A War of Silver and Gold
Page 42
The Lords around them had become so still, it was almost as if they didn’t breathe.
Cassia inspected the dagger; small almost mistaken for a throwing knife, but she knew better than that, the dragon flesh on the hilt was of the beasts that once dwelt on the South, the blade was long and silver, a bit blunted at the tip, but the body was just as sharp as it must have been on the day of its forging. The blade felt familiar, she turned it to the other side and almost gasped.
The silver dragon with the emerald eyes stared back at her. Her emblem, her sign.
That vile bastard!
This, she shook her head, this had been her dagger, the dagger the King had gifted her, the dagger she had sliced through her palm with and let her blood drip over the Citadel Walls.
No, to say Cassia Silverweaved was angry it was an underestimation of what she felt. May Ramos take him with the most torturous way! She shook her head again. May some vile monster consume his flesh and allow those Shadow Breakers to drink on his soul.
Cassia grasped the dagger firmly in her hand, her eyes rose to the elf across her, but this time, both of her eyes were a petrol, a bluish-green shade, so deep and dark it seemed like they sucked all the light out of the room, two dark pools of blood magic, magic more ancient than her and Griswold combined. He stilled, but his face remained unfaltering.
“How did it find that dagger?”
Griswold shrugged, taking his eyes away from her uninterested. “I don’t think it concerns you.”
“The fuck it does!” She slammed her left palm down onto the glass. “This dagger is mine, it was a gift from the King.” She snarled at him. “It belongs to me!”
“Of course and you can’t remember.” He spat word by word, pouring careful hate into each word. “The battle of Sefkel, don’t you remember it?” He huffed, shifting in his seat, fumbling with his dark overcoat. “I had you butchered so much, you could barely breathe, I believe it was done by that,” he pointed his finger to the object in her hand. “That dagger. Does it still hurt, that scar above your left breast?” He hummed. “As you called it, delightful indeed.”
Cassia bit her cheek so much the skin broke and her metallic silver blood filled her mouth. She had been so much hurt, so much butchered in that battle, her flesh hung open in various places, her precious blood oozed from every pore in her body, but after leading her army to victory for once again, she managed to pulled herself into her tent, lie down on her narrow bed and chanted a few spells with the last remaining energy she had.
Even though her wounds healed, the scars remained behind. They were so many, she hardly remembered what was from that battle and what wasn’t.
She took in a deep breath and glared at him. No, she will not play in his game. “You were a worthy opponent, my Lord.”
He turned his eyes on her again, grey orbs of magic surveying her with the most despicable way. “Look here, you slut. If you dare betray us I will hunt you down and skin you slowly and intimately in a way only I can inflict upon you. I don’t care what you are or who you are, but one wrong move from you, one wrong word and your head will adorn the vicinity of my mantle for the rest of eternity.”
She smiled the most vicious smile. In this war, he was the one in need of her help, her magic and her quick wit in battle. He was the one that should compromise with whatever she threw his way. Should she offer him, love, he would take it. Should she offer him death, he would love it. “I’ll be delighted to see you try.”
51
The King stared with a twisted satisfaction to the female before him. Whatever had befallen him to spare her was still as unknown to him as the will of Nature. The atmosphere in the room was thick, thick and smelled heavily of liquor and the floral smoke of burned opium. It wasn’t to his satisfaction, no, opium kept the beastly voice in the back of his mind in check and liquor... liquor seemed to clear his judgement.
The female blinked, her green eyes reflecting the dancing flames from the hearth behind him. Green, those eyes, the eyes of the female had turned to be more hypnotic to him than the opium. He hadn’t used the narcotic for the past week, but the insistent voice had come so violently that night that he couldn’t help himself.
She hadn’t told him her name, yet. She didn’t talk in his presence, but he heard her once, speaking to a maid... and... What a sweet voice she had? Like the silent and tranquil falling of water, like the twittering of a mocking jay, her accent though was foreign, not of Tassiera, not of the continent. The small, elegant twist of the words as she spoke forced eruptions in his mind.
No, she didn’t have his heart, but she had his undivided attention, his unrelenting devotion. Not her at least, maybe her body, maybe the female that she resembled.
He was sick, sick in the most peculiar way. He rubbed his hands over his eyes and blinked, willing the female before him to dissolve into nothingness. Whatever had happened, whatever she had given him, he was enticed. The dulled voice in the back of his head ceased its cries and screams. One glance, that was all it took, one glance from her green eyes and the voice was diminished, contained in a place at the back of his mind, at a place where nothing escaped.
She raised her hand tentatively, laying it softly at the side of his face. The first act of boldness she had ever shown him. It awakened things in him, parts he thought he had forgotten.
Her deft fingertips travelled inside his long, blond locks.
Something tugged at him, twisted and scratched his soul. Then, it dawned on him, a thought, a feeling, a force of nature so private that no one must know.
But, no, she couldn’t be. He tried to coerce himself into believing, but the truth was and always would be inevitable.
She risked enough by even looking at him in the eye. She must have felt it too, otherwise, she wouldn’t have touched him without permission. He could find no other explanation. His head was heavy with the opium, heavy with the liquor that ran hot in his veins, heavy with the enchanting emerald gaze of the female, that wonder of Nature who could not talk to him without cowering away and curling into herself as if expecting for a blow from his hand.
He closed his eyes, leaning into the warm skin of her left hand on his cheek. However, the skin there prickled into his flesh and he forced his eyes open and grasped her hand firmly in his earning a low groan from her.
He pulled the hand before his eyes, inspecting and surveying the scars. Every fingertip, every natural line and dip in her hands had been –at least once- sliced, burned and then improperly mended and knitted. Small and broader and larger scars adorned the vicinity of the hand before him as if someone had painted a damning portrait on the small hand. A monster, a flesh hungry monster trying to destroy all the beauty on the once perfect flesh.
He chastised himself. How could he not have seen it before? He was a bad, stupid master, he hadn’t taken care of his pet. He cleared his throat rather awkwardly and glared at her with the most heated glance he could summon. She didn’t cower, no, he was far too gone with the opium to even show another feeling than that of induced affection.
He raised her hand to his lips, kissing every scar with the most sensuous of caresses a male could muster. One kiss for each word, as he asked, “Who did this to you?”
It was spoken softly, unlike anything she had heard him utter. It startled her for a moment, he could see it in her eyes. That nameless courtesan that could place demons and gods in their places and draw out the real King. Not the monster. He longed for it, he had longed for someone he could trust and spoil till his last breath, but Nature had been more than cruel to him.
She gave no reply but turned her eyes away from him. Even though she would not answer, he needed, wanted, had to hear her voice once again, to witness her accent openly, not hidden behind a pillar in the kitchens.
The King grasped her hand firmer, almost crashing the delicate bones. The female winced but didn’t speak. Maybe she was afraid, as she should be, but he couldn’t keep living like that, rutting a voiceless she-elf, she didn
’t even verbally thanked him when he gifted her with gold and jewels and dresses. A curt nod, that was the most sentimental thing she managed to give him.
“You can talk to me. I won’t hurt you.”
She kept her eyes averted, occasionally throwing a look at flames behind him, but never gazing at him, gifting him with a warm smile. She only existed whenever she was with him, existed, she didn’t think or feel. It irked him, irked him to know that she would never let herself go around him, act as if he were a mere elf. He couldn’t be a mere elf, never, he had done so many ugly things, had hurt so many people that his very power was feared even among the dead.
He tilted his head to the side, trying to look into her eyes and brought her hand up to rest it upon his cheek. “Not many know this but...” He trailed, shaking his head. “But my name is Meilyr. What’s yours?”
She clenched her jaw.
He turned her hand and pulled it closer to his lips, kissing the flesh softly.
“Talk to me.” He whispered against her skin, his eyes skimming over the severed flesh, the scars painted there for life. “I know I don’t deserve it, but there is something about you, something I cannot help but trust. Talk to me, please.” He gave her a faint smile. “Not even Cassia knows my name.”
Her eyes flickered to him with a tentative glance, a hidden flick of sentiments.
She opened her mouth, but quickly closed it glancing away.
He shook his head, she was a lost cause, this she-elf would be his-
“Alcina.”
His blue eyes darted up at her, passion written all over his features, passion. Hot and savage. Whatever, whoever she was she had grown a special place in his heart. He smiled, kissing the back of her hand softly, lovingly.
He repeated her name, sampling its taste and texture on his tongue. “What a beautiful name.” He repeated it again, letting it roll off his elegant accent like a caress against her skin.
She nodded.
“Tell me something.” He whispered and lowered their entwined hand over his chest, just above his heart, trying to show her that he was a breathing, feeling male no matter the atrocities he had committed, the blood and souls he had used to gain power.
She glared at him and clenched her jaw as if asking; what should I tell you?
“Tell me about your life.”
She crooked an eyebrow, stubborn and dark. “There is not much to be said.”
Her accent, he loved her accent, elegant, but not the accent of originating from these lands, like a purr, sensuous and careful.
“I am certain it can’t be that bad to speak with me.”
She turned, her eyes open wide, flames burning like molten iron, she spat with hate. “You killed all of my family and raped me. I have no desire to speak with you.” She averted her gaze and concentrated on counting the white stars of the red carpet they sat on.
There it was, the little spitfire, the fierce female, the warrior, just like Cassia.
But so unlike her, Cassia would have drawn sword and daggers, arrows and magic, she would have summoned the powers of the dead and the gods to protect herself. This petite female though, she would take every leash and every harsh word in order to survive, survive, not live, Cassia lived for the gore in battles and the blood, so much blood. Even though she was not of his blood, she fit in her position perfectly.
He had killed many people; he had raped many males and females alike. He was a monster that didn’t deserve love and care. He should be hanged, gutted and left in a heap of bones and skin for the dogs to chew on and devour. But that female didn’t deserve that kind of treatment, not when her eyes were as green as the forests in the Islands of the Gods, not when she took every mistreatment with pride and was strong enough to stand and survive.
He cleared his throat. Yes, he could beg, beg and plead behind the heavily guarded walls and strictly bolted doors and windows of his private chambers, there on the red carpet. He took hold of both of her hands and placed them over his heart, one of over the other, his head hung low in humiliation –at least he tried to feign humiliation. He took a silent oath, that he would never rape her again and that he would devour and destroy those who had hurt her.
“Can you forgive me?” He asked as silently as he could. “I swear, I will never hurt you again.”
“You are a male without honour.”
“I hold your hands.”
She clenched her jaw. “You do, but you are after my heart, my mind and my soul. I am afraid, Lord those are not for sale to the highest bidder. You might hold my body, but you will never truly have me.”
He wanted to laugh, laugh at her naivete, but he couldn’t, she had him far too gone in her web of beauty and elegance to ever let him out. He pulled her hands up to his eyes again, examining the scars and white tissue that covered both of them, not deep enough, but prominent.
“Who did this to you?”
She shook her head.
“I can’t avenge you if you won’t tell me.”
Her face twisted into one of mock and fear, her brows knitted and her eyes widened, he pursed her lips and set her jaw. “And who will avenge my family?”
Clever. It hit him like a blow in the chest. She was clever, far too clever for her own good and for his own sanity.
He lied down, his head resting on one of the luscious red, velvet pillows sprawled all over the carpet. He dragged her over him, urging her to straddle his lean hips, holding each other’s hands. She gazed down at him with those impossibly green orbs full of question and spite and desire, desire, desire.
Her skin, white and unblemished, reflected the colours of the flames like the finest of marbles, her delicate bones were well covered with the fullness of her soft flesh, her brown curls cascaded down her back and over her shoulders along with her dark green frock. His gaze travelled from her eyes down to her ample bosom and up again. He was a hungry elf, a starved being, deprived of happiness and the love of a female. He deserved everything he got though, the death of those he loved, the infidelity of his wife.
He placed her hands on the carpet over either of his shoulders, his arms snaking around her waist and over her back pulling her downwards, his chest touched her bosom. He gazed into her eyes, urging her head closer to his, lips almost grazing each other softly, so softly only lovers could muster. Their breaths mingled and touched each other’s cheeks, reached and embraced.
“You will.” He answered her, searching her curious gaze with his. “I will give you my heart and you will avenge your family.”
“You are insane.”
“Indeed, I am.”
He pressed his lips to hers, fiercely and softly, moulding each other into one. His deft fingers buried themselves in her lush hair, tugging and blending into one. She shivered as he lapped against the soft cradle of her lips and shifted her hips against him. Their breaths had become slower, but their heartbeats thrummed and pounded with renewed fervour.
A knock on the door was all it took to break them apart, fumbling with their clothes and standing like teenagers caught in the act.
“My Lord, he is here.” Said the soldiers behind the door.
The King –Meylir- took hold of Alcina’s hand and squeezed apologetically as he shouted to the soldier. “Take him to my study.”
The soldier left without uttering a word, just as he had been instructed.
Meylir turned to the female, he brought his hand up, softly caressing her skin, gazing into her eyes. The desire had been overpowered by spite and fear. He shook his head. “You can stay here if you want, or maybe you can call for the seamstress. I believe you will need the finest dress, my prodigal...granddaughter is very close to paying us a visit soon.”
He leant closer and gave her a peck on the lips before he left, grabbing his heavy golden robe and draping it over himself. Alcina was... something very special to him, he could feel it in his chest, she was special, something he never had before, something he searched all his life to find.
52
The snow was vast, unrelenting and always falling from the obscured cavern's ceiling. Cassia had never been to a place so cold before. The cold was enough to give frostbite in mere seconds, Cassia cast a warming spell around them, protecting them from the biting cold. It was superficial, the fairy dwelling in that place must have been one of great power.
Cassia wrapped her heavy cloak tighter around herself, the smooth, grey fur enclosed her in the warmth and comfort, her left hand went idly onto the handle of her sword. Whatever it was down there, it mustn't have been good.
She turned around, throwing a suspicious look at Ael.
A shadow, a form moved to the back of the cave, behind the tall, pointy icy stalagmite. Cassia took a step backwards, towards the shadow, but stopped. Whatever had the will to follow them must have had a death wish. She could kill it once it was closer, whatever that was.
Her eyes flickered back at Ael. She tilted her head, "Is that Vastere?"
"That's Vastere. We must be careful, the Snow Maiden dwells at the back of those stalagmites in the North."
Little to no sunlight entered the caves, but the few elvish lights hanging from the ceiling, those ornate crafts of white light that even conjuring them required great amounts of energy from the caster. If Cassia didn't meditate daily her magic went berserk, creating monsters out of sheer nothingness. The consequences of using blood magic as constant as she did were far more severe than that, but she always managed a way around it.
Cassia blinked. She had read about the Snow Maiden, or rather, she had heard about her in the songs sung in war camps when the royal bard decided to join the soldiers for a night of frivolity. She remembered the song, sang in the Common Speech in the stentorian voice of the bard, a tall, proud elf, Cassia didn't know why he chose to join the King. Of course, the King had ever been a rather fine employer, paying many hundreds of gold coins per month.