He cast his circle three times three, with each element—salt for earth, incense for air, a candle-flame for fire, and water. Then he traced it again, three times three, with his ritual white dagger, made, not of human bone as the Paulines claimed, but the leg bone of a fine buck-deer. And again, three times three, with the black dagger, carved of obsidian-glass from the heart of a volcano. When he was done, a faintly glowing border followed the outermost line of his circle.
He took up the bowl of water and whispered a blessing over it, then held it up to the east. “Guardian of the spirits of the water, guardian of the creatures of the water, I summon thee from thy dwelling place in the Uttermost East to stand as Watchtower, to witness my rites and guard my work.”
As he flicked a single drop of water towards the east, a pillar of blue light sprang up out of nowhere, reaching from floor to ceiling, as if it was some arcane support pillar.
He turned to his right, to the west, and took up the candle. “Guardian of the spirits of fire, guardian of the creatures of fire, I summon thee. . . .”
When his invocations were complete, four tall pillars of light—blue, red, green, and yellow—stood within his glowing circle, which was now a glowing floor-to-ceiling wall stretching in a curve along the curve of the painted circle on the rug. But his protections were not yet complete, for now he would do what no Christian mage ever dared. He would invoke his deity. The Goddess, not the God—he had a sense that the monster he had seen might once have been linked in to some northern deity—Odin, perhaps, or Thor. It might be . . . impolitic . . . to invoke the Lord at the moment. Let Him decide whether or not to act on His own; there was no point in trying to force His hand.
He faced the altar, with the triple-moon sculpture of hammered bronze, and the ancient Cretan axe that was also Her symbol. “Lady of the night, Lady of the moon, you who have been Isis, Astarte, Tiamet, Diana, Artemis, Aphrodite, Rhiannon, Inana, I call and invoke thee to witness my work and guard my rituals—”
He didn’t necessarily expect a response; you could invoke all you wanted, but whether or not She chose to bless you with Her presence was up to Her. But this time—
This time, with no warning at all, the inside of his circle was flooded with powerful, silvery light. The Lady of the moon not only approved, but She was minded to take a hand.
Thank you, he whispered, feeling much humbled, and bent over his scrying bowl. He had to find Kat. Then he had to fence her in with a subtle web of power that would cut any thrice-damned Odin-creature to ribbons before it even knew the protections were there.
And then—well, he would see what occurred to him.
* * *
He was startled by a knock on the door. He wasn’t expecting any visitors at all. But, since the knock had consisted of the special signal he’d told his few confidants to use—two short, two long, three short, one long—he went to the door and opened it immediately.
He was more than startled to see Marco standing there. “How—”
“Rafael told me,” said Marco. The boy’s face seemed full of suppressed anguish. “Please, Chiano—I have to talk to you.”
* * *
After Luciano heard what Marco had to say, he rubbed his face wearily. “Is happiness so much to ask for?” he murmured.
But he did not dwell on the matter. He had asked the Goddess that question many times, in his life. He would ask it no longer.
No more softness!
“Marco,” he said quietly, “Venice is in the gravest danger. At such a time, you must think of your responsibilities. You don’t even know this canaler-girl’s surname. You know nothing about her family—or even, to be honest, she herself.”
Marco’s face was set in a stubborn cast. Luciano sighed. “Speak to the girl if you must, before you make your final decision. But I will tell you this, boy. I can think of nothing you could do which would strengthen Venice more than to weld Valdosta reborn—and Dell’este—to the house of Dorma.”