The light, the mists, thickened again in an instant, golden, sweet, the honey of the Jesolo, and held him so that he could not move.
Light blinded him, and light permeated him. It became him, and he felt himself change . . . felt a roaring in his ears that came from his own throat, felt great golden wings spring from his back and begin to grow and grow.
'It's been a long time,' said the great voice that was within him, but was not him. Huge muscles flexed and stretched. His golden hide twitched. He was no longer indoors. Instead, from the column-top, he looked out over fog-shrouded Piazza San Marco.
'So. A Valdosta again, is it?' said the great voice. 'Last time it was a Montescue. They're more bloody minded.' Marco felt his wings extend, though he was not the one to flex his muscles, stretch his claws, spread his wings.
'Who . . . who are you?' he asked timidly.
There was a roar of laughter, warm and full. 'I am you. And you are me. You have taken up the Crown as well as the Mantle--the first to do so in many centuries. And we are the Lion . . . the Lion of Venice, now. The Lion of Etruria that was.'
The back and shoulder muscles tensed, enormous wings beat down in a great surge of power, and the lion bounded up through the cloud and out into endless blue of the sky.
'The Lion of Saint Mark?' Marco looked down as the Lion looked down. Fog was streaming away from the downbeat of the great wings. Below he could already see the piazza, clear of all but the last wisps of it.
Again the Lion laugh-roared. 'Saint Mark! I nearly ate him. He wasn't even the Mark of your Four Books, you know. You little children, you've confused him with one of my Romans! A secret Christian, that Roman, a Christian who hid his fellows in the Jesolo--Marcus Fidelus--that was what they called him, Mark the Faithful, and you people managed to get him confused with the other! 'Hic requiscet corpus tuum-- On this spot your body shall rest.' It was meant as a threat, not a prophecy.'
The Lion roared with laughter, and Marco had to admit it was rather funny.
'But that Marcus was pious enough, and holy enough, and had the magic--the magic--even if up until that moment he didn't know it. I knew it. And you four little swamp thieves--Terrio, Montescue, Lacosto, and Valdosta-- you that had set out to rob him and instead became his converts, begged for his life. You were my people, and he won you! Won you fairly! But you were my people, and when you begged--what was I to do? I let him live, and gave him leave of my domain. Ha. Not only did he make free of my marshes, he also took seizin of me, to come and go and look and know. He became one of mine, save only that he was first and always the child of Christ. And in exchange that we be of one heart, and would I still hold sovereignty here and not be driven from the place by later mages of Christ, that my people be free to make their own choices in who they serve--he laid this form on me, this binding with the blood of the four families. I think it a good bargain. I steer my families and look after my lagoon, my marshes, and my islands. And sometimes, when the need is dire, they take the Crown and they steer me.' The great, laughing roar shook the body again. 'So. Steer me, Valdosta. What do we need to do?'
Some grasp of the great strength that was his to command dawned on Marco. 'First, let's get rid of all of this fog. It's not right.'
The Lion spiraled upward into the dawn sky, above the cloud. 'Yes. It is a magical one, a sending from a great and evil power. But this is my place. My lagoon, my marshes, and my islands. My power is stronger here.'
The great wings beat down. The wind beneath those wings was more than just air. It was bright with strength and the wild primal magic that was the Lion. Marco felt not only the beating of the wings but the rushing of blood to those great wing-muscles. He knew that the very arteries and veins of the Lion were somehow channels that nourished the reedbeds, the canals that carried the trade. And they all moved to the heartbeat of the sea. The Lion was Marco. It was also the soul of the lagoon. It was rich with the love of the generations of Venetians. Of many, many people, not just some few wealthy lordlings, but all of its people.
And, like them, the Lion treasured its liberty and independence.
The fog . . . the fog was no mere cloud. It was a thing of strangling darkness. Of hatred and domination, issuing from the bleak northeast. But although it might overwhelm cities and kings, it was feeble against that independence of spirit, of the love Venetians had given this place, this special place over the centuries. The Lion was a repository of all of that. Chernobog was great. But it was also a great distance away--and was now trying to extend its power to a foreign land. Foreign to Chernobog, not to the Lion. The Lion who was also Marco drew its strength from the land, the water and from many many small sources. Generations of them--brought together in the unity which was the Lion. Individually they were mere drops of water against stone that was Chernobog. Together, they were like the raging torrent . . . and Chernobog a mere loose cobblestone, flung willy-nilly before the fury.
Magical power surged like the sea with each great wingbeat, and below them the fog scattered and tattered. The last spell-shreds of Chernobog's power here tore. Venice and the lagoon appeared, the sun striking the red roofs and dancing brightly off the clear water.
'And now?' asked the Lion.
'Let us break up the fighting. Put fear into the hearts of those who want to destroy Venice.' Somehow Marco knew that was the right thing to say.
