The Carnelian Tyranny: Savino’s Revenge (2 page)

CHAPTER 1

CONCLAVE

Who does that Savino da Rocha think he is, summoning me in the middle of the night like
this?

Dastar Raniero’s face bore an angry scowl as he trudged through the thick layer of snow that covered the ancient cobblestone streets. The wiry, sturdy legs that had once carried him to the ends of the world now faltered on the steep road, yet another reminder that he was starting to show his
age.

Reaching the castle’s main entrance just as the bells of Abbadon proclaimed the midnight hour, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure that he wasn’t being followed. Although there was no one in sight, he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that he was being watched. Perhaps he had only imagined the shadow following him through the city. He stared up through the iron
bars.

Bathed in fog and reflecting the eerie light of a full moon, the rocky fortress appeared even more sinister than he had remembered. Built on ancient foundations that had been embedded into the rock of a mountain, the castle’s turrets jutted up like daggers pointing toward the sky. Icicles hung from the railings of the walkways above the ramparts like dragon’s teeth bared at anyone daring to e
nter.

Seeing that the gatehouse was empty, the graying nobleman slammed an angry fist against the portcullis. Savino’s warriors were probably huddled around a fire somewhere, swapping war stories and chugging ale, not caring one whit that he was
late.

Removing the dagger from his belt, he pounded the stock impatiently against the iron bars, peering into the courtyard for any sign of movement. An enormous soldier dressed in the heavy winter uniform of the Abbadon Warrior Guard emerged from the stables and lumbered over to the gatehouse, glaring at him in annoyance. He slid the metal rod aside to release the crank and turned the giant wheel. The iron portcullis inched upwards, the toe-curling noise of metal-scraping-metal announcing his late arrival to the entire
city.

Raniero breathed on his hands to warm them. Convinced that the soldier was moving slowly on purpose, he stared at him coldly, cursing the night under his breath. He ducked under the gate before it had been fully raised and jogged to the oaken entrance of the Knight’s Hall. He was in luck. It had been le
ft unlo
cked.

The door squeaked on its hinges as he entered the grand foyer. The only source of light was a lamp on a side table, but it made little difference. Even if it had been the peak of summer, one hundred flaming torches could not have penetrated the darkness that permeated the castle’s chambers and corri
dors.

Dusting the snow from his armor and stomping the slush off his boots, he cursed again. He shut the door behind him and glanced both ways, the metallic clang echoing down the empty corri
dors.

No
one.

Gazing around at the hostile gray walls, haunting memories screeched through his mind, and a shiver rippled down his spine. The last time he had entered this godforsaken place had been years ago. Much had happened since he had been gone, but, standing here now, it was almost as if time at Abbadon Castle had stood s
till.

He strode through the vacant Knight’s Hall toward the northern wall where a thin crack of light shone under the door. The meeting had already begun. He tried to turn the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. He pounded his dagger against the door and, after a delay of several seconds, someone finally unlatched it from the other
side.

As the door swung open, a thick cloud of burning incense wafted out into the corridor, its pungent smell turning his stomach. He entered the chamber and closed the door behind
him.

In a tense, boardroom-like atmosphere, a formidable group of men sat around a large slate table, their swords and weapons hung on racks behind them. Clad in elegant, yet functional, suits of armor and heavy cloaks that kept them from freezing even in the coldest of winters, the mismatched array of grim faces stared at Ran
iero.

Without a word, he pulled out the only empty seat, placing his dagger on the rack behind it. He settled into the plush velvet chair and crossed his arms, raising his chin slightly to meet the gaze of his host, who was sitting at the other
end.

The striking blond man drummed his fingers calmly on the table, watching the latecomer in stony silence. His tall, slender frame was accentuated perfectly by an elegant blue tunic and black cloak that could only have been crafted by the finest tailor in the kingdom. With a strong, angular jaw, fair skin, and high cheekbones, the Count Savino da Rocha was often described by others as charmingly handsome. However, as Raniero came face-to-face with the piercing blue eyes of his former protégé, he was reminded that the young man’s attractive exterior concealed a chilling darkness under the surface. Hardened lines in his expression hinted at his ruthless nature, making him appear much older than his twenty y
ears.

“Lord Raniero, how kind of you to join us,” Savino said, his voice dripping with sar
casm.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I was unavoidabl
y de—”

“I would thank you to address me by my proper t
itle.”

Raniero clenched his jaw. “I beg your pardon,
Your Royal Highness
. My deepest apologies for my mis
take.”

Savino shot him a warning glance, continuing. “Now that we are all assembled, we may begin. After my father’s passing some time ago, I inherited all titles in his possession; one of them being the successor to the Crocine throne and, by law, the Supreme Ruler of Carnelia. However, at this very moment, there is an imposter occupying my throne. The coronation is set to take place in the capital city in just a few weeks, and the time to strike is
now.”

He paused for effect, rising to his feet and strolling around the room with his hands clasped behind his back. “I shall seize the throne by all means possible, but I must have your assurances that each of you stands behin
d me.”

“Here, here,” the men shouted, banging their fists on the table in a show of sup
port.

Savino stopped and crossed his arms, waiting for the noise to die down before continuing. “The young woman and my cousin have been conspiring against me. Even now they hold Lady Matilda hostage in Crocetta and will not allow me to see or even contact her. Dear gentlemen, that in itself is grounds for
war.”

The noise grew loud once again as they banged on the table in protest, nodding to each other in agree
ment.

He held up a hand, silencing the commotion. “If we are to rule Carnelia the way our fathers and grandfathers ruled before us, then we must end the domination of the Fiore dynasty and that of the Order of the Crimson Knights. They are the last stronghold that remains against the future we envision for Carn
elia.”

“The Crimson Order is doomed!” a thin, elderly man with a gray beard sho
uted.

“The Crimson Knights control each of the ten kingdoms, and they must be rooted out,” Savino said. “I have set a plan in motion that will exterminate the knights from the Crocine Kingdom. Each of you, however, shall be responsible for the cleansing of your own king
doms.”

A gaunt, silver-haired gentleman with a prominent nose and wrinkly face rose to his
feet.

“Pardon my skepticism, Your Highness, but what about the kingdoms not represented here?” He gestured to the men sitting around the table. “While I am confident of my ability to dispose of all knights in the Mychen kingdom, what are we to do about all the ot
hers?”

Across the table, a portly man with salt-and-pepper hair s
tood.

“I concur with King Ratticles. The Crimson Knights of Drychen are all but extinct, but I cannot control what happens outside my bor
ders.”

“King Ratticles, King Armentrois, I appreciate your concern,” Savino said, lifting his hands to reassure them. “But by joining the warrior forces and the Apollyon Order together, we shall form an invincible army that will be capable of destroying every last Crimson Kn
ight.”

He wheeled around and strode over to a wooden desk in the corner where a large document had been spread out, its edges curling up at the corners and its wax seal br
oken.

Staring down at the graceful calligraphy on the parchment, Savino’s eyes stopped on the elegant signature at the bottom. His face twisted into an angry scowl as he grasped the document with both hands and held it up for them to
see.

“Is this what they expect me to sign? Am I to just lay down my arms and give up my th
rone?”

A few of the men shifted uncomfort
ably.

“I shall not!” he roared, the spittle flying from his lips. “This shall be my response!” He tore the parchment from top to bottom in one swift stroke. Ripping it again and again, he placed the pieces of torn paper into a pile, dusted off his hands and gazed intently into the stoic faces around the t
able.

“Make no mistake, gentlemen, I shall not be mocked. These worthless scraps of paper shall be returned to the traitors. They shall pay for insulting His Majesty King da R
ocha.”

The men rose to their
feet.

“Long Live the King! Long Live the King!” they chanted, banging loudly on the table. Outside the door of the antechamber a large, cloaked figure slipped down the corr
idor.

He had heard en
ough.

CHAPTER 2

AFFINITY

In the upper western courtyard of Crocetta Castle, Marisa MacCallum squinted into the mid-morning sun as it popped between the clouds for a few brief seconds. Her thick velvet gown, heavy cloak and layers of stiff undergarments were enough to keep her legs from freezing, but her normally peachy cheeks were already pale from the
cold.

She glanced up at the sky and sniffed the air. It smelled like snow. From the look of the thick clouds hovering high above the citadel, Crocetta would be covered in white by the end of the
day.

Okay, f
ocus
.

Her breath escaped in a visible puff as she pulled another arrow from the quiver and placed it against the cleft of her longbow. She clutched the string between her forefinger, middle finger and thumb, drawing it back slowly until she felt its tautness against her jaw. A long strand of chestnut hair escaped from the hood of her cloak and drifted in front of her eyes, distracting her from the target some thirty yards away. She pushed it behind her ear and closed one eye, concentrating on the black diamond in the very ce
nter.

Releasing the arrow, she watched it shoot across the courtyard and pierce the outermost edge of the target. “I’m never going to get this,” she groused in near-perfect Crocine. “Something’s not right with my
aim.”

“There is nothing wrong with your aim, Princess,” said a calm, masculine voice beside her. “You have improved much in the last three weeks. If you continue to work on your technique, I guarantee you shall be hitting the center every
time.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked hopef
ully.

“I would
never
lie to Her Highness,” he declared sole
mnly.

Noticing his playful smirk, Marisa swatted at him, laughing in spite of herself. “Oh, Bruno! How am I supposed to take you seriously when I can’t tell if you’re being truthful or just tea
sing?”

“I always tell the truth, Princess.” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “And the truth is, you look ravishing this mor
ning.”

She waved him off, embarrassed. “You always say
that.”

“And it is true each time I mentio
n it.”

With captivating brown eyes, a devilish grin and broad, muscular shoulders that narrowed down to a trim waist, Cavaliere Bruno Nestore was Marisa’s War Counselor and every young woman’s dream. At twenty-eight, the sandy-haired warrior already had several battles under his belt. The youngest man ever to earn the rank of Paladin Knight, Bruno had risen from an obscure teen to one of the most celebrated heroes of Crocetta in just a few short years. And, together with his boyhood friends Prince Darian and Lord Domenico, he was regarded as one of the kingdom’s most eligible bachelors. Although he took each opportunity to reinforce his image as a shameless flirt with the ladies, nothing took higher priority in his life than his duty as a sword
sman.

His reputation with the ladies was surpassed only by his reputation with the sword, the latter not escaping the palace’s notice. The evidence of the court’s high regard for his special talents manifested itself when Bruno was charged with the task of instructing Marisa and Mark in the art of self-defense. From the moment Darian asked him to train them, Bruno took over the command of their daily protection detail. Their safety and security became the most important duty of his life, and the level of trust the palace had bestowed upon him was a source of great p
ride.

Although Bruno always maintained the appearance of formal propriety while they were in the company of others, the handsome warrior never missed an opportunity to flirt with the young monarch in private. The mischievous twinkle in his eyes betrayed his rebellious spirit and the irrepressible desire to breach etiquette. With all things being equal, he was just the sort of man she would have fallen for before she had met Da
rian.

“You know, I think my ring is the problem,” she said, admiring the indigo-colored stone on her finger. It was her most treasured possession and the closest link to the mother she barely remembered. “I can’t grip the string correctly when I’m wearing it. I’ll take it off next time we prac
tice.”

“I do not think that would be wise,” said a booming voice behind her. “You would probably just lose it a
gain.”

“Darian!” she exclaimed. Thrusting her bow into Bruno’s chest, she spun around and hurried over to
him.

Dressed in a grey fitted tunic, dark blue breeches, knee boots and a long black cloak that lightly brushed the ground, Darian’s massive frame closed the distance in just a couple of long str
ides.

“Good afternoon, my love,” he said, gazing hungrily at her lips but gently pecking her on the cheek ins
tead.

She frowned. “What was
that
supposed t
o be?”

His lips curled into an amused smirk, but he didn’t an
swer.

“A man knows when he is not wanted,” Bruno said, dipping a quick bow and grinning knowingly. “Your Highnesses, if you would please excus
e me.”

He bent to kiss her hand, winking as he turned to leave. Darian moved up to slip his arms around her waist, engulfing her with his broad shoul
ders.

“Still trying to impress my princess, is he? Perhaps he needs a gentle reminder that you are already spoken for.” He watched Bruno as he walked away, waiting until the brawny man glanced back before quickly covering her lips with his
own.

Warmth radiated from his lips and traveled to her heart, sending tingles through her limbs. Her hand explored the coarseness of his hair, moving down to stroke the rough surface of his jaw as their lips moved against one another. She giggled between their kisses, her hands closing around his neck. His hands descended to the small of her back, pulling her against him and claiming her fully as his
own.

Abruptly, he drew back, his eyes glimmering in the sunlight as he tried to catch his breath. “So, my love, how are your survival skills coming a
long?”

Her jaw dropped. “Really? After a kiss like that,
that’s
what you’re thinking?” She searched his eyes, their color reminding her of a pine forest on a misty mor
ning.

With his dark hair, lightly-bronzed skin and charming smile, Darian Fiore was like no other man she had ever met. Although he was a cut above all the other guys back in her hometown of Jacksonville, Oregon, he was by no means perfect. He could be controlling at times and had the tendency to be domineering, but his love for her far outweighed any of his imperfections. He was the kind of man that every woman could only dream about. And while she was content with her outward appearance, there were always other women in the palace who were more beautiful than she. Although she would never admit it to anyone, she was secretly afraid of losing him to another. But the level of devotion he was constantly demonstrating toward her drove out the insecurities that arose from time to time. He was the most perfectly imperfect man she had ever met, and deep down, she never truly felt as if she deserved
him.

“Actually, I was thinking of something completely different, but I shall not mention it until after we are married,” He answered, grinning at her sheepi
shly.

“Then I won’t ask what you are thinking a
gain.”

“And so, until we
are
married, I shall simply ask you once more,” he said, eyeing her lips hungrily as if he wanted to devour them. “How are the lessons co
ming?”

“Awful. I don’t even know why I need them. I mean, I can understand the language, etiquette and history lessons, but why do I need the archery and hand-to-hand combat s
tuff?”

“You must be able to defend yourself. It is for your own protection, after
all.”

“I thought that’s what our bodyguards were
for.”

“They are your first line of defense, but sometimes it is not enough. You must be prepared to attack and kill if necessary.” He traced a finger down her chin, lifting it to meet his gaze. “You must
always
be on your g
uard.”

“How many people have you ki
lled?”

He let out a sigh. “Too many. It is not something you ever wish to do. Once you kill a man, you carry his soul with you for the rest of your
life.”

“But you did it in self-defense, r
ight?”

He nodded slowly, grasping the hilt of his sword as his gaze dropped to the f
loor.

Unlike some of his friends from the Academy, Darian wasn’t a natural-born killer. To the contrary; he always had trouble justifying the killing of another human being, no matter how evil they were. Innocent young men whose only offense was to choose the wrong side were always the hardest to kill. They were the ghosts who never left his mind, haunting his dreams long after the battle was
over.

“Walk with me?” she asked, slipping her arm through his to lead him up the rampart steps. He said nothing as they climbed the embank
ment.

When they reached the top, the view of the majestic Carnelian Mountains was even more spectacular than usual. The whiteness of the peaks covered with fresh snowfall combined perfectly with the mist hanging over the trees, creating a sight that could have brought peace to even the most troubled
soul.

“The way I see it,” she began, “if you had not killed those men first, then they would’ve killed you. And if you weren’t around to save me, I would have died on the way to Abbadon. So you see, in killing them, you managed to save the life of the future Supreme Ruler of all Carn
elia.”

He smiled faintly. “Well, when you put it that
way…”

“You know I’m r
ight.”

“It never ceases to amaze me the way seemingly small, insignificant actions or inactions can change so many lives,” he
said.

“What do you
mean?”

“For instance, had you not gone riding that day, you would not have become trapped in the vortex, in which case we would never have met. Both of our lives would have been very different t
oday.”

“More proof that Garon exists. Too many things have happened for it all to be sheer, dumb luck.” She took Darian’s hand, studying his masculine, yet graceful, fingers. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have nice h
ands?”

“No. But yours are cold as ice. We should get you in
side.”

“I’m fine.” She stared out at the pristine slopes for a moment, lost in her own thou
ghts.

“Do you still have the da
gger?”

She gave him a questioning glance. “Do you mean the one you gave me at the Mychen Fo
rest?”

He no
dded.

“Of course. I keep it on me at all times, just like you
said.”

“
Good.”

“I don’t know how to use it, but just having it makes me feel be
tter.”

“I shall ask Bruno to teach
you.”

“If you in
sist.”

“It is colder up here than I thought,” he said, his eyes roaming the dark clouds above them. “We should go inside before you become sick. It would appear your lesson has ended an
yway.”

They descended the rampart steps and strolled across the courtyard, entering the Knight’s Hall as courtesans and servants stopped to bow and curtsey to the royal co
uple.

Although Marisa had been the Princess Regent for almost six weeks, the concept of being royal still seemed foreign to her. Both of her parents had been born into privilege as members of the royal families of Carnelia, but when their ship passed through the vortex to Earth, they were reduced to living as other commo
ners.

Lost in a world with neither the patience nor use for titles, the simple life of the MacCallum family in Oregon was all that Marisa had ever known. From an early age, her father had always instilled in her a quiet humility, teaching her to respect everyone equally, no matter their station in life. So once it had been announced that she was the lost princess and heir to the crown, it felt unnatural being treated in a superior manner. She found it especially difficult and awkward when elder noblemen and women bowed and curtseyed to
her.

“Shall we have a cup of tea in my chambers?” Darian’s voice echoed down the long marble corridor, pulling her from her thou
ghts.

She shrugged. “I guess nobody will mind if I skip c
lass.”

They ascended the grand staircase and strode down the long hallway, finally stopping at the royal suites. As he opened the door of his chambers, the heavenly scent of Carnelian pine met her nostrils, suddenly reminding her of her father. Already three months had passed since his death and, in many ways, it still felt like yesterday to
her.

Spotting Darian’s Paladin uniform hanging neatly in the corner, she moved up closer, stroking the dark wool cloak and skimming the metallic smoothness of the breastp
late.

“I’ll never forget when I first saw you. It took my breath
away.”

“Indeed,” he said, chuck
ling.

“I’m serious!” She smiled, settling onto a plush settee in the cozy living area. “I never bought into the knight-in-shining-armor myth back home. But when I saw your face hovering above me in the forest, I thought I was dreaming. You didn’t seem
real.”

“You did bump your head pretty
hard…”

“You were too handsome—almost too perfect to be
real.”

“Perfect is not the way those who know me would describe me.” He smiled, stretching his long legs as he leaned back in his chair. “But, I must admit, you took me by surprise as well. When I saw you lying there on the road, I was certain that I had discovered Queen E
lyse.”