, the last great refuge of lions in Europe. But no lion had ever roared like this, no lion he had ever heard of! This roar was thunder in the sky, from a throat like the mouth of a volcano!

  He glanced at Luciano for reassurance.

  But--Luciano didn't look right. He was pale and sweating, the hand that held the little drum shaking, and his breathing coming hard.

  "Chiano?" he asked--but Luciano didn't respond. The steady drumbeat faltered.

  The beater fell from Luciano's hand; a hand that clutched at the front of his own white robe, looking remarkably like a claw.

  "Chiano!" Marco shouted, panic in his voice.

  Slowly, Luciano's knees gave out and he sank to the ground. Slowly, the drum, too, fell from his hand, rolled across the floor, and overset a bowl of some dark liquid that had been laid aside when Luciano had completed the circles. And Luciano Marina toppled over onto his side and did not stir.

  And then Luciano was silent. The mists and brightness around him cleared and Marco understood why.

  Luciano Marina would not be summoning anything again. Whatever this was . . . it had been too much for him. His eyes were glazed, staring--and empty.

  The yellowed old book was still on the pedestal where Luciano had been standing. A long-bladed bronze knife was lying atop the open pages.

  Marco took up the book. It was only a book--but what was in it had killed Luciano.

  The circles of power still held, but the magic within them faded with every passing moment.

  I have to do something--

  But what? He was no magician. Besides, looking at what was said at the top of the page, this called for a willingness to make the greatest of sacrifices. What had Luciano said? "Only been done twice before. And two of the families listed are no more."

  Perhaps . . . perhaps it had been no token sacrifice. Valdosta . . . and Montescue were left. I am Valdosta. . . .

  A faint sound penetrated the thinning circles of power, and Marco looked up. As if through a mist, or through frost-covered glass, he saw Lucrezia. Saw Rafael fall. He tried to push through the barrier that Luciano had raised. It was like steel. He beat at it. He might as well have pounded on a rock with his fists.

  They were watching him now--Kat, with one hand at her throat and the other clutching her medallion; and Lucrezia. Lucrezia had a cruel smile on her face and a long steel and silver dagger in her hand. The handle like a dragon, or a winged serpent, with eyechips of ruby. Marco's arms fell to his sides; he felt frozen with fear and indecision. They all seemed frozen in time, insects caught in amber.

  Something cold touched his foot, and he jerked out of his paralysis. He looked down. The puddle of spilled liquid oozed across the patterned marble and touched his foot, mingled with a thin trickle of blood coming from Luciano's outstretched wrist. And a mist passed over it for a moment, and Marco saw, as if from above, Venice burning. Children screaming, dying. And the body of Kat sprawled, abused. And then a sequence of people he knew, and loved. Gutted. Raped. Burned. And the face of Lucrezia . . .

  Laughing, with a great darkness behind her. He knew it for a true scrying vision of the future. A future which Luciano--his friend and in many ways, more truly a father to him than his own blood had been--had been prepared to sacrifice himself to prevent. Perhaps, when he failed, Luciano had dared use his last life-blood, the last of his own magical power, not to save himself, but for this vision. So that Marco would know the consequences of failure, and act.

  Marco took up the bronze knife, put it against his chest and began to read the words from the ancient book. From outside the enchanted circle Lucrezia gaped. If he read her lips aright before the brightness and mist engulfed him, she was saying "No!"

  * * *

  "No! Caesare!" Benito looked down from the barricade he'd just climbed.

  Caesare Aldanto looked up from Maria. He had an arm around her neck, and a knife against her breast. "I nearly killed her when she came through the gap," he said, conversationally. "Quite a reunion, this. Where's that brother of yours? Also around?"

  "Why?" demanded Benito. "Do you want to make a clean sweep of the Valdostas?"

  Benito tried to figure out what do next. He had an arquebus in his hands. But the weapon was far too inaccurate--even in the hands of someone expert in its use--to risk a shot at Caesare. As inexperienced as Benito was with firearms, he'd more likely kill Maria. But Benito made himself a promise that if anything happened to Maria . . . he'd blow Caesare's mocking, smiling face apart. At this range, not even Benito would miss.

  "Now, why would I do that, Benito?" said Caesare. "I've always looked after you."

  Benito scrambled down. Other Arsenalotti faces appeared. But there were several of Caesare's men too, all with arquebuses.

  "You got money from Ferrara, for looking after us," said Benito coldly. "It's sitting at Giaccomo's. You never really did anything for any reason except for money, did you?"

  Caesare snorted. "What other reason is there?"

  Benito smiled. "Tell you what, Caesare. I'll show you another reason. You let her go and I'll fight you."

  It took Caesare a moment for the implication to sink in. "Maria?" he said, incredulously. "You love this--peasant?"

  "I dunno about 'love,' " said Benito carefully. "But I care a whole damn lot about her. Use the word 'love' if you want. So I'll fight you for her freedom."

  Aldanto laughed. "Cocky little brat, aren't you? At your age you think you're immortal and you expect to win."

  "No," said Benito calmly. "I don't. But you'll have to let Maria go."

  * * *

  "NO!" yelled Lucrezia, gazing in horror at Marco and the knife. She looked around wildly.

  "I must stop him. Kill him! Come here, girl! I need you."

  For an instant, Kat felt the sheer power and compulsion of that voice. Then, a further warmth, a heat, a fire spread from the Saint Hypatia medal that she held, and with a shake like a spaniel pulled from the dirty water of a canal, she shook off the compulsion.

  Instead of answering Lucrezia's beckoning hand, she pulled her pistol from her reticule. She'd reloaded five times in the fighting. The last time she'd had to take powder from a dead arquebusier. But the balls he'd carried had been too big. So she'd filled the barrel of the pistol with some metal junk from a ruined shop. Thrust it down and hoped it would work.

  Lucrezia laughed. "Your little toy won't do me any harm, you stupid child! Do you think I haven't taken the simplest of precautions? I command the spirits of air and water and darkness! The powder won't fire, the balls will miss!" As Kat hesitated--can that be true? Can she really do that?

  Lucrezia sneered at her. "Besides. You don't know how to use that silly thing, anyway."

  Doubt assailed her and once again, Lucrezia was using all her powers. Kat wanted to drop the weapon. Run closer.

  Warmth rushed over her again, and--

  --a glowing, delicate hand, insubstantial as a kiss and warm as life, closed over the hand that held the pistol.

  She squeezed the trigger instead.

  The metal junk cut into Lucrezia, who had half-turned, ready to throw her knife. It knocked Lucrezia to the floor.

  Lucrezia screamed; and of all the screaming Kat had heard that day, this was, by far, the most horrible sound she had ever heard in her life. It went on, and on, and on, as Lucrezia writhed on the floor, thrashing spinelessly, her thrashing as horrible as the scream.

  And then, the woman's body began to change. Metamorphose.

  * * *

  The point of the knife broke the skin, and a single drop of blood formed on the blade. Strangely, there was no pain.

  Before he could press harder and end the ritual with his own death, something--took him.

  The light, the mists, thickened again in an
instant, golden, sweet, the honey of the Jesolo, and held him so that he could not move.

  Light blinded him, and light permeated him. It became him, and he felt himself change . . . felt a roaring in his ears that came from his own throat, felt great golden wings spring from his back and begin to grow and grow.

  "It's been a long time," said the great voice that was within him, but was not him. Huge muscles flexed and stretched. His golden hide twitched. He was no longer indoors. Instead, from the column-top, he looked out over fog-shrouded Piazza San Marco.

  "So. A Valdosta again, is it?" said the great voice. "Last time it was a Montescue. They're more bloody minded." Marco felt his wings extend, though he was not the one to flex his muscles, stretch his claws, spread his wings.