A War of Silver and Gold

by Minerva J. Kaelin

  The yellow, elvish lights hanging from the ceiling did nothing but gave the library one more shade of terror. Ael shivered, he had to get out of this place as fast as he could.

  Cassia remained unfaltering, picking up books and scrolls from the ancient shelves. Whatever had come over that she-elf, Ael couldn’t believe it was good. She hadn’t uttered a word for the last hour, just huffed and groaned when she couldn’t reach a shelf and magically called the books down. Ael had come to the realisation that Cassia’s magic was somehow expendable, every time she used it she groaned as if physical soreness made it difficult to breathe.

  So he asked her, “What’s wrong with your magic?”

  Cassia stilled to a point that she looked like she didn’t breathe anymore, then she said silently, “I have used terrible magic to acquire the power I now wield.”

  “Like what?”

  She turned around, glaring at him sharply. “Blood magic.”

  He blanched. Blood magic was... evil. And disgusting, but mostly evil. He cleared his throat and asked, “How many times?”

  “Two times every decade.”

  He shook his head.

  “Yes, I wield terrible magic, thus I can’t summon it every time I want. I have to meditate for hours before a battle, to call every soul I have consumed and bent it to my will.”

  Blood magic was vile and vicious. The receiver had to bathe in the blood of the victim once all if had been drained from the body, and then... then there was the ritual with the victim’s heart. Ael shivered, that female before him was terrifying, terrifying and he had kissed her, fancied himself her lover. Really foolish of him, thank the gods he was a lycan. No magic had it perks now.

  “You could have died you know,” he shook his head and averted his gaze from hers. “It was dangerous.”

  She crossed her arms stubbornly over her chest and pursed her lips. “They were the King’s gift, I couldn’t deny them even if I wanted.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Ael,” she chuckled. “I don’t believe there is a living, breathing being that doesn’t want power and limitless magic.” She reached up on a shelf and pulled a book out. “I didn’t know, but in blood magic, there are more limits than in any other.” She smiled and shook her head absentmindedly. “Griswold calls them ‘borrowed powers’ I don’t know how he acquired knowledge of my whereabouts, but,” she huffed. “He is correct. My powers are borrowed, stolen for lack of better word.”

  She turned around again, but this time her hands went to the pile of books on the desk before her. A map, she picked it up and looked at it, allowing her eyes to bore even to those little words, pressed to the spaces between random places in the Adanei and Nevdor territories.

  Ael stared at her with wonder. He did have to leave this place as fast as he could. Maybe she would be able to smell his fear and sense his resistance. He would be thankful, he gathered, in a few days time. For now, he had to remain silent and follow Cassia’s instructions.

  She tapped one of her silver nails on a place at the Northern side of the continent. “Snow,” she whispered. “Where snow falls thick throughout the year?”

  “Kypriantha.”

  Cassia shook her head. “Kypriantha’s weather is tied to Griswold power and Navacore is tied onto mine, we can both control snow and rain. No,” she shook her head. “It’s not the correct place for something like this; the snow must not be artificial, magical.”

  “Vastere, then.”

  “I’ve heard about these islands,” Cassia said and turned to look at Ael. “But, I’ve never been there.”

  “I have.”

  “Aren’t they a bit dangerous?”

  “Not if you know where to search. There is a Snow Maiden, their Queen.” Ael shook his head. Maybe it was not right, but they had to search even there too. “She lives in an underground palace of ice.” He shook his head again, biting his bottom lip aggressively. “I don’t know, Cassia. If I wanted to hide the Sword, I would have given it to her.”

  “We should try Wonfare again.”

  “No,” Ael said. “Flashing is safer, I’ll give you the coordinates and you can flash us in, the Snow Maiden will know though, probably she’d have us captured. So be prepared to unleash your magic.”

  “Vastere it is, then.” She smiled. “Three days, in Belhaim.”

  48

  Arslan sat on the chair at the head of the table. No, he would never manage to replace Astrid in her position, but her death had come as a hard blow even to the rest of the resistance leaders. Most insisted on giving her a proper funeral, but she was the Citadel’s most meticulous Assassin, the King would be more than happy to break the spirits of the people more by burning her body, molesting it or any other twisted thing he could think of.

  The fires of the rebellion had managed to burn hotter and more aggressively the past days. Everything was crazed, everyone was crazed, soft chatter about those underground liberators pulsed through the Citadel’s walls every hour, every minute and second that passed. The people talked with great pride about those few that fought for their freedom, and after what Arslan had said about the dragon hybrids in the mountains; more and more decided to join their ranks.

  It wasn’t easy, not at first, but gradually everything seemed to change for the better. Astrid’s crow had still not yet visited Arslan; who now lived in her apartment in the highest levels of the Citadel. Maybe the Adanei helped as long as Astrid was alive, it didn’t matter anyway. They were stronger than they had ever been. The name of his dear Astrid was now mentioned in songs, she passed out to become a legend among the living.

  He only wished they had more time together.

  The wind blew in the room. Arslan couldn’t bring himself to enter her study, but it had been already a few days after her death. He had to leave his fears behind and march forward, if not for the resistance, for Astrid at least.

  The room was as ridiculously covered in expensive items as the rest of the apartment. Astrid always had a thing for shiny items. A small smile appeared on his lips, recalling the last time she had dragged out to shop in the market at the lowest level of the city, where the most illegal things could be bought with a single gold coin. She always liked those illegal magical artefacts, or at least she liked to infuriate her neighbours.

  Her desk was filled with papers thrown here and there in disarray as if she never cared to put them in a pile and sort through them. A red cloak was lazily draped over the back of the couch; the velvet fabric gleamed under the light of the faint moon. It was beautiful to a certain extent, that mess Astrid always made wherever and whenever she could.

  He chuckled bitterly to himself. He was besotted with a dead she-elf.

  The bookshelves were full; the leather bound tomes at least were elegantly standing straight on their shelves. Astrid had maintained a certain order over her books. When did she have the time to read all these books, he still didn’t know. She never ceased to amaze him.

  The winds blew again, sending a few papers onto the carpet. He moved quickly to pull them up, tapping them on the edge of the desk to align them in a perfect pile.

  “My condolences,”

  Arslan jumped up, head turned towards the voice in the shadows, his eyes searched for the elf in the darkness, but his eyes no matter how keen and trained they were; he could detect nothing.

  “Who are you?” Arslan asked, straightening his spine as his hands went to his daggers.

  The stranger chuckled. “It’s been a long time ago since I last saw you, Eandil.”

  Arslan’s eyes widened. There was one being who ever called him like that, one being...

  “Drago, is that you?”

  The other elf chuckled and stepped into the faint light of the room. “Who else could it be, my friend?”

  Arslan rushed to his friend’s side and embraced him. “How did you find me?” He asked, pulling away.

  “You thought that dressing up like a filthy Nevdor, you could avoid me forever?” Drago sho
ok his head. “I doubt there is something your late lady friend could keep her mouth shut.”

  “What goes on on the other side?”

  “Your sons are fine and your daughter is mated to a powerful Lord.”

  Arslan’s eyes darkened, he shook his head. “I shouldn’t have thrust that burden on to you, my friend. You have been no less than a brother to me throughout the First War.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. Ramos and Hestia bestowed upon you the burden, they were at fault.” He shook his head. “Nevertheless, it was cruel of them to deprive you of Astrid.”

  Arslan drew in a sharp breath. “I understand the Nevdor ideology more now; the gods are evil and bad sometimes.”

  “Cassia has been relentlessly searching about the Sword. Nynev told me.”

  Arslan clenched his jaw. Drago had hidden the sword, but Cassia was ruthless, had been ruthless during the Second War. Arslan’s anxiety pulsed loudly in his veins. If they were wrong and Cassia was –indeed- working for the King if she were able to find the sword... Arslan didn’t even want to think of what the King would bring upon them all. What terrors and what monstrosities would be born from the evilness of that elf.

  Cassia was a precious asset in this game; her affiliations were precious to the Adanei. The King had armies of monsters, breeding away in the mountains, he had the Alliance with the Water Tribes in the Islands of Terror, he had armies of thousands of devoted soldiers armed with magic and silver and gold and wit, armed with Cassia’s own battle strategies. Lethal was an underestimation of the situation.

  “I pray she would never find it,” Arslan said at last.

  “Praying will get us nowhere,” Drago shook his head, the sadness that matched the one felt when losing a loved one. “She has that vile lycan with her.”

  “The son of Abertron?”

  Drago shook his head again, his peculiar eyes searching somewhere behind Arslan, across the city, towards the White Palace. “Abertron was just another pawn, to the King’s game.”

  The blond elf walked away from Drago, towards Astrid’s old desk. Arslan reached for the tumbler of Flamebolts. He poured himself a glass; he knew Drago never favoured drinking. Arslan brought the bitter liquor to his lips, tasting the vile taste of the old drink. The bitterness spread to become sweetness in his tongue, but in his mind the hate for the high-born King twisted to take the form of a snake, seeking the bitter revenge to quench its thirst.

  The world had turned ridiculously slow, and now that Astrid was gone, there were no many things he had to fight for. His children never even remembered him, he had nothing to fight for. He was a male without purpose and will to live. At least, by sacrificing his life others would live in freedom and peace.

  He turned to Drago; the glass of Flamebolts was now empty. “How is your father?”

  Drago averted his glance from the White Palace and managed a small smile. “Still flies the skies with pride.”

  “Good,” Arslan nodded, setting the glass on the desk beside him. “And your brother and sister?”

  “Ignorant as ever.”

  “Sounds like them.”

  “Eandil,” Drago took a step closer. “What are you going to do now?”

  Arslan shook his head. There was not much he had to do, sneak into the palace, maybe, get in the guard, spy on the King if he ever got close enough, learn a few things here and there. Maybe it was a bad idea, in the end, he would end up being whipped or maybe worse, hanged. At least, he would meet Astrid again.

  He leant back onto the desk and folded his arms over his chest. “Probably kill myself.”

  Drago’s eyes widened. “I’ve sworn, Eandil.” He shook his head. “Your mate had forced me to take the blood oath with you. If you die I’ll become mortal, remember?”

  “Calm down,” Arslan waved his hand. “Don’t be like this, I was only joking.”

  Drago huffed, his hand resting on the handle of his sword. “You insane elf.” He shook his head. “Honestly the resistance would need someone to communicate with us. Don’t kill yourself; you hold the position Astrid did.”

  “Astrid had led them for a long time, Drago. I am afraid they would never accept me in to fill her shoes.” He chuckled bitterly. “I can’t fill her shoes, she was-”

  “From a very vile lineage, but yet she managed to go against her blood. If she hadn’t deserted the palace, she would have been in Cassia’s position.” Drago shook his head. “Astrid is gone, Eandil. Gone, she won’t ever come back. You are alive though, and if the gods deem that you have not sacrificed enough they will keep you alive for many more years.”

  Arslan rubbed his forehead with his fingertips, “You don’t understand!” Arslan stilled his voice so silent when she spoke, “I loved her.”

  “This,” Drago pointed a finger at him. “Is not a good excuse. My mate is out there, Eandil and there is a bunch of males requesting her affection, but I am not one of them because I decided to give her a choice.” Drago shook his head. “Astrid might have never loved you,” he chuckled mockingly. “You didn’t even know her, Eandil. She kept her blood family hidden from you. You ended up loving a persona she had built. You hadn’t fought with her in the First War, she killed and massacred just as good as Cassia did.”

  Arslan shook his head, exhaling sharply and looking away. This was leading nowhere; if they fought against each other their cause was fruitless and meant nothing for the side of the Light.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Be reasonable.”

  A silent crack echoed in the empty room and Drago vanished in whorls of dark, black magic, leaving Arslan to ponder on his own thoughts, on Drago’s own words.

  49

  The smell of blood coated the room, seeped into the heavy, dark velvety curtains.

  The female was crippled in the white marble, her red, crimson blood leaked to the floor rendering it a brilliant pink. The female was still alive, but barely clinging to life. The King marvelled at her war against Death. The inevitable god. He stepped closer to her, his heavy robes sweeping the floor, bathing themselves in blood and whatever stick fluids leaked out from the female’s ripped body.

  His dagger, gold and sharp, was held firmly in his hand. He leant down on his knees beside her, a stoic expression donned on his face. The handsome face of a demon.

  He cupped the female’s cheek in his left hand, his thumb caressing over the tender flesh. She had been such a great companion in his bed that night, but he needed to feed and she had been such a pliant, plump little fruit. He could have never resisted, that sickness inside him could have never resisted such a treat.

  A beautiful female, with long brown hair and green eyes, she reminded him of Cassia, she did, but when that thoughts crossed his mind he could barely do anything but massacre her, kill her, gut her. She was nothing but a courtesan. Oh, he knew if his fair Cassia had knowledge of what he prepared for her, she would rouse against him, slit him open with her father’s sword and let him die slowly as the crows eat his intestines.

  That was Cassia’s own problem, her morality. One of her mother’s problems he assumed, his son was just as heartless, but when that woman entered his life...That whore destroyed every plan the King had made. Every plan, every carefully placed web of spite he had weaved himself.

  The King chanted under his breath.

  The female’s flesh began to piece itself back together; her blood returned to her veins, her heart pounded lively inside her chest again, her bones cracked into place. She blinked upwards, her green eyes filled with tears, her lips red again and soft as he skimmed his thumb over them softly.

  Strength, he had seen strength in her eyes. Magical strength, as well as determination. It was then, that he decided to spare her; the demon in his mind could wait to be fed.

  He leant closer, his dagger never falling from his hand. He gazed into the female’s eyes again, blue against deep green, emerald. A shiver rose up his spine, his eyes lowering down to her lips, a sob escaping those pink f
olds. He leant closer pressing his lips against hers firmly, demanding to be rewarded for his act of sparing her life.

  The she-elf grasped around the meaning of his actions swiftly and began returning his violent kiss with one of her own, biting and submitting to his twisted delight. She had to live, live... that was her only purpose, a purpose that served her well.

  The King whimpered, the dagger fell from his hand, clattering against the marble, but it didn’t matter, no then, never again. He braced his palms against the marble on either side of her head and moved himself between her legs. The heavy robes covering them both, concealing the soft nakedness of the female underneath him.

  He revelled on her taste, on her flesh, on her scent. The darkness began to cease inside him and his world began to shape, shape in the female form of the beautiful creature underneath him.

  The demon inside his mind pounded tough, it screamed with leashed out to him.

  Kill her. Destroy her. Annihilate her.

  Feed me with her soul. Feed me.

  The King stilled in the rapture of their kiss, his lips barely returning the female’s kiss.

  Do what I tell you and you will be rewarded.

  Kill her, let us drink the essence of her life.

  Feed me.

  No, no, he would not. The King would not give in to the desires of the demon. He was strong and powerful, but the King was just as determined.

  He thrust the dagger further away, out of his reach, a precaution for the sake of the female underneath him. He wrapped his one arm behind her back lifting her up closer to him and returning her kiss with equal fervour. His other hand reached into the long, brown curls, his fingers entwining with the locks.

  Kill her... The demon pounded.

  But the King pressed the flesh of the female closer to him and screamed back to the demon. I won’t...

  50

  Next morning came upon Cassia in a haze. Her stomach was unsettled and her mind was troubled, more than troubled. Something itched inside her soul, but she couldn’t fathom what it was. Cassia concentrated, shielding her mind with iron bolts and locks of silver as she sat up on the bed, her bare feet making contact with the cold floor. She winced and shook her head.