Belvedor and the Four Corners (Belvedor Saga Book 1) (50 page)

“My Liege, a message has arrived from the Four Corners.” The man handed over a sealed parchment stamped with the emblem of the slave districts. He donned black robes much like that of a regulator. Kneeling at the foot of the stairs, he awaited the King’s instructions.

The King took the parchment and opened it without the slightest glance in the man’s direction. “Another successful Free Falls Festival, no doubt.” His voice sounded deep and authoritative as he stroked the black jaguar at his feet. Dark eyes scanned the hurried writing, and his expression fell from relaxed to one of fury in a matter of seconds. His palm clenched around the paper, and it burst into flames, the ashes of the parchment falling to the floor.

Pushing up from his lavished, silver throne, the King strode down the steps with his arms behind his back. His long robes of black and gold flowed like water over the red velvet. “Come, Raja,” he cooed, pausing.

The majestic animal perked up at its name and followed the King down the stairs. Its black coat almost sparkled in the light spilling from a single chandelier, and her eyes looked an intense yellow, almost gold.

The messenger shrank back as the King came to stand over him, and Raja sat dutifully on her hunches, a soft growl rising in her throat.

“Rise,” commanded the King, his voice emotionless as the man stood to face him.

“As you command,” said the messenger with a quivering tongue, standing to face the mighty lord before him.

The King began to circle the man. He towered over him by a foot, and a colorfully-jeweled crown sat atop wavy black locks that almost touched his shoulders. A single gold chain hung from his neck, and he gripped a staff with a ruby center.

“I have received some very distressing news from the Four Corners,” he said, narrowing his gaze. “It appears that a few slaves have gone unaccounted for.” His voice grew loud, and the messenger took a step back.

“My Liege?” said the messenger, trying to control his trembling body.

The King began to shake his head, and the messenger continued to slink backwards. His gaze burning into the eyes of the man before him, he snapped his fingers and Raja let out a roar that echoed throughout the room. The jaguar slammed her front paws to the ground as she bared her long fangs. The black-granite tiles rolled under their feet as if an energy or force had exploded from the growl.

The messenger fell to his knees.

As the ground stilled, the man stifled a scream. He raised his eyes, and they met the dark pools of the King’s. “My Lord, please. I beg you…” he mumbled.

The King pursed his lips and tightened the grasp around his staff. The jeweled center began to burn bright as if a fire had built-up inside. The messenger’s body convulsed as a painful tremor shot through his spine, and he screamed out in agony, clutching at his skin.

Before he could recover from the sudden pain, the King drove his staff down through his back. The sharp tip of the rod slid with ease through his flesh, and blood pooled all around. With one last shudder, the messenger fell limp on the cold floor.

“I am
very
displeased,” said the King through clenched teeth. He looked up, flinching as his own eyes stared back him, reflected in the man’s blood. Drawing his hood, he lowered his gaze to shield his face from the mirror-clad ceiling.

The King withdrew his staff from the body at his feet and sauntered back up the staircase with Raja purring at his side. He leaned back in his cushioned throne and drummed his fingers on the wide arm, lost in thought.

“Brother, haven’t I taught you to clean up after yourself?” said a shrill voice. A woman slunk out of the shadows and surveyed the body on the floor. She shook her head, smirking. “Who told you to kill the messenger?”

She came to stand at the foot of the stairs, and the King lifted his gaze, observing her with an impassive expression. She wore a rose-colored dress which clung to her curves and revealed too much of her bosom. Her skin mirrored the King’s, almost as pale as the body on the floor, and her hair fell long past her chest in strings of silvery white. A gray, leather whip draped around her neck, and a silver tiara sat upon her hair.

To anyone else, she would have an intimidating air about her, but she served the man before her, and even he frightened her at the best of times.

“Elisa,” he said. “It has happened.” He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. As he did, the flames in the lanterns around the room seemed to grow with every inhale.

Elisa’s steely eyes widened in shock and then narrowed on the defense. She tightened her painted fingernails around the whip. “Shall I call upon Vladamor? They won’t get far. No slave is match for a necromancer,” she purred through lips lathered in black lipstick.

He gave a slight nod, and she turned on her heels to leave. He called after her. “Send word to Lord Agrobar as well. His kingdom is nearest to the Four Corners. And Elisa… do tell Vladamor to be discrete with his tactics. No one else is to hear word of this, understood?” Elisa pursed her lips, and she began to play with the leather strap, looking rather nervous under his scrutiny.

“Yes, brother… my King,” she said, bowing low as she left.

King Devlindor left his throne room with Raja at his heels and walked to the cellars of the castle. It had been centuries since his last venture down there, but he remembered it well. He placed his hand on the doorknob and whispered a short verse.
Operium Undrio.
The door clicked open with a creak.

The air smelled musty and dust billowed all around him. Taking a lantern from the stone wall, he mumbled another string of words as a fire grew inside, washing over the darkness. Stacks of parchments littered the floor, and thousands of books lined the walls on rotting shelves.

He stepped through a maze of large crates which had been labeled ‘seized’ before he came to another door. This one stood ajar. His heart started drumming inside his chest as he pushed the door open.

Darkness stitched to every corner of the room, furnished with only a simple wooden table and chair. Atop of the table he saw a small crate, the lid set aside.

The King moved with caution, anxious of what he might find. He placed his hands on the box and sat down in the chair, setting the lantern on the table. A few knick-knacks from childhood lined the top, but he shoved them aside.

Rummaging through the contents, he found several torn pages from a diary he’d written long ago when he was barely a man. He thumbed through the parchments, searching in vain. Pulling one from the clatter with a hopeful gleam in his eye, he tried to read the title.

It looked scuffed with old age, though the signature stayed intact. The King scanned the parchment, and his expression fell, setting it aside. Skimming through more and more pages, his gaze became empty and his body tense.

“It’s not here…” he said, clenching his fist around the last scroll at the bottom of the box.

The King leapt up from the chair and swept the box from the table, slamming his fists to the wood. His voice exploded in a thundering growl, disturbing the silence of the forgotten cellar, and Raja shrunk back at his feet.

The ruby of his staff grew bright, and a dark cloud engulfed the entire room. Only his eyes stayed visible in the dim light as the smoky fog twisted into a vortex all around.

Then he was gone.

The parchments from the box littered the ground, all signed in a verse:

Inscribed By Way Of:

A Once Noble Man

Born of Noble Blood

To a Once Enchanted Land

And Noble Kingdom

This story deserves a big
THANK YOU
to those who read it when it was at its roughest and motivated me to help Arianna Belvedor finish her journey.

Mom and Dad
—I love you both forever for encouraging me to lead a life to no one’s standards but my own.

My passionate sister, Christina Marie
—your advice keeps me level-headed, and I can always count on you to read a book faster than anyone
.

A very dear friend, Lisa Diane
—only you would stick by my side in a fantasy world filled with swords, arrows, and magic.

My first editor, Kristie—
your kindness and generosity is greatly appreciated, and I’m so happy that this story gave me a newfound friend.

The man in my life, Maarten
—you have been unconditionally supportive of my ambitions, and I will never take that for granted. I love you, and you inspire me.
Big Kiss.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

~Don’t Forget Your Magic~

Traveling is a lifestyle I’ve come to know and love, and it has taught me that the real world and the beautiful people in it are magical through and through. There have been plenty of enchanting surprises that have fueled my imagination and motivation to write. Whether it has been a person who gave me directions when I felt lost or seeing a place that I’ve committed to memory, I realized that there is an incredible amount of good in this world. Personally, I’ve witnessed magic on the edge of the Victoria Falls, spilling across the quiet fields of Missouri, stretched across the smiling faces of my students in South Korea, and sitting in the mountains of Uganda where the skies are undoubtedly the brightest.

The inspiration for my first novel,
Belvedor and the Four Corners,
spiraled from these adventures as I unearthed the better parts of the world, and it continues to be my motivation for future works in the
Belvedor Saga
and beyond. No matter where you’re from, where you go, or where you choose to stay, there is magic all around. It is a part of this world, of you, and of me, and I intend to persuade this theory on paper as best I can.

Ashleigh R. Bello

Travel Journal, Blog, and More at
www.ashleighbello.com