The Carnelian Tyranny: Savino’s Revenge Page 6

  “Well, through the glass, it appears to be blue. In fact, everything looks blue.”

  He nodded. “Now I want you to imagine that you had always seen life through that blue glass. But then, one day, I tell you that the sugar is not blue, but brown. What would you say?”

  “I wouldn’t believe you. I wouldn’t even know what brown looks like since everything in my world had always been blue.”

  “Blue to you, but not necessarily true.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “With the blue glass in front of your eye, you are viewing the world through a warped lens. Your own interpretation that the sugar is blue has no bearing on the actual truth of the matter. Just because there is something impairing your vision does not alter its reality.”

  “Oh.”

  “And so I ask you again, what would you say if I told you the sugar was actually brown?”

  “I might believe you, but only if I trusted you.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So?”

  “So there is only ever one truth. Either I am deceiving you, or I am telling you the truth which would require faith on your part to believe what I say is true.”

  She shrugged. “But when I look through the glass, the sugar looks blue, so that’s what I’m going to believe. How can you blame me if I see things wrong?”

  Cozimo smiled, taking the glass from her hand. “You must remove that which impairs your vision.”

  “How?”

  “You must live by faith, not by sight. It means believing in something you cannot see.”

  “But isn’t that just a matter of perspective? I mean, if I blow out the candles, there is no blue or brown at all—just blackness.”

  He shook his head. “No. Your lack of perception does not alter the reality. Garon is the light by which we must see the world. Without His light, we are blind.”

  “But most people will still insist that it’s blue.”

  “That is of no consequence. Most people are wrong anyway. There is only one absolute truth—either it is blue or it is brown. It cannot be both depending on what one believes. Some people believe that Garon exists and some do not. Both cannot be right.”

  “It’s hard to believe in something you can’t see.”

  “Do not rely on your eyes. They will often play tricks on you. Learn to sense with your heart.”

  “Sense with my heart?”

  “Do you know the small voice in your head that nudges you just before you are about to do something you know you should not?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is the voice of Garon. His spirit is pulling you back, guiding you onto the right path.”

  “What about the people who don’t have a conscience? The ones that do seriously awful stuff?”

  “They have long since closed their hearts to Garon. They willfully choose not to be moved by Him. And yet, He is always there, waiting patiently in case they might return. But alas, once people start down the wrong path, most of them never turn back.”

  She traced a finger around the lip of the goblet, remembering the day she almost took her own life. That was a day in which she sensed with her heart, and she sensed Garon.

  “Up until a few months ago, I never believed that Garon even existed. Then something happened to make me realize that it could only have been the work of a higher power. I’m trying to have faith, but I still struggle with believing in something I can’t see.”

  He smiled. “Give it some time to grow. Like a fine vintage, it needs time and exposure to the elements in order to mature. But remember, you only need a small seed of faith to move mountains.”

  “A small seed is all I’m going on right now.”

  He gazed out the window. “Do you believe in wind?”

  “Of course.”

  “How do you know that it exists?”

  She pondered his question for a moment. “Well, I can feel it blowing through my hair.”

  “But you cannot see it.”

  “I can see it moving the branches in the trees. I can watch the birds as they fly against it. I can observe the clouds being blown across the land during a storm.”

  “Precisely. And so is it with Garon. You cannot see Him, and yet His presence is evident in the way He moves over, around and through people.”

  “But how do you know the scriptures are true?”

  “When I was young, I received a prophecy from a holy man that I have clung to my entire life.”

  He dug down into the pocket of his cloak and removed an old piece of brown woolen fabric with thick and thin white stripes, about three inches square. He held it up for her to see.

  “What is it?” she asked, taking it from him.

  “A promise.”

  “This is a promise?”

  “Yes. The man who gave it to me told me that I would not cross death’s door until I came face-to-face with the Deliverer. So, you see, the prophecy must come true in my lifetime.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  He shrugged his shoulders, folding it back up again and tucking it away. “If it does not, then my life has all been for naught.”

  “But what does that cloth have to do with the Deliverer?”

  He shrugged. “I do not know. But it represents a vow made to me more than sixty years ago.” He slowly rose to his feet, reaching for his walking stick. “And I do not take it lightly.”

  Marisa jumped to her feet, helping to steady him.

  “Well, I am afraid our time is up for today, my dear.”

  “Thank you, Cozimo. I always enjoy your lessons.”

  “As do I, Your Highness,” he said, his eyes twinkling. He bowed slowly, his wobbly legs struggling to keep him upright as he opened the door and headed down the corridor.

  Marisa watched the oaken door close behind him and sank back into her chair, thinking about everything that he had said. She stared down at the jar of sugar for a moment before lifting the cobalt glass to her eye. Had she been viewing life through a warped lens for the past eighteen years?

  Gently placing it on the table, she got up and strolled down toward the dining hall. Upon entering, she saw that the others were already seated around the table. She quietly took her seat across from Darian who eyed her carefully as she sat.

  Amidst the light luncheon conversations she remained silent, her thoughts still lost in the morning’s lessons. She toyed absently with the gleaming cutlery, staring into the burgundy depths of her wine goblet and daydreaming about the battles of her ancestors many years before.

  Lost in deep thought, she didn’t notice the concerned expression on Darian’s face as he quietly studied her from across the table.

  After lunch, Marisa stood up and pushed her chair into the table. Her eyes met Darian’s, but he was engaged in deep conversation with her uncle and couldn’t readily escape. She gave him a small smile and left the dining chamber, making her way down to the Jade Room. There hadn’t been much time for her to practice playing the piano in recent weeks and she had missed it.

  Entering the luxuriously-appointed lounge with walls and furniture covered in varying shades of the forest, she sat down at the hand-carved, rectangular-shaped piece of furniture that resembled an antique pianoforte.

  As her fingers tentatively brushed the dark wooden keys, the rich notes began to fill the room. She loved the way music lifted her spirits, especially on the days when the pressures of palace life seemed to close in on her. It was the method of escape that she preferred most, second only to riding out to Beauriél on Siena. During the last movement of the song, Darian’s tall frame filled the doorway as he stood and listened to the haunting melody.

  When the final notes melted into silence, he approached the piano and leaned over it, carefully studying her face.

  “You were uncommonly quiet during lunch and you seemed in a hurry to leave.” His rich baritone voice soothed her. “Is something the matter?”

  She pulled the lid down over the keys, resting her hands in h
er lap. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I had an intense philosophy lesson with Cozimo and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “What did you two talk about?”

  “Abbadon and the awful things that happened there. Petrus Fiore defeating Lord Berengar and the people losing their faith.”

  He nodded. “Oh, that.”

  “I didn’t have a clue about the dark history of that place. It creeps me out to think I slept in that haunted castle.”

  He moved around the instrument and sat next to her. “Yet another reason why I argued for you to stay in Andrésis.”

  She gave him a gentle shove. “Okay, that’s enough of the ‘I told you so.’ I can see I’m never gonna live that one down.”

  “But we still made it out alive.”

  “Yeah, I suppose.”

  He nudged her playfully. “Because you had me protecting you.”

  “True.” She reached under her skirt, pulling the dagger from its holster. “Speaking of protection—where did this come from?”

  He stopped, his eyes locking on the dagger. “My father gave it to me just before he died.”

  “Where did he get it?”

  “It belonged to Petrus Fiore.”

  “Is it the dagger?”

  “Are you referring to the weapon that killed Lord Berengar?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes, it is. One and the same.”

  She shook her head adamantly. “If it was your father’s, it must mean a lot to you. Please take it back.”

  “No.” He lifted his hands, refusing to accept it. “Your safety is far more valuable than some old dagger. Besides, King Petrus was your great-grandfather. That makes it your heirloom as well.”

  “I don’t deserve you. And I don’t think I ever will.”

  “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you,” he said, kissing the top of her head and pulling her closer against him.

  CHAPTER 7

  IMPRESSIONS

  When Marisa entered the grand library, Arrie was sitting in a large chair in front of the fire, examining his fingernails and waiting patiently for her. On the table in front of him was a large map of the Carnelian world rolled out in anticipation of their geography lesson. On the floor was a heavy basket filled with books and charts that he never failed to bring to each of their sessions.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said, panting. “I was with Darian, and we just, sort of—lost track of time.”

  He grinned amusedly, his blue eyes shimmering. “Yes, that is not entirely uncommon when one is in the presence of one’s fiancé.”

  She blushed. “It’s not what you think, Arrie.”

  “No, of course not,” he said, smirking. “Shall we begin, Your Highness?”

  “I liked it better when you called me cousin.”

  “You shall always be my cousin, dearest. But since you also happen to be the Princess Regent and soon-to-be Supreme Ruler, we must at least make some attempt to maintain the appearance that we are adhering to the rules of protocol.”

  “Whatever.” She plopped down in a chair, watching him carefully surveying the map and thinking about how much more he was than just a cousin to her.

  Since the day she had first tumbled into Lord Arrigo Macario’s life, he had quickly become her closest and most trusted friend. And although there was an age gap of more than six years between them, his infectious smile and baby blue eyes made him appear much younger than his true age of twenty-four.

  While Arrie’s rugged good looks, dark reddish hair and witty sense of humor had definitely come from the Macario side of the family, he had been fortunate enough to inherit his pragmatic, intelligent and down-to-earth nature from his mother.

  Watching him stroke his goatee as he studied the map, Marisa could easily imagine both her father and her uncle when they were younger. The Macario men were a good-looking bunch, but it was their unique brand of charisma that attracted only the best sort of women. Both of the Macario twins had possessed it, as did their sons Mark and Arrie. It made her wonder about Arrie’s beautiful fiancée, Astrid. Now that she was no longer on Earth, she would probably never get the chance to meet the beautiful Parisian, she thought sadly. She didn’t dwell on it long as Arrie soon interrupted her thoughts.

  “Now, before we study the stretch of land between Crocetta and Abbadon, please name the ten kingdoms.”

  “Ugh,” she groaned. “I hate pop quizzes.”

  “Come, come. Let us hear them.”

  She closed her eyes. “Uh, okay—Crocetta, Abbadon, Terama, Ravenna…”

  “Correct. Those are the northern and central kingdoms. Now name the southern kingdoms.”

  She stared at him blankly.

  “Where does the illustrious Macario family hail from?”

  “Terracina.”

  “Very good. And Terracina forms the southern region together with which other kingdom?”

  “Serrantina.”

  “Very good, Your Highness.”

  “Arrie—not to change the subject, but I’ve been wondering what the word Crocetta mean?”

  “It means ‘the way of the cross.’”

  “Why is it called that?”

  “There are different theories as to the meaning of the name, but the most commonly-held belief is that it is derived from its geographic position.”

  “Where is it on this map?”

  “Here.” As he pointed to a flourished asterisk at the center of the map, she bent down closer to examine the details. Scrawled in beautiful penmanship was the ancient spelling for Crocetta.

  “Now, imagine each of the ten capital cities is connected to the city at the opposite end.”

  With his forefinger, he drew four bisecting lines across the map between each of the cities. “If you drew lines between them, it would look something like a star. Crocetta is situated at the exact point where all the kingdoms intersect. In other words, at the point where they all cross.”

  “Okay…”

  “Now, name the two western kingdoms. And no peeking on the map!”

  She turned around, facing the other direction. “Bandaline, and—oh, I forgot the other one—”

  “It starts with a T.”

  “Trampoline?” She smiled sheepishly.

  “Close; it’s Tantaline. And the two eastern kingdoms?”

  Marisa sighed. “I can’t remember those at all.”

  After weeks of lessons about the ten kingdoms, she was starting to feel overwhelmed. The countries seemed to blend together, and she had a hard time keeping them all straight.

  “Your Highness, those two are the most important.”

  She stared at him helplessly.

  “Turn around and look at the map,” he answered finally. “The two eastern kingdoms are Drychen and Mychen.”

  “They were right on the tip of my tongue!”

  “Of course they were,” he added drolly, rolling up the map and placing an even larger scroll on the table. “Now, you have already seen much of these lands, but you may have forgotten some of the regional names. Let us see if you can identify them correctly.”

  He rolled out the parchment and placed lead paperweights on either side, revealing a detailed map of the Crocine Kingdom.

  “Show me.”

  “This is Castle Beauriél here.” She pointed to a dot on the map. “There’s the lake where we found the Wounded Hearts, so the Styrian Ice Caves must be somewhere here in these mountains.” She traced her finger along the main road between Crocetta and Abbadon.

  “Good, very good.”

  “This is the Mychen Forest where those horrible beasts chased us and I’m guessing that this green area here is the forest where you and Darian found me.” Her finger circled back around towards Crocetta in a wide arc. “This must be Andrésis right here.”

  “Excellent. You have correctly navigated Crocetta proper. Now, your task for this evening will be to study this map, and the other one, memorizing all the place names, roads a
nd landmarks by tomorrow. Do you have any questions?”

  “Yes,” she replied, staring at him pointedly. “How is any of this supposed to help me rule the country?”

  He smiled. “If one is to rule a country successfully, then one must have a solid knowledge of its people. And how does one obtain this knowledge? By studying the land where the people live. Land is everything to a man and, for many of us, it is the most valuable asset we will ever own. If you know the land, you have the edge. Know the land, know the people, have the power.”

  “Got it. I think.”

  She gazed back down at the map, studying it carefully for the next hour. Concentrating on the place names, she retraced their entire journey from Andrésis to Abbadon and back to Crocetta. Arrie rolled up the parchment, satisfied with her progress.

  “Your Highness, I shall have both maps delivered to your chambers, so please remember to study them again this evening.”

  A soft knock at the door interrupted him. It was his mother standing in the doorway. “I see that it is time for your protocol lesson,” he said with a wink. “From the best teacher in the kingdom, I might add.”

  Baroness Cinzia Macario smiled at him. The graceful, salt-and-pepper-haired woman waited patiently as her son gathered the maps together and placed them into the basket.

  “Good day, Your Highness,” Arrie said, nodding and bowing. Carefully heaving the basket up onto his shoulder, he stopped briefly to kiss his mother before heading out the door.

  In the years that she had grown up in Oregon, Marisa had been made to believe that her uncle’s wife was dead. She had often wondered why he had never remarried. It was only after she had returned to Carnelia that she discovered that her uncle had chosen to remain faithful to Cinzia even though they had been separated by different worlds.

  For much of her life, Marisa had missed having a mother and an aunt, but Cinzia was quickly becoming both to her. The gentle-spirited woman was the polar opposite of Alessio. Her uncle’s hot-headed temperament always managed to get the better of him, but since he had returned to Carnelia, Marisa had already noticed a significant change in her uncle. And she had no doubt that Aunt Cinzia was the reason.

  Although her aunt tried to make her lessons as pleasant as possible, she still found the etiquette and protocol training to be tedious and boring. But she also knew that, with one small faux pas, diplomatic relations could be severed, even by accident. Some of the relationships between the kingdoms were so strained that one small breach of protocol could quickly escalate into war.