Until now. Until now . . .
Now he knew what he was—the force through which the Protector, the Soul of Venice could work, a Soul that went right back through the Romans and to the first Etruscan fishermen who had plied the Jesolo. The Soul that now took the shape of the Winged Lion of Saint Mark, but who was older than even Dottore Marina could guess. And the Shadow he had seen on young Marco was not just the shadow of potential power, it was the Shadow of the Lion, showing that Marco—if he lived, if he grew into and accepted his power—would be the next to wear the Winged Mantle. Marco might even—Chiano was not sure about this yet—be the first to assume the Lion’s Crown as well, something which no one had done in centuries.
Now he knew why he had lived—because the Shadow had dispersed his attackers with the brush of its wings that called up terror, and called the undines up the canal to rescue him before the assassins could complete their business. Because the Shadow had told the undines to take him to Sophia, deep into the Jesolo, where he could live and regain his memories.
But there was no reason to follow Marco into the city, to go back. Was there? The boy had Harrow to protect him. He didn’t need Chiano, nor did anyone else.
Except—
Except for the stories that came drifting into the Jesolo like mist, like the echoes of bells from the city, the stories that spoke of the sinister and cruel acts of the Servants of the Trinity—
Who would burn you, if they could take you, Chiano—
And of a monster who prowled the waterways and killed—
And what business is that of yours?
The shadow of wings brushed through his mind, reminding him that—yes, it was his business. It threatened the city. It was not just politics, but evil, that had sent him into the canal that night, not merely to serve as a warning to those who might think to challenge it but to rid the city of its protector.
Dottore Marina would have scoffed and taken up the gauntlet. Chiano had come too close to death. Chiano was afraid.
The truth is—
The truth was, he didn’t know enough.
That’s easily remedied, some small inner voice told him. He sighed. Yes, it was—except he was afraid of the remedy.
No more softness!
He stood up abruptly, and jumped down off the raft. It was not quite sunset; there was still time for magic. Sophia paid no attention. By now, she was used to the way he would just get up and go off somewhere without a word.
Sophia was more than a little loco herself. Odd behavior meant little or nothing to her.
There were places, even in the Jesolo, where there was pure water. Springs bubbled up from beneath the marsh, rainwater collected—you could find it, if you knew where to look. Anyone who was friend to the undines could find it without difficulty at all.
It had rained last night. Chiano waded out onto a thread of a path that took him to a place among the hummocks where he had left a bowl to collect water. It would be fresh and sweet and pure—exactly what he needed for scrying, since he would use something other than the stregheria rite, which would surely pinpoint him to anyone who was looking for him.
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.