A War of Silver and Gold

by Minerva J. Kaelin

  "I know."

  “Is this why you did this?” Cassia groaned. “Are you trying to trick me again?”

  “Surprisingly, I don’t.” He answered. “Not when the fate of the world is at stake. At least, here you can’t bring the King in to take the Sword back.”

  “I never planned to do this in the first place.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Do you want my help or not?”

  Cassia nodded sternly.

  He pulled a dagger from his belt, plain, golden to the sight. He pulled his left hand up, unclenched his fist and glided the dagger against the lines of his palm, slicing through the white skin. He clenched his fist again as if afraid of Cassia to see his blood and pressed his hand flat against the white wall of the mountains.

  A voice, chanting spells Cassia had never heard before, whispered through the winds, echoing in her mind almost throwing her off consciousness. The mountain groaned and winced as the snow began to fall from the place Griswold had touched and smeared his blood.

  A small slit, deep enough and wide enough to accommodate the Sword opened in the dark wall. Cassia shivered. These lands were ancient, ancient and terrifying, cold and desolate, warded in darkness and blood. No, Cassia didn't want to return back in the near future, let the sword be lost in the mountain's depths.

  Griswold shot her a glance as he pulled his hand away from the mountain and offered it to her, the slit was gone. "Give me the sword."

  Cassia's throat bobbed. Did she trust him enough for this? No, she didn't, she could never trust him enough. The Sword was the ultimate destruction of the World once paired with its siblings, but it could be its liberation also. Cassia clenched her jaw. The Sword were off better hidden, lost and never found. She gritted her teeth, a dark gleam passed over her eyes. She could run away, take the Sword to the King and avoid the lashing, the torture he would inflict upon her.

  She shook her head. No, Cassia always endured, Cassia always survived.

  She cleared her throat, though the sound barely audible under all the forces of the snowstorm. She pulled the Sword with its sheath and placed it on Griswold’ss white hand. She blinked and pulled her hand away as if burned. She never wanted to see that weapon again, never, but her fate seemed bound to it, to all of the three Swords. She swallowed the lump that had gathered in her throat and looked at Griswold.

  He placed the Sword in the slit and pushed it deep into the mountains, vanishing it from Cassia's sight. A weight lifted from her chest suddenly, she let out a long held breath and pursed her lips.

  Griswold pulled his dagger out again and without warning, he sliced through Cassia's leather jacket and slit the flesh of her arms, drawing blood onto the blade, mixing with his own. If he was alerted by the colour of her blood, he didn't say anything, he kept a stony expression and moved the tip of the dagger against the snow, against the dark stones of the mountain.

  Cassia had seen that ritual once again in her lifetime. The two sorcerers that had performed it had sliced their hand and held onto each other as they both chanted loudly. Griswold had been true to his words, he never wanted to make contact with her skin. He might have been disgusted, but Cassia couldn't find it in herself to care.

  The chanting was done non-verbally this time and the mountain groaned in approval as the slit mended back its pieces, trapping the Sword forever in its stones, allowing it to pass infinity in darkness, where it belonged. Cassia prayed that it would never be found. The gods had a reason to split the oceans, break their world it two and create the Great Slit. Gods and creatures didn't belong together.

  Griswold turned to her, he sheathed his dagger back in his belt and looked at her. "We must go," he said, placing a hand on Cassia's shoulder. "If we stay longer the dragons will come."

  “How did you open the mountain?” Cassia’s eyes widened as she pulled her hand up and cleared the snowflakes from her eyes.

  “I do have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

  “These wards open only to the Dragon Lord.”

  “We must leave. Now.”

  Cassia nodded, before the dark tendrils of Griswold’ss magic wrapped around them, trapping them in and flashing them away from Niddhug and back into Feremony's palace.

  Cassia shivered as they flashed, Griswold’ss magic seeped into her every pore making every magical fibre inside her snap and twirl. She ignored the warm feeling and instead concentrated on assisting him to pull them away from the mountains.

  55

  “You don’t happen to have Flamebolts around here, do you?” Cassia grunted silently as she shifted in her seat, trying to ease the pain from her stiff back.

  Griswold chuckled lightly and filled two glasses with the prohibited liquor. He walked beside her and offered her one. “Don’t tell Beathan.”

  She glared at the glass for a moment before taking it politely and sipping from it slowly letting the burn wash over her system. Griswold came over and sat across her on the sofa. She hadn’t expected him to take care of the wounds on her arms afterwards; it was something that came out of the blue.

  Her arms ached, but the bleeding had stopped due to her dominant elven side. She closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head. Beathan would throw a fit in the morning once they were to tell him. He had no self-control whatsoever those things. She hadn’t made her peace with Griswold, but that didn’t prevent them from being civil to each other.

  She didn’t need him to treat the wounds; her blood was strong enough to endure more than a few slices from a sharp dagger. She took another sip from the blond liquor in her glass. When she turned her head to look at him, he watched her back with pity, regret and remorse. She despised those feelings with great ardour. Cassia hated sentiments, she did, they brought only ill luck and bad faith.

  “Don’t,” she shook her head and glanced away from him. “I’ve had worse. This was nothing, mere scratches, really.”

  “I didn’t...” He shook his head, rolled his eyes and sipped from his glass.

  “Beathan will probably kill us for not telling him.”

  “As if you care.”

  She shot him an angry glance, trying to keep the wincing to a minimum level. Her arm did throb, the dagger Griswold had used was made of brass and Cassia’s magic had ever been a tad vulnerable around that particular metal. She shook her head, “If I hadn’t changed my mind you would all be dead by now.”

  “Pity.” He took another sip from his Flamebolts and returned his attention to the carpet.

  “I am not your enemy.”

  “You killed people I cared. That’s enough for me to hate you till your bones are dust.”

  She stared at him, her throat bobbed. “I killed many elves not just your own, but Dark Elves too because the King commanded me. I am his Heir, he raised me.” She crooked an eyebrow and shook her head. “The first time I took a life was when I was twelve. Nasty things, I still remember their eyes glancing up at me.”

  A long moment of silence went over them, the thudding of the winds against the windows was the only sound echoing through the silent room. A fleeting memory of the third human she had killed that night in the Citadel crossed her mind, pleading eyes looking at her, she could sense the soul leaving the miserable man’s body.

  If she had been any better back when she was little then things would have turned differently. But she had that enormous need to make the King proud of her, deep inside her. She had been robbed of her childhood, she never felt the warm caress of a mother as she grew up, the soft voice of her singing her to sleep, she never knew the warm arms of a father saving her from mischief. She was just as miserable, a forgotten relic to lead into war and prepare the soil for fruition.

  Griswold shifted on the sofa and cleared his throat, interrupting the consuming silence. “As if I should pity you.”

  She shook her head as she stood from the sofa with a wince and let the glass onto the table. “I don’t even know why I told you this. Not many know about it.”

  “Pathetic, isn’t it?”


  She clenched her jaw. If her arm wasn’t as scarred and her sword wasn't in her room, she would have disposed him of his head and everything else he held dear.

  “Sweet nightmares, dear.” She walked towards the door, opened it quickly and left without telling him another word.

  She could listen through to his sinister laughter as she went away and into her room. He was the worst elf she had ever met, save the King. They would have been great friends, the King and Lord Griswold Blackthorn.

  She pressed her forehead to the door and shook her head as she closed her eyes and let the coldness of the wood seep into her and somehow calm the pounding of her brain.

  She barely slept that night, contemplating whether she would survive on the King’s hands or not. One thing she knew about her grandfather, he didn’t favour failure, and he didn’t like it and never found himself committing to it.

  She had failed him, though. Terribly and she hoped she would never live enough to face the full extent of his spite.

  56

  The King stood a few feet away from Beathan, his head held high, his stony, unfeeling face turned towards the Lord of Feremony who fairly tried to keep up the pretence of anger and spite towards the kneeling Cassia before him. The trees around them were screaming inside Cassia’s mind. This has been her forest, she had known peace and she had helped it, letting it feed on her powers.

  Cassia had her eyes turned towards the ground, closing the voices of the trees and the waters away from her consciousness. It was enough for her to break, the voices of all those familiar trees she had grown to love. She was about to abandon everything to save the lives of those ignorant elves that went about the lands.

  Beathan shifted on his feet but allowed little to no emotion escape the fine features of his face. It was to no avail, to pretend that he didn’t care about the woman before him. He had –as was expected of him- thrown a fit in the morning when he had seen her scarred arm and knew of the Sword’s fate. It had taken a lot of artful convincing from Griswold and Cassia until he could stop rambling about how foolish and unwise it was.

  The Lord of Feremony had almost dragged Griswold into the training ground and demanded they duel. Griswold had pulled away carefully and had shaken his head, denying ever following them at the distinctive borders of their lands to negotiate about peace. He had been a handful in the morning, but Cassia had managed the strength to threaten both of them and silence them with the same grace.

  Cassia had told them everything, even about the Necklace, even the reason she hadn’t taken it, but she left out the possibility of her son. It was something she didn’t want to tell to the rest of the world. She needed time to figure her life out and clear her subconscious of the lethal straps that bound it to place.

  “Pathetic, isn’t she?” Beathan asked, sinister lines flashing over his face and voice. “A whining, little whore. A delight to have her around until she tried to take the Necklace.” Beathan tsked and grabbed onto Cassia’s hair, pulling her head back. Beathan tried to be gentle and Cassia understood the hidden meaning in his gesture and hissed at him, showing her teeth. “You couldn’t keep your hands off, uh kitty?”

  “How about your filthy hands stop touching my property?” The King’s hissing voice reached over at them and Beathan flashed another vicious smile.

  “My Spell Master is quite brilliant you see. The cuffs render her powers useless. Such a bad little cat she is likes her lashing harsh.”

  The King growled then, his voice vibrating through the trees around them. Cassia turned her eyes towards the King. “If you don’t let her go, I won’t hesitate to march into war tomorrow. Traitor or not, she is still my Heir. Believe me, you are in no position to match my armies.”

  “She was useless anyway; the bitch let nothing escape her.” Beathan let go of her hair and straightened his robes.

  Cassia hissed again and shifted upon her knees, the King’s eyes told her not to speak as he took a step closer, two guards moving at his side.

  Beathan raised his eyes towards the King and growled. “Stay exactly where you are.” The King froze on his feet, Beathan was a very talented elf and very persuasive if he needed to be. “I can give you the princess, but I need something in return.”

  “Of course, arrangements had been made. I won’t assault your borders. The faithful dog of yours, Argoth, has taken great care on magically binding me to never cross them again.”

  “Perfect,” Beathan said and shoved Cassia forward, unlatched the cuffs from her hand and threw the metallic bands to a guard beside him. She got up and went to stand by the King, limping on her feet. “I cleaned myself from the filth now.”

  Cassia took a step forward, hissing at the elf, her fists held tight on her sides. “I’ll kill you with my own hands.”

  The King raised his hand and stopped her from attacking the smirking Adanei before them. “There are a lot of things to discuss, daughter.”

  Cassia nodded, fairly knowing that torture was in order from the King. She clenched her jaw debating whether she should run back to Beathan and flash away or remain with the King.

  “See you around, King,” Beathan said and flashed away along with his three guards, disappearing in the simple dust before them.

  Cassia bit her tongue as she turned her eyes to the King, her expression as nonchalant as she could manage, giving nothing away. The King took a step closer to her, his hand meeting harshly with her cheek in a loud slap. Cassia braced herself for another blow, but it never came. She raised her eyes to the King, blinking angrily, spite running hot in her veins.

  “You can’t attack them now, your Majesty,” Cassia said, her hand clutched her cheek angrily.

  The King threw her a sinister smirk as he straightened his spine and glanced down at her. “I can’t, but you and your betrothed can.”

  “Betrothed?” Cassia tilted her head and narrowed her eyes on the King.

  “You’ve met him if I am not mistaken.”

  “Who is he?”

  “My real heir, of course. Not a parentless bastard like you.” He chuckled bitterly; taking in Cassia’s shocked features. “Ael, son of Aelia.”

  AUTHOR BIO

  Minerva J. Kaelin is an indie author who loves to write about empowering women and equal opportinities. In her free time she is a master tea maker and loves to study physics. When she is not writing, she is reading, and when she is not reading, she is stargazing.