The Wolf Esprit: Lykanos Chronicles 3
Chapter Forty-Eight

The man looked at me, his melancholy eyes sharpening with their appraisal.

“This is His Majesty, Prince Marcus of House Adelchi of Veneto,” Duccio said, and he nodded I should bow before the man as he had. “May I present Esprit of the House Palatino?”

“Whose child?” Adelchi asked with genuine astonishment.

“He is the first of Father’s youngest children, Maximo and Gabriella. Esprit found them and came of age in France not two years ago.”

“But then, your family survives?” Adelchi asked, vigor returning to his voice. “Stand, child. Let me see.”

Adelchi took me by my chin to look into my eyes. I felt him penetrate my mind, entering my thoughts to replace his answer, and the world around me disappeared. He swept through my memories: Maximillian’s rescue, my life in the Forteresse du Roussade, Gabrielle’s hand on my brow as she comforted me, my abduction and torture. When Adelchi arrived at the point of my suffering, he stepped into the well of grief I bore for their loss. He pushed deeper, perhaps hesitant to believe the reason for my sorrow. They’d come for me, come to rescue me, and I’d led them to their doom.

Upon my ascension from the pit of Hell in Duccio’s arms, Adelchi withdrew from my mind. The memories faded away, and my wet eyes could see him again. He, too, was overcome, having experienced my undiluted grief.

“I met your grandfather once when I was your age,” he said, wiping my tears tenderly with his thumbs. “My family had already told me who he was. The ancient one, the Devil of Milan. The heretic who would not permit Christ to penetrate his heart. The monster was the last vestige of the wicked old republic, and I was never to accept such unholy ways. But I visited his home with my maker, the both of us sent on an errand of diplomacy. Father was to negotiate terms, and I was to be presented to the great Sempronio to request his blessing. It was pure politics, a gesture of respect among rulers. You see, everyone hated and feared your grandfather. But that fear resulted from his impossible power. He would not bend to the will of his neighbors or Christ, but more uniquely, he could not be bent.

“And what did I replace as Father presented me? Some titan of terrible strength, some paragon of evil who looked down his hellish nose to admonish me? Nothing of the sort. Their Devil was a gentle, kindly man with silver hair and affectionate pale blue eyes. He kissed my forehead and fed me from his table. He told me stories about his children and grandchildren. He asked me questions about myself like any grandfather would; could I ride a horse, had I fallen in love yet, could I read Latin, what stories did I know?

“I could read, I told him with enthusiasm, and he asked Father’s permission to give me a scroll, a story about Eros and Psyche, a myth from his age. But before the carriage was through the castle gates, Father took the gift and gave it to his man for disposal. ‘We do not read such things,’ he said with impatience. ‘Only the word of God.’

Father reconfirmed the disapproval he expected me to share, but it was too late—I’d already grown to love Sempronio.

Upon our return home, I set upon replaceing the scroll in secret, searching everywhere I could think. They would not burn it; even my family was superstitious about such things. The master could feel the disrespect of his possessions, they were sure.

“After weeks, I discovered the scroll in a vault under my family’s palace. And there, by the light of a single candle, I read it again and again, absorbing every word of the impossible tale. The mortal woman, Psyche, fair and admired by all men, caught the eye of Eros, the god of desire. When told by an oracle that Eros was nothing more than a winged serpent who would devour her, Psyche tested the prophecy. She cut Eros with a knife while he slept beside her, only to replace he was the god he claimed to me.

“‘Love cannot live without trust,’ Eros told her. Overcome by his infatuation and unwillingness to be apart from Psyche, he forgave her, took her as his bride, and begged Zeus to make her immortal, the goddess of beauty and love.

“The story overcame my mind. It was the finest thing anyone had given me, more important than all the riches given to me when my lycan senses came of age. Had Sempronio meant it to be a message to me? Was I to trust him so the love between us could live? More incredible, the master’s own hand penned the scroll. Everyone had told me Sempronio’s age was incalculable, and at once, I became obsessed with the idea he might well have created the story himself.

“Overcome, I wrote to him, professing my love of the tale and deep gratitude for his priceless gift. I asked him a battery of questions—I wanted to know his every thought about the lovers and their plight. Most importantly, had he known its author? Might he be its author?”

Adelchi released a long, measured sigh. It seemed the memory was almost too much for him to speak.

“My family found the letter before it ever reached your grandfather. The servant I entrusted with its delivery betrayed me to Father. I was too young to guard my mind, and even had he not had the proof in his hand, he saw the tale in my mind the moment he mentioned it. He sent me to endure the cleansing ritual of Sangue di Ferro as penance. Afterward, I lost my stomach for the matter and any bit of resistance my youthful mind still possessed.

Even long after Father was gone, and I was master of the Veneto, I never brought myself to write Sempronio to profess my love of his gift. I’d had endless opportunities to write him; indeed, I wrote him on many matters of state. When I learned of his death, I’d never felt more grounded to the finite nature of time that our wolf hides us from.”

Adelchi took my face in his hands and kissed my forehead.

“It means so much to me I could tell his children. That you, of all, should know the place Sempronio held in my heart. You both will always be welcome in my house.”

I was grateful for the man’s kind words but baffled by his sentiment. I’d expected anything but gentility from the people of this place. For a moment, I felt safe in his home. Might Venice be where I needn’t fear another lapse of Duccio’s power? This man, this Prince, seemed overtaken by his affection for me, and his demonstration made me wonder if these people were not part of the nightmare world of cruelty and blood I expected from lycan.

“Then you come for my help,” Adelchi said to Duccio.

“I do, Sir. I seek your support to reclaim my father’s home so that I may restore our family there, that his grandson may inherit it outside the whims of Duke Sforza.”

Duccio fell to his knee again.

“If Father’s home must fall to the hands of another, let them be yours, who has shown his legacy such unashamed tenderness. I would see Palatino belong to Venice if your Grace would wish it so.”

The Prince did not answer Duccio for a moment but held him in his stare, considering the proposal.

“I’ve many sons,” Adelchi began. “Some have left Veneto to start their own houses, others to join foreign packs at my discretion. Some live on my lands to help me administer the state. None have your education. The finest tutors from Paris or London could not provide them with the knowledge of the physical world il Maestro raised you to with. And only three have survived to know greater age than you. If you mean to pledge to my house, say it now.”

Adelchi turned to his secretary and bid him to stand and witness.

“Sir, I offer you my name and life,” Duccio said, bowing before the Prince. “Accept me into your house, and I’ll swear my being into your command forever.”

“Do not swear to me lightly, son, for I will hold you to your vow and destroy you should you fail to uphold your word.”

“I give myself to you without reservation, Sire,” Duccio answered.

“Then rise remade by my decree, Don Alfreduccio of the House Adelchi, Governor of the newly expanded western Veneto, and Lord of Castello Palatino.”

Duccio reached for Adelchi’s hand and kissed his signet ring. He then brought it to his forehead in a gesture of his mind’s devotion.

My heart raced at the implication. Duccio had done it. He’d walked into this foreign palace and somehow taken everything he’d hoped to win. He would not wait another lifetime to step foot in Sempronio’s home—it was now his by royal decree.

“From this day forward, you will call me Master,” Adelchi said as Duccio rose. “Understand, I don’t wish to take il Maestro’s place in your heart. But you are my apprentice now and will respect me as such. In the new year, after arrangements are made, you will take my youngest daughter, the Princess Guccia, as your bride.”

For a moment, I did not understand what Adelchi meant by the statement. But then I felt the first pangs of insecure jealousy.

“Upon your marriage, I will raise you to the station of Prince, and you will call me Father—your children will call me Grandfather. Once the bond of matrimony is made, you will lead my forces to retake the lakes region, seize Palatino from Sforza, and expand my realm, which you will govern.

“It is unlikely you’ll ever be called upon to succeed me. It’s even less likely someone from this family would be called upon to succeed Emperor Vitellius. But by now, you understand the unknowable whims of time.”

“Master,” Duccio answered in agreement.