Dottore Marina did not need to go through an elaborate ritual to invoke and erect a Circle of Power and Protection anymore; he just thought a few key words, and it sprang up around him. Invisible to most eyes, and only barely visible to those with the Inner Sight, it ringed him with the Inner Fires that would screen his probing from those watching for magic. Holding his hands over the bowl of pure water as he squatted beside it in the dying light of day, he breathed another invocation, and watched patiently. As the last of the sun vanished, and the first rays of the moon touched the surface, it misted over, then cleared, showing him the once-familiar canals and walkways of his city.
Show me the threat, he commanded silently. Show me the peril to my city.
He had hoped to see nothing. But the water misted and cleared immediately, and showed him, in rapid succession--a voluptuous woman with red-gold hair--
Lucrezia Brunelli--
--her brother, Ricardo--
--a sour-faced, fanatic-eyed man in a cassock with three crosses emblazoned on it--
An abbot of the Servants? But who? I don't recognize him--
A woman in the habit of a nun of the Servants.
Whose eyes were--lifeless. Then something looked out of them.
At him. And saw him. And knew him!
And last, before he could react to that flicker of malevolent recognition, the darkened canal, with something swimming below the surface.
He bent nearer, closer to the water, trying to make out what it was.
It was coming out.
It sent one clawed hand, then another, to fasten into the stones of the canalside. Then it heaved itself up out of the water faster than a striking adder, and it turned, and it looked at him!
He screamed, and involuntarily thrashed at the water, breaking the spell. Just in time.
One moment more, and it would have been through the water-mirror, meant only for scrying, and at his throat, feeding on his life.
And his soul.
Reflexively, Luciano called up all of his defenses until he lay, panting, within a cocoon of power. Oh, anyone looking would See him now--but it didn't matter. Not after that. They knew he was out here, and it wouldn't take long for them to find him. How many undines would die protecting him?
For a very long time he couldn't think, he could only sit and shiver with fear that turned his bowels to water. As the moon climbed higher in the sky, he sat, and shook, and even wept unashamedly.
Not to me! This can't come to me! I'm too old, too tired--
But on his shoulders rested the Winged Mantle. He felt it, though it was invisible. There was no one else. Marco was untrained and unaware and could not take the Mantle in any case until Chiano was dead. The Mantle had come to him on the death of his predecessor--irony of ironies, it had been a little Hypatian priest-mage, out of a bastard branch of one of the four Old Families, and not one of the Strega.
No, Chiano was the bearer, for the good of Venice. If there had been anyone in all of Venice fit to wear it, it would have gone to him, or her, the moment his body hit the water, senseless, and he would have died. Extraordinary measures had been taken to ensure that he did not. Marco no doubt had the Mark, even then, but he hadn't the training, had no one to train him, and in any case was too young for the weight. The weight of the Mantle, even, much less the Crown.
His denial turned to a plea. Please--not now. Please, not to me.
But the answer was still the same. There was no other.
The night had never seemed so dark. . . .
Then, the shadow of a wing brushed him, and a quiet filled him. He made his mind very still, then, and waited.
There is no other, my child, said a voice as deep as the seas, as vast as the night sky. But I will be with you. Your soul will survive.
His soul . . . not his body, perhaps, but his soul.
It was enough; enough for him to find a small scrap of courage left, to drag together the rags of his sense of self, and to find a little more courage, a little more heart. And finally, what was left of his dignity.
He dismissed his protections with a word, and walked back to what had been his home, and would not be for much longer. Sophia looked up as he rejoined her on their combined rafts. Her eyes widened a little, as if he somehow looked different, now.
Perhaps he did.
For a moment he gazed out over the water towards the city, towards his fate.
"It's time, Sophia," he said at last. "It's time to go back."
Sophia smiled at him, shifting the wrinkles. And shook her head. "It's time you went back, Chiano. But this is my place, now," she said with finality.
Chapter 42 ==========
After he lowered his pack onto the cot which would henceforth serve him as a bed, Eneko Lopez heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank God," he murmured, as his eyes made a quick survey of his new living quarters. The survey was very brief, for the simple reason that there was very little to survey in the first place. The room was tiny, as small as any cell he had inhabited in his years as a monk. Except for the cot and a small chest at the foot of it which would serve to store his few belongings, the only other item of furniture was a writing table in front of the room's one small window and a chair. Other than that, the room was bare except for a crucifix hanging on the wall above the cot.
"I'll miss the library," he murmured. "But nothing else."
His two companions smiled. Diego motioned with his head toward the open window. "The smell from the canals is bad at times, here in the Ghetto."
"Not half as bad as the stench in Casa Brunelli," growled Pierre. "What did you give as your reason for changing quarters?"
"I simply told Ricardo Brunelli that my work in the Ghetto had progressed to the point where I needed to live there. Which is true enough, as far as it goes."
"You should have--"
"Oh, Pierre--do stop!" snapped Eneko. "We have enough problems on our hands without offending the Brunellis unnecessarily. Any more than I have already by spurning that infernal Lucrezia's constant advances."
Pierre, as usual, was stubborn. " 'Infernal' is right," he growled.
"Pierre . . . please. You admit yourself that you've never been able to detect any sense of a witch about her."
"You're making too much of that," retorted Pierre. "My talent has definite limits, Eneko. What I said was that I could not detect any demonic possession in the woman. That's what a 'witch' is, after all. That does not mean she can't be as vile as any of Satan's minions."
"That the woman is evil I don't doubt for an instant," replied Eneko, shrugging. "But we have not a shred of evidence to think she is in any way connected to the events in Venice which brought us here. And, given the position of the Brunellis, I can see no logical reason why she would be."
"You yourself have said 'evil needs no reason,' " pointed out Pierre.