She paused for a moment. "I will not attempt, here and now, to explain the theological complexities of the matter. In the millennium that has gone by since, their tradition has become known as 'Petrine,' just as that of Saint Augustine has been called 'Pauline.' But, as is so often true, the names obscure as much as they reveal. Both creeds within the church are more like umbrellas than fences. Do not forget that if Sachs was a Pauline, so was the courageous young prince who broke the back of Chernobog's monster—and his companion Erik belongs to the Gaelic creed, which has its own history and doctrines altogether."
Her mouth grew a little tight. "Nor should you think for a moment that simply because a man calls himself a 'Petrine' that he is not capable of the vilest sins and crimes."
The Sibling pointed to the next panel, which showed the two, back-to-back. "There you see Hypatia writing, developing the philosophy, and Chrysostom, brilliant orator that he was, expounding it. He provided most of the driving force, she—when necessary, which it often was—provided the diplomacy. Because of that alliance, Hypatia and Chrysostom were able to formalize a doctrine of compassion and acceptance that emphasized wisdom and learning. But—"
She chuckled. "Not without a multitude of clashes, and even more in the way of compromises. And both of them left their own traditions, which are somewhat distinct. I represent one, Father Eneko Lopez another. The Church needs both, you know."
The Sibling turned away from her contemplation of murals. "All of this is the basis of the core tenet of the Hypatian order within the Petrine wing of the church. Which, since you choose to come to this church, I assume you are in sympathy with. Saint Hypatia gave to us that all men and women of good will, ultimately worship the same God, no matter what form they attempt to place on the unknowable. Whether they are Christian, Jew, Parsee or Hindu, Strega, Muslim, or even outright pagans."
"And what has this to do with my marrying Marco?"
"You would hardly say he was not a man of good will?"
"Of course not."
"And the Lion of Saint Mark? The Guardian of Venice? We of the Hypatian order know it well. Would you agree that it is a creature of good will, of love?
Sudden tears filled Kat's eyes. "It loves this place, these marshes and its people . . . I see. Yes. Thank you. Thank you."
"It is a pleasure." The Sibling patted her gently. "I foresee yet another union, a meeting of minds and spirits."
Kat laughed, a slightly watery sound. "Marco can do the diplomacy."
* * *
In the end, the thing did have its own momentum, and Kat and Marco were carried, not along with it, but riding atop it.
It began with a pair of processions of gondolas that carried her and Maria from Casa Montescue, and Marco and Benito from Casa Dorma, to meet at the Piazza San Marco and disgorge their contents in front of the waiting crowds.
Kat, veiled from head to toe with the finest of silk gauze, saw everything through a sort of fog. The veil was white, but the overgown of her dress was as blue as the Med on a sunny day, and so stiff with bullion and pearls it could easily have stood by itself. The flower-crown that surmounted it surrounded her in a second mist of the perfume of roses and lily of the valley.
Kat had a sudden image of herself, from two years before, leaping into the canal to avoid a Schiopettieri sweep—wearing this outfit. She'd have gone down like an anchor! Not even quick-thinking Benito could have saved her.
The image almost caused her to burst into open laughter. As it was, she couldn't help but continue the procession with her face wearing a grin which, she suspected, was quite unsuitable for the solemnity of the occasion.
Fortunately, there were plenty of things to distract her. They were met by two sets of minstrels, who serenaded them with love songs as they made their way in twin processions to the basilica. And the mobs of Venice, who could be so unruly when they chose, parted like the Red Sea for them without a murmur—and kept their chatter and cheering down to where she could hear the minstrels telling her of the delights awaiting her.
Marco's procession arrived at the basilica first, of course. He was supposed to await her at the altar, so she took her time, trying to move like Francesca, with a willowy, gliding walk that would make her seem to slide along without having any feet. She was very conscious of the Lion on his pedestal as she passed him; was this something more than a statue? She thought she felt his golden gaze on her, warm and benevolent, as she passed by.
She had thought it would take forever to cross the piazza. It seemed to take no time at all. She had thought she would feel pressed in by all the people; instead, she felt as if she floated on their goodwill.
The minstrels left them at the porch of the basilica, and from within came the sweet voices of children, singing. She held up her head, and saw the path to Marco lying straight ahead of her, and if she did not fly up it, it was through no fault of hers.
She went through the Nuptial Mass as in a dream, hands that wanted to reach for his clasped demurely in front of her. But finally, finally, came the moment when Eneko Lopez stepped forward with his sober black robes enlivened by a blue stole, and she and Marco rose from their places, and he raised the veil with shaking hands and put it tenderly over her head and they knelt together, hands joined at last beneath Eneko Lopez's, for the blessing.
And it was at that moment, when she thought that her heart could not hold another drop of happiness, that a faintly glowing paw of golden mist placed itself atop the hand of the priest.
You will be happy, little sister. It was not a wish, it was a prophecy. And her heart rose, singing.
Chapter 18
Manfred whistled softly. "Holy Mother! See that blonde, Erik? The original paps of Anu, I swear."
Erik determinedly did not look up from the table. Ogling all the available—and, for that matter, all the unavailable—women of the world was Manfred's specialty, not his. "It is impolite to stare, Manfred. Women don't like it."
Manfred snorted. "Then why do they wear clothes like that? Anyway, Erik, you've got have a look. I'll swear she is one of those Viking Valkyries come to fetch you after all."
Despite all his best intentions, Erik did look.
And was trapped. There were occasional blond heads in Venice. A few Lombards, and travelers from further afield. But this woman was a true Scandinavian blonde, her great cascade of hair straight and fine and so pale as to be almost white. Her face, too, spoke of the northlands: the skin milk-white with blossomed cheeks, high cheekbones. And, as Manfred had pointed out, she had a magnificent figure. Despite himself Erik caught his breath and stared.
Manfred laughed coarsely. "It is impolite to stare at her tits, isn't it, Erik? You want me to organize a meeting for you? A quiet little alcove somewhere. I'll distract the bodyguards. And in this case, my friend, they really are bodyguards."