Chapter 39 - A Spellthief's Graveyard

They met no resistance on their return journey to Halruaa. Never again would they step foot in the swamp that claimed Kendyll’s life, so they turned their sights north to the Nath. It was an upland basin of gentle hills that was tucked away in the north east corner of Halruaa. The Nath Pass split between the North and East Walls - sparingly used by traders and more often than not, Crinti Marauders. But they would not be faced with such resistance. The attention of the dark elves had been directed south - towards a mine that had recently been destroyed by a freak accident of nature.

They were finally headed home. Back to the hot, windswept lands and the snow capped mountains that peeked up across the horizon, cocooning the country in its embrace. Yet, there was no joy in their return. No relief. They returned home without the Princess of Halruaa. Marcello's eyes stared dead to the ground as he rode, fingers tight around the reins of his horse as they maneuvered through the Nath. From behind, the rope suddenly went taut and the sound of knees hitting the ground stirred Marcello from his dark thoughts and he glanced backwards. Rhaen was on his knees, panting and wrists rubbed raw from the rope.

Marcello grimaced. “Are you tired?”

“I’ve been letting the horse all but drag me the last several miles,” the Crinti panted, head hanging and sweat dripped in rivulets down his face. “I’d nearly forgotten how unforgivingly hot your country is.”

“You get used to it.” Marcello slipped down from his saddle, stalling his friends who glanced back curiously. “You’ll ride with me now.”

“Marcello,” Lucian warned.

Marcello ignored the prince. He drew his sword and in one downwards swipe, the ropes binding the elf’s hands fell into ribbons at his feet. “But if you try anything, I will not hesitate to incinerate you on the spot.”

“I believe you,” Rhaen said. “Personally, I’m just relieved to be off my feet.”

“If it were up to me, you’d be dragged on your belly all the way back to the Capital,” Lucian growled. “Marcello, you’re far too lenient with attempts on your life.”

Marcello rolled his shoulder as he mounted, pulling the drow up behind him. “I assure you, Lucian, my life is covered. Perhaps I’m simply waiting for the judgement of the Council.”

The day fell into night as they rode. Herds of rothe and auroch grazed in the vast meadow grasses that stretched out beyond the horizon - large beasts that resembled musk oxen. It was wild country, compared to the rest of Halruaa.

At last, twilight touched down on the countryside's rolling hills. The only shelter to be seen for miles was nothing but the ruins of an old settlement. Blocks of stone lifted up from the tall grass, crumbling pillars of stone that may have at one point been the foundation of a tower dominated the grasses and Marcello exhaled. "This will have to make do," he said.

Lucian grimaced. "More ruins," he muttered. "Lovely."

Marcello didn't have the strength in him to complain. Tired. Everything was tired. His body, his head... his heart. While dismounting, he nearly slipped from his saddle before an arm caught his shoulder. Marcello glanced up, his uncovered eye blinking with surprise at the dark elf who slowly released his grip once Marcello regained his footing. "Thank you."

"Can't have you getting a concussion now," Rhaen purred as he slipped down after. "You're the one who wants to keep me alive."

"Much to your dismay, I'm sure."

Rhaen rolled his shoulders. “I’m here, now. Here and cold. Where did that blistering heat go?”

“Halruaa’s temperatures can be considered temperamental,” Marcello noted as he drew his cloak tighter around his shoulders. “I’ll start a fire.”

“No.” Lucian dismounted Soleil. “Marcello, you’ve been pushing yourself for days. Aven and I will tend to the fire and make food. I want you to relax.”

It was immediately apparent in the Prince’s eyes that he was leaving no room to argue. Marcello’s shoulders sagged and he nodded. “...very well.” With aching bones, Marcello made his way to the nearest block of stone and sat, muscles screaming in protest.

Lucian leveled Marcello with one more look of concern before he turned to Aven. "Aven. Help me start the fire."

Aven’s brows bumped together. “...it’s not going to be like last time, is it?”

Lucian grinned. “No, I intend to preserve my eyebrows.”

Aven still didn’t look convinced. “All right.” He pushed up. "I'll find firewood, then you can cast your magic and-"

"Then we can cast our magic."

Aven blinked. “What do you mean..?”

“You are my familiar,” Lucian said. “Which means I can cast my magic through you... burning hands is a relatively simple spell. One that you shouldn’t be able to get yourself killed with. It will be a good start.”

The darkness of night covered Aven’s flush. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Nonsense. If you cannot cast your own magic, then you can at the very least live vicariously through me. Find some fuel, then I’ll teach you.”

Aven returned shortly with firewood, which Lucian neatly arranged into a teepee. “Come here, Aven,” the man said, kneeling down by the firewood.

Nervous. Aven bit his lip and lowered down beside Lucian, muscles tense. Lucian’s fingers delicately brushed his arm. “Relax. It’ll be fine... you’ll do great. Touch my hand.”

Aven’s calloused fingers braided with Lucian’s dainty ones, and Lucian gave his hands a squeeze before he positioned his hands underneath Aven’s so that he was holding them, the barbarian’s palms faced upwards.

“Don’t be afraid,” Lucian repeated. “It won’t hurt you.”

“You blew up from magic,” Aven murmured. “I don’t... trust it.”

“Then trust me,” Lucian said. His voice was soft in the night. “Breathe. My magic will channel through you and release in flame. Flame in which we’ll be able to direct together. No surprises.”

Brown eyes lifted timidly up to Lucian’s. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

He exhaled. “...all right. I’m ready.”

The edge of Lucian’s lip lifted into a smile and he closed his eyes. His grip on Aven’s hands were firm but loose - comfortable but reassuring. Arcane murmurs tumbled from his lips and Aven stirred with shock as he felt the trickle of mana flowing through Lucian’s fingers like a shallow stream. Could feel the heat of something warm pooling in his palms and with a jerk - reared away as a wisp of flame materialized in his palms.

“There,” Lucian eased. “You’re doing it.”

Aven didn’t respond. He stared wide eyed at the tiny flame in his hands, cradling it as though he might a small pool of water captured in his palms. The dancing golden light reflected in his eyes and with a ragged breath he turned them upwards. “I’m using magic.”

“You’re using magic,” Lucian said with a nod. “How does it feel?”

Aven returned his gaze to the tiny flame. The way it danced and shuddered at the push of the wind. “It’s like a tiny heartbeat,” he murmured. “It feels so fragile.”

“Right now, it is. But magic can quickly grow wild and out of control... that’s why mages must be so diligent of their emotions and focus. The smallest mistake can be... disastrous. As you’ve seen.”

“And has your training with Marcello helped..?” Aven asked as Lucian helped guide the flame over to the dry firewood, where it quickly set alight.

“Yes. He’s impossible and arrogant, but he has a focused mind. I just...” he glanced over. “I worry for him.”

“He doesn't’ need our worry,” Aven took the man’s hand. “Only our support. Marcello doesn’t seem the kind of man who wants one’s pity. Only to be there when he needs us.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Lucian purred. He leaned forward and touched his lips to Aven’s cheek. “Come. Let’s cook some food. I’m sure he’s starving.”

It was a calm night. No assassins. No crinti - save for the one in their company. Only the gentle bellows of nearby grazing roche and the crackle of their small fire.

Marcello unclasped his eyepatch and tucked it into his pocket, letting his natural blue eye and his bright golden artificial focus softly on Lucian and Aven. It seemed Aven was in a learning mood, by the firelight they had a book open between the two of them and the Prince was patiently helping the man sound his way through his ABCs.

With a breath, Marcello returned his attention to his own serving of food, pushing past the wrench of an ill appetite in his stomach. Rhaen idly ate his own meal, munching on dried bits of fruit and bread. They sat some ways from Lucian and Aven, resting against the ruins.

"I think the elephant in the room needs to be addressed," Rhaen said.

"What elephant?" Marcello sighed. He watched as Aven leaned over to press a kiss to Lucian's cheek between sentences.

"The fact that you're not doing so well."

Marcello's chewing stilled. He scowled and flicked a look back to the half-drow. "I'm fine."

"You're a liar."

"And you're in no position to pry answers from me. I'm not the one in chains." He leans back. "You owe me some answers."

Rhaen tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders. "Ask away."

“Why’d you miss.”

“I didn’t. The bandage on your back is proof of that.”

“My heart was wide open. If you wanted me dead, I would be dead.”

“I suppose I’m just not as good at killing as my employers thought. Shame.”

Marcello’s jaw twitched forward. “Who sent you.”

“The Masters. They are not fond of your family.”

A chill rolled down Marcello’s spine. Of course they did. The matriarchs of the Crinti were as cunning as they were ruthless. “No. I can’t imagine they are. And of the Masters, which did you serve."

Rhaen's eyes darkened a shade. He pulled his green gaze away. "Neerune.”

The Breaker. Marcello wasn't surprised. "Only few males are selected for assassinations of such caliber. Why you?"

"I imagine they valued my skills."

"Which skills? I only met the wonders of your mouth."

"I could suck you dry on multiple levels, mage."

A laugh tumbled from Marcello's lips, surprising himself. Fire flickered in his blue eye. "I didn't know you made jokes," he purred.

"You'd be surprised. Perhaps I was the court jester for my Crinti masters."

"You'd make a poor jester. You have a defiant look in your eye." Marcello went quiet in contemplation. The light in his eye slowly died. "I have another question. What does it feel like, when you strip mages of their mana?"

Rhaen had been momentarily distracted, watching Aven and Lucian who assumed they were hidden in the fire's shadows, with the larger man's hand down the Prince's trousers. He pulled his attention back. "...before or after I rob them of their free will?" He muttered. He tilted his head back towards the sky. The stars were covered in a thin sheet of silvery clouds. "It's ecstasy. The life force of another, rushing through you. Every sense is enhanced. The world turns so vivid. It feels... good. Overwhelmingly so." He gave a humorless laugh. "A bit like how you'd imagine draining a victim of blood might feel to a vampire."

Marcello's interest never wavered. He hung on to each word and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. A tuft grown just a tad too long during their travels. "I always wondered. I know it feels like ass on the other end." He paused. "Would you like to hear a secret?"

"The Netyarch of Halruaa is going to share a secret with a Crinti assassin?" Rhaen's brow arched. "What would your Council think?"

“The Council’s opinion of me is already poor. I couldn’t care less.”

Rhaen drew up a knee to his chest, roping his arm around his leg as he leaned back. "Tell me."

"My father was one. A spellthief."

It was immediately apparent that it took Rhaen by surprise. His eyes widened in shock. "...Murdock Silvercrest?" He asked. "Are you quite sure?"

Marcello nodded. "God forbid anyone know. He never trusted a soul in a city of mages."

"But that doesn't make sense," Rhaen hissed. "He was a spellcaster. He cast powerful magic. Everyone has seen it."

"He found a limitless source of mana to drain from. He never had an ounce for himself, and was obsessed with taking magic for himself. Funny, how he managed to sire some of the strongest mages." Marcello's voice never wavered. He watched Rhaen far too closely.

Rhaen stared at the distant fire, brow furrowed. "...you mentioned you have been on the receiving end of a spellthief's grip," he murmured. "Was your father the... educational type?"

"He could never have enough."

A dry smile tugged at Rhaen's lip. "Ah, family," he sighed. "So kind of them to teach us these valuable lessons." Rhaen hesitated. "Do you hate us. The Crinti."

"Why would I hate an entire race?" Marcello rubbed circles into his temples. "I hate those who seek to harm me. Those who killed my brother, and threaten my lands. The Masters."

Rhaen's shoulders went stiff. "I assume when we reach Halruaa, I will face trial."

"No trial." Rhaen's head swiveled about. "The Council does not get to decide what to do with my assassin. No one in Halruaa will know of your arrival, or the attempt on my life."

"You can't be serious," Rhaen hissed. "That's suspiciously considerate of you."

"There is nothing considerate about it in the slightest." Marcello's tone was cool. "They'd put you to death immediately for your crimes. That would be a mercy, for you. You're going to live, and I will continue to probe your brain until you have not a drop of intel left."

"And then what?"

"And then I will take you on as my loyal, trusted servant for the rest of your miserable life."

Rhaen was quiet, as though weighing his options. "And what if I told you something. Something that would perhaps entice you to do away with me."

“Try me.”

“It was me.”

Marcello tilted his head. "What are you talking-" he got not a single word out before Rhaen was pouncing on him, forcing the two down into the grass and out of sight of Lucian and Aven.

A thumb and finger touched to Marcello's temple and forehead - and he seized up. It was like cold fingers, reaching, twisting, wrenching. He was like a turtle on its back beneath the weight of the spelltheif that had him pinned, stealing his life force, his mana.

Finally, Rhaen let up and Marcello gasped, face white. "Even a Netyarch is helpless under a spellthief's grip," Rhaen whispered, forearm to Marcello's throat. White hair fell around his eyes. "Frozen, for a spellthief's companion to finish them. Paralyzed for the kill."

Marcello’s vision swam over dusky features before the weight of the words anchored him back. His body burned with violated exhaustion, but rather than crying out to his companions back aside the fire, he remained quiet. Worryingly calm, no emotions passed over his face as lips twisted downwards in a thin line. “You killed him.”

“I did.”

A hand lashed up, nails biting into Rhaenoran’s arm as it was ripped from his throat. Marcello pushed himself up on an elbow. “Start walking west.” His gaze broke from the Crinti to stare towards the fire. Lucian had crawled to Aven’s lap, the pair locked in a kiss. “Don’t stop till I say.”

Rhaen watched the man in confusion. His stomach seemed to roll in knots and he pushed onto his feet. Fists clenched and unclenched in preparation of a fight. “What are-”

“Go!” Marcello lashed in a hiss. He’d gotten to his own feet, a hand shoving the back of the crinti’s shoulders to send him stumbling forward. It was enough to get them both moving. They parted from the warmth of the fire to walk a few yards past the ruin until the shadows of the night all but concealed them.

Silence hung heavy between them. Marcello could make out the line of tension that held the assassin’s shoulders, like he were being led to an execution. “Stop.”

Dull green eyes turned to burn upon the Netyarch, wisps of white hair swept over his eyes. His footsteps stalled. Not a single word was allowed past his lips before Marcello sailed forward with a snarl, his fist crashing against Rhaen’s jaw. It hit with a sickening crack and the crinti was thrown from his feet onto the bristled grass.

As Marcello righted, his fist shook with vibrations of pain thrumming through. “Don’t you say shit about my brother, mutt. I don’t care if I’ve been struck with the damn plague, I’ll beat you till my body caves.”

Rhaenoran only laughed, his body lurched back with a kick outward of his feet. He made no move to rub the searing ache of his jaw. “The fight you put up compared to him was pitiful. At least he didn’t fuck his assassin.”

This time Marcello’s boot was sent into the crinti’s side. Rhaen collapsed to the left with a gasp that cut through his laughter. “Shut up,” Marcello growled, his boot drawing back to kick forward again. It cracked against Rhaen’s spine and with a choked whimper, his gaze tiredly rose to meet the man towering above.

“Don’t you want the truth?” He wheezed out, fumbling to push himself up. “You should be thanking me. Now you don’t have to live in the shadows wondering.”

Marcello lined his boot level with Rhaen’s head, malice cold in his eyes. He drew back and… fell. Unbalanced, Marcello sank harshly onto his knees with an exhausted laugh. It rattled achingly in his chest, tears burning in the electric blue eye as he pinched them both shut. His fist blindly swung to crash at the crinti’s shoulder. “I’ll be damned if I ever thank you! Everything I loved died with my siblings. You… you and those bastards took them from me!”

Rhaenoran didn’t move from where he laid, his features twisted in pain, the spot on his jaw beginning to swell. “So why do you still try? Why not just kill me and be done with it?”

“What good would it do?!” Marcello’s head tore up, eyes blazing as they locked upon Rhaen, a single tear streaking down his cheek. In a second his fingers curved around the crinti’s throat, constricting around. “Death is but a mercy to you and it sure as hell won’t bring back Theseus.”

Rhaen winced. “Then what is it you plan to do?” he choked out, a hand fumbling up to grasp at the Netyarch’s wrist.

Marcello’s grip tightened briefly, threatening to snuff out any passage of air. Not even he seemed to know his next move, the slightest falter trembling down his arm. His teeth glittered sharp in the moonlight, a pinched snarl of features twisting into a grimace as he finally tore back. On the ground not even a foot from the crinti, he sat choking on the burn of emotions he had no energy to entertain. “Theseus deserved so much better than you. He was good. All he ever wished to do was help! Why did that condemn him in your eyes?! Why was he ever a threat?!”

A reply didn’t come immediately. Rhaenoran leaned back in silence, rubbing at his throat. “I can’t answer that.”

“So what? You were just the suicidal attack dog to have the pleasure of taking his life?”

Jade eyes settled upon Marcello, following the trail of tears down and watching them splash upon the grass. A shadow passed over his face and his shoulder sagged. “It wasn’t that way till after.”

“After what?” Marcello demanded. He leaned forth again and his jaw jumped with tension.

“After I killed your brother.” Teeth flashed back in an irritated snarl and Rhaen dared to lunge forward again. His fingers twisted into the man’s shirt. “So just do us both a favor and kill me already, you stupid fool.”

Marcello’s lip twitched in a defiant, almost cruel smile. “A favor to you is hardly a favor to myself.” His hand flattened against Rhaen’s chest, pushing him back to maintain distance. “If I kill you, I’ll have nothing left to fight for. This whole war is for him. For the people he loved.” The laugh returned and he gathered onto his feet, staggering a step back with a sway. “You’ve put yourself at my mercy and I regret to inform you, but I grow bitter these days. I’ll cling to your existence like fuel to a fire. You’re mine now.”

For a brief moment, Rhaenoran’s features withered. “So what? I’m your slave now?”

“Coerced attendant.” Marcello’s nose wrinkled as he wiped away a stray tear, forcing his expression back to neutral. “Slave is a dirty word and has not been in Halruaa for quite some time now.”

“Lucky me.” Rhaen gathered to his feet just in time to catch Marcello’s arm as the man’s footing slipped. “...For how long?”

Marcello didn’t fight the help, his chest twisted in utter agony and turmoil as his mix-matched gaze swept the sky above. “Until I die by means other than your own hand. Should you ever try to kill me, I’d have you locked away until you died.”

A breathy chuckle rolled free. “Until I die? You may be sorely disappointed.”

“We’ll see who disappoints who first.” Marcello drew away to move back for the camp, expecting the crinti to follow with little argument this time. “I’m not sure if Theseus would approve or loathe this decision of mine.”

Rhaen did follow. They made it back near their recluse sleeping area aside the fire where Aven’s snores now serenaded the night. “I didn’t… drain him fully, you know. I could feel him fight to the very end and I couldn’t do it.”

“I don’t give a shit.” Marcello sank down against a pillar and winced as he made himself comfortable. “You’re my attendant now, not an attack dog. Your job is to entertain me, not make me weep.”

“...Then what would you have me do to entertain you.”

“Figure it out. You were the Court Jester, right? Tell me a story.”

Rhaen hesitated. His fists clenched, unclenched and with a wave of his hand - cast a spell. Teal blue light erupted down his runes as he cast, using up the mana he’d just stolen from Marcello to conjure an image in the night.

It was a mist that shimmered with imagery as it surrounded them. It took form, wisps of silver solidifying into verdant green trees and gusts of fog morphing into small little Dambrathan town houses. A village... a festival. Peaceful. Prosperous. Happy. Ripe orchards filled with apples bursting at the brim, and lush green grasses grazed upon by hundreds of horses.

“What is this?” Marcello murmured and Rhaen grimaced, clenching his fist. Wisps of mist fell from his fingertips, and began to take form. Men. Women. And with a start - Marcello sat up straight as a man walked through the mist, smiling as he looked over his shoulder to a woman who followed close behind.

“Theseus,” Marcello whispered in a choke. Tall. Handsome. Rather than the raven black of his brother, his hair was brown and curled near his shoulders, blue eyes kind and jaw peppered with stubble. The woman that walked beside him was beautiful and fair and Marcello’s throat clenched. “And his girlfriend...Mariele.”

"That's right," Rhaen murmured. Nearly thirty others, men and women enjoyed the festival, smiling, laughing.

Marcello frowned and slowly pushed to stand. His hand fell at Rhaen's shoulder with shocking softness. "Your graveyard."

"...yes," Rhaen whispered. His eyes followed a young boy who raced through the streets. "...spellthieves are unique," he murmured. "Because they are not made... but born. My abilities have been exploited since I was but a boy... some have all but lost count of the lives they have taken. But not me." He glanced over. "...I remember. At times... I imagine what they could have been if I hadn't.." he trailed off.

Marcello's hand lingered on his shoulder. Tight. As though he needed something to grab, and squeeze. "Don't dwell. We suffer enough nightmares in the night to weather through them while awake." At last, Marcello drew his hand away and waved it dismissively.. "You're not much of a killer."

Rhaen's focus wavered and the image crumpled. "I'm inclined to agree."

His throat was tight. Tight enough to strangle him and Marcello tugged on his collar, as though it might help. “Well, this has left me exhausted. Can I trust you not to kill me in my sleep?"

"If I wanted you dead, all I'd have to do is wait." Rhaen glanced over. "You're not going to tell them?"

Marcello was in the midst of making a grand show of laying out his bedroll when he stiffened. "...there's nothing to tell," he murmured, laying down.

Uncomfortable. Hard. But he was so tired. His head had touched the pillow for all but a minute before Marcello fell into a fitful sleep.

As Rhaen and Marcello went quiet, Lucian lifted his head carefully from Aven's chest to watch them. Aven's warm brown eyes stared up at the sky, his expression pained. "They're finally asleep," Lucian murmured and Aven expelled a breath.

"I really thought Marcello was going to kill him," Aven whispered.

"Shame that he didn't."

"Do you think it's because Marcello fucked him first? Not to be... that person, but he's traumatized." Aven sat up slightly. "He grasps at memories that.." Aven stopped and grimaced. "...Nevermind."

Lucian's brow arched. "Speak plainly. You've never held your tongue before."

Aven heaved a sigh, pulling Lucian back down so that he could run his fingers through long locks of blonde hair. "I think he'll hold on to his brother's killer to keep close to his brother's memory. Rhaen was the last one to see his brother. To touch him. That makes him important."

Lucian ignored the tender touches. "Spellthieves are born to take, steal and destroy," he muttered. "Keeping Rhaen... he will become an obsession. It would be easier to just-" he cut himself off and with an irritated sigh, nestled himself closer to Aven. "But it's not my decision. It's Marci's."

Aven blinked. A slow smile settled over his lips. "Marci?"

"...Marcello."

A low laugh rumbled in Aven's chest. “You love him.”

“No. I hate his guts.”

"Of course you do," Aven purred. "I'll watch the spellthief... you get some rest."

The Prince relaxed against the man's chest. Despite the chill of night, Lucian could scarcely feel it against Aven's bare skin. His fingers brushed up his stomach and he touched his lips to Aven's neck. "...wake me when you begin to tire."

"I will. Goodnight, Lucian."