"Who . . . who are you?" he asked timidly.
There was a roar of laughter, warm and full. "I am you. And you are me. You have taken up the Crown as well as the Mantle--the first to do so in many centuries. And we are the Lion . . . the Lion of Venice, now. The Lion of Etruria that was."
The back and shoulder muscles tensed, enormous wings beat down in a great surge of power, and the lion bounded up through the cloud and out into endless blue of the sky.
"The Lion of Saint Mark?" Marco looked down as the Lion looked down. Fog was streaming away from the downbeat of the great wings. Below he could already see the piazza, clear of all but the last wisps of it.
Again the Lion laugh-roared. "Saint Mark! I nearly ate him. He wasn't even the Mark of your Four Books, you know. You little children, you've confused him with one of my Romans! A secret Christian, that Roman, a Christian who hid his fellows in the Jesolo--Marcus Fidelus--that was what they called him, Mark the Faithful, and you people managed to get him confused with the other! 'Hic requiscet corpus tuum-- On this spot your body shall rest.' It was meant as a threat, not a prophecy."
The Lion roared with laughter, and Marco had to admit it was rather funny.
"But that Marcus was pious enough, and holy enough, and had the magic--the magic--even if up until that moment he didn't know it. I knew it. And you four little swamp thieves--Terrio, Montescue, Lacosto, and Valdosta--you that had set out to rob him and instead became his converts, begged for his life. You were my people, and he won you! Won you fairly! But you were my people, and when you begged--what was I to do? I let him live, and gave him leave of my domain. Ha. Not only did he make free of my marshes, he also took seizin of me, to come and go and look and know. He became one of mine, save only that he was first and always the child of Christ. And in exchange that we be of one heart, and would I still hold sovereignty here and not be driven from the place by later mages of Christ, that my people be free to make their own choices in who they serve--he laid this form on me, this binding with the blood of the four families. I think it a good bargain. I steer my families and look after my lagoon, my marshes, and my islands. And sometimes, when the need is dire, they take the Crown and they steer me." The great, laughing roar shook the body again. "So. Steer me, Valdosta. What do we need to do?"
Some grasp of the great strength that was his to command dawned on Marco. "First, let's get rid of all of this fog. It's not right."
The Lion spiraled upward into the dawn sky, above the cloud. "Yes. It is a magical one, a sending from a great and evil power. But this is my place. My lagoon, my marshes, and my islands. My power is stronger here."
The great wings beat down. The wind beneath those wings was more than just air. It was bright with strength and the wild primal magic that was the Lion. Marco felt not only the beating of the wings but the rushing of blood to those great wing-muscles. He knew that the very arteries and veins of the Lion were somehow channels that nourished the reedbeds, the canals that carried the trade. And they all moved to the heartbeat of the sea. The Lion was Marco. It was also the soul of the lagoon. It was rich with the love of the generations of Venetians. Of many, many people, not just some few wealthy lordlings, but all of its people.
And, like them, the Lion treasured its liberty and independence.
The fog . . . the fog was no mere cloud. It was a thing of strangling darkness. Of hatred and domination, issuing from the bleak northeast. But although it might overwhelm cities and kings, it was feeble against that independence of spirit, of the love Venetians had given this place, this special place over the centuries. The Lion was a repository of all of that. Chernobog was great. But it was also a great distance away--and was now trying to extend its power to a foreign land. Foreign to Chernobog, not to the Lion. The Lion who was also Marco drew its strength from the land, the water and from many many small sources. Generations of them--brought together in the unity which was the Lion. Individually they were mere drops of water against stone that was Chernobog. Together, they were like the raging torrent . . . and Chernobog a mere loose cobblestone, flung willy-nilly before the fury.
Magical power surged like the sea with each great wingbeat, and below them the fog scattered and tattered. The last spell-shreds of Chernobog's power here tore. Venice and the lagoon appeared, the sun striking the red roofs and dancing brightly off the clear water.
"And now?" asked the Lion.
"Let us break up the fighting. Put fear into the hearts of those who want to destroy Venice." Somehow Marco knew that was the right thing to say.
The Lion rose higher, toward the rising sun. "Let them see my shadow. In the minds of our enemies, the shadow of the Lion is more terrifying than the Lion itself. It releases their fears. To those who love Venice, my shadow is a shield."
In a slow spiral the Lion turned above the canals of Venice. Marco's keen Lion-eyes picked out the knots of fighting men, picked out his brother on the barricade. Picked out Maria. Picked out Caesare Aldanto, and saw into the core of him, saw him for what he was. He roared. The air blurred and shivered with the sound.
* * *
The roaring was like that of a thousand trumpets. But it was a glad, bright noise. To Maria it was like an infusion of strength. That little fool Benito was going to get killed!
It must have had the opposite effect on Caesare, because suddenly she was able to pull free. She spun around and, with all her strength, kicked him in the testicles.
Caesare folded up nicely. Maria scrambled up the barricade. She heard the roar of an arquebus, but if it was fired at her the bullet went wild. And then the fresh sea-scented wind hit her in the face.
"What the hell--" Benito pulled her flat; arquebus fire boomed. Fog streamed in the sudden gale, a gale so strong that it flung masonry fragments from the barricade. The dawn sun came striking at the walls. . . . Bright and warm.
And then there came a huge winged shadow--
Maria suddenly realized that Caesare's Schiopettieri were running away, as if in a panic. And so was Caesare. Running as if the very devil was on his heels.
And somewhere between Venice and the rising sun a huge winged being flew, caressing the city, its lagoon and marshes with the shadow of its great wings.
* * *
Kat stared at the devilish thing that had been Lucrezia. It was red-eyed, silver bodied, snaky like Lucrezia's dagger handle had been--and it was wounded in a dozen places. Maybe she hadn't quite killed it but she'd certainly stopped it. It was leaking black ichor from the wounds.
And from the moment Marco had fallen, it had no interest in her. Instead, it was struggling to fly on torn, batlike wings. It was heading for the windows as if drawn by an invisible wire.
* * *
Half the town seemed to be fleeing for their lives. The other half appeared to be chasing them.
Benito would have sworn he was the only one who looked up as they pursued Caesare's party across the Piazza San Marco. It might have been the brightness of the morning sun, but he'd swear that he saw the winged lion settle back onto its column.
* * *
"Is there anything more?" the Lion asked.
Marco looked around, and couldn't see anything. There was--something--far off--
"It is of no consequence," the Lion said dismissively. "The Christ-mage, the one who limps; he and his knights have conquered it, and its vessel. And there is another, but believe me--" He laughed, this time a deep rumbling in his chest. "Your young mate and her Power have that well taken care of. Now--shortly, you must become yourself again. But, Marco Valdosta, you not only bear the Winged Mantle now, but you have also taken up the Crown. As long as you live, only you may be the one to call me. No mage may do it for you. You must take care, Marco Valdosta! You must have a care for yourself, and most especially, when you think it might be good to leave my lagoons and my islands. Should Venice need me in your absence, it will not have me, for only you can call me!"
"Yes, Lion," Marco replied obediently, feeling the burden of r
esponsibility settle on shoulders that stiffened to meet it. "I will remember. If I leave--it will be because there is no other choice, not only for me, but for Venice."
The Lion seemed satisfied. "You do not complain. Good. It does not seem a great sacrifice to me. I do not know why you humans are so itchy-footed. Now--time to put an end to this, before you--or I--come to like it all too much!"
* * *
The monster crawled towards the window, and Kat felt fear mixed with rage. It--she--was going to get away! Lucrezia had unleashed war in the streets, had killed men with her own hands or her own orders, had hurt Rafael and she was going to get away!
Not this time, little sister.
The golden, glowing hands over hers made her drop the pistol--made her reach to the side, and take a book from a shelf there--a very, very, heavy book, which must have weighed several pounds, encased in a silver-chased cover.
A Bible?
--and throw it.
It landed squarely on the monster.
There was a flash of light that was somehow black, a scream that cut through Kat's skull so that she clapped both empty hands over her ears in a futile attempt to block it out.
Then there was nothing.
Nothing but a silver-chased Bible in the floor, and a snaky black smudge on the marble.
Hmm. What's appropriate, I wonder? "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing?" "The Word is mightier than the blade?" Ah, I know! "Let Evil beware the Weight of the Word of God!"
There was--a golden laugh that washed through her, erasing the pain that the scream had left behind, and the feeling of uncleanliness. Then the presence was gone.
Kat shivered convulsively. Then . . . saw the candles in the magic circle suddenly snuff out, saw the air suddenly clear, and the glittering circles of power fade to nothing more than the silver and gold inlaid on the floor.
"Oh God--Marco!" She pushed forward past Luciano's body. Marco lay still and cold, with the blade still pressed into his breast. Katerina had the impression of a misty and insubstantial gold crown on his head. But the image faded almost instantly, and she had no time to think about it. She tugged at the hateful, fateful dagger. It fell and snapped as if it had been made of the finest Venetian glass. She stared. There was no blood. She ripped at his shirt, scattering buttons.
Marco's chest had a tiny, V-shaped cut on it--not a fingernail deep. Kat seized his wrists. She was shaking too badly to feel for a pulse. She pressed her ear to his chest. After a terrible instant of fear--silence!--then she heard his heart beating. Beating steadily.
Suddenly, Marco breathed deeply and put his arms around her. She clung to him like a drowning woman.
"I can never leave here, you know," he said softly. "He said so. I have to stay, or he can't protect Venice."
She burrowed against his chest, not giving a damn who he was. "I will never leave here then, either."
* * *
It was Benito who found them, nearly an hour later. He walked in and stared at the two of them.
"Thank God Claudia knew where this place was. Otherwise you two lovebirds might still have been here tomorrow. Tore the shirt off him, eh, Kat?" He was grinning broadly. "I must get Maria to have a little talk with you, girl. Tearing the breeches off him is much more satisfying for everyone."
"Benito!" roared Marco.
It was a real roar. The windows rattled.
Benito started at the sound, but the grin stayed on his face even if it became a little less broad.
But as he looked around, studying the room, the grin faded away. The bodies. The paraphernalia.
"So I didn't imagine the Lion," he said quietly. "I think you two had better get out of here, before someone else finds you. I've got news for the two of you; besides that, Dorma and Montescue are both searching frantically for you."
They got up. "Tell, Benito," said Kat. "What's happened?"
Benito managed another grin. "Well, lots of stuff. The Doge has stopped slipping into a coma, but he's really weak. He's offered his resignation, as he says the city needs a strong Doge in these times. I reckon Petro will be chosen, even as young as he is. A boat's just come in from Chioggia. Grandfather Dell'este and the Knights of the Holy Trinity and the boys in the Polestine forts made my father and his army head back to Milan." His good cheer faded. "But it looks as if Caesare Aldanto managed to escape."
"What?!" They both exclaimed simultaneously. "Damn him," added Kat, snarling.
Benito walked toward the nearest window, still covered with heavy drapes. "Let's get some light in here, what say?" He shrugged. "Nothing's ever perfect. Aldanto had a galley ready--in case things went wrong, I guess. That'd be just like him. When the fog cleared and the Lion's Shadow spooked them, he took advantage of it. Just in time, too. Petro Dorma is spitting mad about it. And he's looking for you pair of lovebirds." He looked quizzically at them. "So what are you going to do now?"
Marco took Kat's hands. "Kat. You realize that this doesn't change anything? I made my promises. I'm still married to Angelina."
Kat smiled. "Marco. I'll be your mistress if you want me. I'll be your friend if you don't. But I won't leave you again."
Epilogue ========
VILNA ----------------
The shaman raced frantically through the water, trailing blood from several gashes. Behind him, their jaws leaving their own red trace, came the vengeful undines.
Insofar as the shaman could think at all in his state of panic, he was sure he could elude his pursuers. He was well into the open waters of the gulf now, beyond the lagoon, and he was a better swimmer than the undines.
The thought was not especially comforting. Undines were not the only menace he faced. The shadow of the Lion, sweeping across the lagoon, had not only cast terror into the minds and hearts of Venice's enemies. It had also emboldened Venice--and its friends.
Among those friends, often enough, the tritons of the gulf and the open sea could be counted. And those, more fishlike than the undines, he could not outswim.
For that matter, the blood he was trailing might draw sharks as well. And if the sharks were no friends of Venice, they were no friends of his either.
Again and again, he cried out in his mind for the master to rescue him. Open the passageway! Open the passageway!
There was no answer. No passageway.
* * *
When he sensed the disturbance in the water, quite some distance away, the shaman veered aside. That was the sound of a ship breaking up and men spilling into the water. No threat to him, in itself--but it might draw tritons. Occasionally--not often--the sea creatures rescued drowning sailors.
But his master's voice, finally appearing, commanded otherwise.
Find the ship and its sailors. Seize the strongest one and bring him to me.
The shaman did not even think to protest the order. Partly, because he was too glad to finally hear his master's voice. Mostly, because he had never heard that voice groan with such a terrible agony. As if the master himself were trailing his own spoor of blood.
The shaman was indifferent to the master's pain. But not to the rage that pain had so obviously brought with it.
* * *
When the shaman found the sundering vessel, he had no difficulty selecting the strongest man of its crew. He was the only one who had not drowned yet; and was already sinking below the surface himself, gasping with exhaustion. Fortunately, his golden hair made him easy to find.
The shaman seized the collar of his tunic in his sharp teeth. He hoped the master would open the passageway soon. The drowning man was larger than the shaman in his fishform. He did not think he could tow him any great distance--certainly not while keeping the man's mouth above water. The shaman was nearing exhaustion himself.
But the master was apparently alert. A moment later the passageway formed. Gratefully, the shaman plunged into it, bringing his golden-haired burden with him.
* * *
Dripping water, but no blood now that the shape-change had clo
sed his wounds, the shaman lay sprawled on the floor of the grand duke's private chamber. Gasping for breath and feeling as if he could not move at all. Next to him, the golden-haired sailor gasped also. His eyes fluttered for a moment, blue gleaming through the lids, as the man began to return to consciousness.
The shaman sensed the huge form of his master looming over them. When he looked up, half-dazed, he was paralyzed still further by the sight. The grand duke's forehead gaped open; his face was coated with blood. The shaman could see his master's brains through the terrible wound.
The shaman had long since understood that his master was not really human any longer. Had he any doubts, that wound would have resolved them. No human being could have possibly survived such an injury, much less have been able to move and talk.
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