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 closed 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.
“I must have food,” hissed the grand duke, in a voice almost hoarse from screaming. “Now.”
Glancing toward the great stove against the wall of his master’s private room, the shaman could see that the fire was already burning in its belly. Drops of blood spilled from his master’s head wound were sizzling on the side of the huge fry pan. The cleavers and flensing knives were ready on the butcher’s table nearby.