Marco sighed, and shook his head, despair once again pressing down on him. “No. We have more men, but Badoero and Caesare are just too damned good. And they have the certainty of more men coming. Kat’s grandfather got the message off to Trieste—if that works, at least we won’t have to deal with the rest of the Knots. Manfred and Erik and Lopez rode off to try to save the Polestine forts from that nun. We won’t know for some time whether Sforza is on his way here with the Milanese. In the meantime, we’re fighting fires—and each other, often enough—in this damned fog.”
Luciano’s lips thinned with anger. “It is indeed a ‘damned fog.’ It is caused by Chernobog, working through someone here in Venice. Lucrezia Brunelli, I would think, is the only one powerful enough to do it alone. But she’s supposed to have left the city, so perhaps it is several mages working together. The only good thing about it is that it’s taking nearly all of their energy. Weather magic is hard, expensive magic.”
“They’ve obviously got gold to burn,” said Marco bitterly.
“The expense I refer to is of magical energy,” said Luciano tiredly. “And what I have been doing is also—expensive. I had hoped to avoid this, but it seems we have little choice . . . I will perform a summoning. If it works, it will save us. Save Venice. But it calls, of all things, for one of the Case Vecchie blood. One of the longi. And only four families are listed. Two are no more. The other two are Valdosta and Montescue.”
“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.”