Chapter 40 - Flushing the System

The homecoming of the Netyarch returning to Halarah was one of great festivities. The people of Halruaa would take any chance to throw magnificent balls and soirees, and upon the arrival of their monarch and his companions, the streets were filled with light and life. The great twisting towers and expansive manors glittered in the evening light as the party made their way through the city, the shadows of flying ships passing them by.

Rhaen had never stepped foot inside Halruaa's reclusive and secretive capital. As he sat behind Marcello on his white horse, his jaw was all but dropped as they were paraded through the city. Those that noticed a Crinti among Marcello's party stopped in their dancing to stare, point and whisper, no doubt fantasizing gossip worthy stories that would be spread through the city like wildfire. In their three foot powdered wigs and puffed up dresses of every shade, they watched Rhaen like he was a new zoo animal.

Marcello glanced back. “What do you think?”

“I can see why the Masters so desperately want your secrets. You Silvercrests have created a paradise in a realm of ruin.”

“A paradise,” Marcello snorted. His gaze turned forward towards the Palace that rose above the city. “Paradises don’t exist. There’s always a catch to them.”

Marcello felt no sense of peace upon arriving at the foot of his palace. His home. It was a beautiful display of masterful architecture married with potent magic. Cylinder towers spanned up into the air topped with domes etched with thousands of arcane runes of protection and arcane enhancements. Golems and mages stood guard outside the palace. At the return of the Netyarch, the guards lowered into bows - but did not step aside. "Your majesty," one of them said. "We welcome your return to Halarahh. Where is the Princess?"

Marcello's face went white. Lucian swept forward and glowered at the guard. "Your lord is tired," he said, voice cool as he stared down the mage.

“Lucian, it’s all right,” Marcello eased. “Leave us. I have no need for an armed escort in my own home.” Without another word, Marcello swept by the baffled mages and into the palace. It was as impressive as before. An ever changing interior meant to bewilder and confuse unwanted guests. It was impossible to navigate, unless you were a welcome visitor.

“I’ve heard stories of your palace,” Rhaen commented. “Crinti assassins have become lost in these halls, and were found years later locked in a room that had closed behind them starved to death.”

“All the rumors are true,” Marcello nodded. “I don’t recommend running.”

The Spellthief gave a wry smile. “I’m not sure where I’d be running to. Even if I wanted to. Is this the part where you lock me in a cell and torture me for information?”

“If I wanted to torture you for information, I certainly wouldn’t need a cell to do so,” Marcello purred. “You’re going to be imprisoned, but for your own safety. The people of Halruaa do not look kindly upon the Crinti. Especially one that murdered their beloved Netyarch.”

Marcello called upon a nearby guard, and instructed them to bring Rhaen to their luxury cell. Lucian watched the Crinti be dragged off and he turned to Marcello. “A luxury cell?”

“A holding place for Halarah’s prominent nobles who seem to think that money can buy anything. However...” his eyes hardened. “...depending on information our ploy unveils... not even a luxury cell will save those traitorous bastards from treason.”

Lucian nodded in agreement. "It's time to flush the system. Aven and I will investigate, to see which of the decoys were attacked during our absence. That will narrow down our suspects within your council-"

Lucian was cut off as Marcello's arms hooked around him in a hug.

"Thank you," Marcello murmured. "The moment you do, find yourselves something to eat and settle."

"Eating a Halruaan banquet is the first thing I intend to do," Lucian promised. He embraced the man and pulled back, eyes searching Marcello’s face in worry. "And what about you..? You should also be resting."

“I will. But first...” Marcello’s heart clenched. “There’s someone I need to speak with.”

There was nothing Marcello wanted more than to take a long, hot bath, sip on a glass of wine and fall into a warm, comfortable bed. But there was something he needed more than luxury. Someone he needed more. The Netyarch did not allow himself to be seen. Not by courtiers, filling the palace halls with whispers and rumors. Not the servants bustling about. The last thing he wanted was to be pulled into some idle conversation.

By the time Marcello reached his room of choice after maneuvering through the labyrinthian palace, his legs felt as though they might collapse beneath him. His knuckles rapped on the door. In seconds, it pushed open.

The Castellan stood, fully dressed and perfectly poised. Marcello was unsure he’d ever seen the man ruffled. But at the sight of Marcello, he looked like a man who’d seen his son come home from war. “Marcello,” he breathed, a single step closing the distance between them as he coiled his arms around Marcello’s shoulders.

The Netyarch stood tense. Still.

The Castellan pulled back. Worry tugged at his features. “You’re so thin,” he muttered. His warm hand fell to Marcello’s face. “What’s happened, Marcello?”

He pushed it all back. The heat in his eyes. The way his heart seemed to be swallowed up by some black pit in his chest. Marcello pulled the man’s hand away and swept into the room. “I needed someone to talk to.”

The Castellan studied him a moment more before he bid Marcello entrance. “Please... one moment, let me draw you a chair.”

One might never have guessed that the Castellan’s chambers were actually his bedroom. After all - there was no bed. Simply a large, comfortable chair that sat by the window. No fireplace to warm the room. Only flickering mage lights that illuminated the towers of bookshelves that lined the walls, and a large desk that was swallowed up by scrolls and parchments and letters. The Castellan led Marcello to the chair and let him ease down.

“Do you want a drink?” The Castellan asked as Marcello sank down into the silvery cushions.

“Do you have wine.”

“Afraid not,” the Castellan said as he poured a cup of steaming tea. “You know I’m partial to tea. You may find yourself enjoying it. It’s Long Jing.”

“Long Jing?” Marcello conversed as he took the cup. "That's native to Kara-Tur, is it not?"

"That's right." The Castellan sat down beside the man. "Known as West Lake Dragon Well. It's a green tea. In my opinion, it's among the best brews in all of Toril. The tea is only grown in the Zheijiang province. It's shipped at great expense."

Marcello's smile didn't touch his eyes. "Then I'll consider myself lucky. At least now I know where your salary goes."

"Among other expenses," the Castellan nods. "However..." he set his glass down and leaned forward. "I can't imagine you're here to talk about tea."

Moonlight spilled into the room. It brought out the lines of wear upon the Netyarch’s face. The gauntness of his once full features. The single line of silver that swept through his hair. He looked back to the Castellan, and the first push of tears glittered in the silver glow.

“She’s gone.”

The Castellan didn’t move. For a long moment, he didn’t even breathe. Then, finally, the man slumped back into the chair. Sadness clouded his features. “When I heard you had returned without the Princess,” he said, voice tight with grief. “I hoped...I did not want to fear the worst. How-”

“That fucking dragon,” Marcello snarled. His fingers coiled into locks of black hair, nearly ripping them from his scalp as he bowed over with a choked sob.

“Dragon...” The Castellan’s eyes widened. “...You took the road through the Rethild.”

“It was the fastest way. I thought... thought it would be fine. She wasn’t supposed to be there, she wasn’t supposed to come, but I let her.” Tears flooded his eyes and Marcello sucked in a sharp breath. “I let her. It was my decision to let her join us, my decision to take the road through the Rethlid and now-”

Crack.

Marcello jerked as hot tea spilled over his fingers, burning them. His grip had shattered right through the glass cup and the Castellan leapt to his feet to find a towel. Wordlessly, he cleaned the fragments of glass that had burst over the carpet and took Marcello’s shaking hands to wipe away the hot water. “You’re burned.”

Marcello could scarcely feel it. “It’s fine,” he muttered, and scowled as the Castellan took his thin hand in his.

He brought the Netyarch’s fingers up to his lips and exhaled. But rather than warm breath, a cool mist breathed from between his lips, cooling his seared skin and alleviating the pain. Marcello rubbed his wrist. “Thank you.” He took a ragged breath. “I’m sorry about your cup... I’ll replace it.”

The Castellan waved his hand. “Don’t mind the cup,” he eased, sitting back. “...tell me what’s happened, Marcello.”

It was the first time that Marcello Silvercrest allowed himself to break. Allowed his heart that he’d kept locked tight inside his chest for so long to shatter into pieces. He could scarcely breathe as he told the story, past the tears that choked his throat and blinded his vision.

He told the man everything. The horror of the black dragon that had descended upon them, and ripped his sister in half.

He told him of Tartarus, and how his desperate escape had led him and his friends to the prison of demons and devils, and the way they called for him to take his own life.

He told the Castellan of the Crinti, how he had to drown them all and when a young Spellthief tried to kill him in his sleep on a suicide mission... and learning that the same man had also killed his brother.

The Castellan was a good listener. He drank his tea and made sure Marcello’s new cup was full, urging him to hydrate himself as he told his story without ever taking his eyes off the man. When Marcello had finished, it was past midnight and he had no more tears to cry. His hands shook as he gripped his refilled cup and stared out the window to the glittering city that glowed like a thousand lanterns in the night.

Finally, the Castellan put down his drink and sighed. “...the dragon you met was Valraxaxath.”

Marcello’s tired eyes looked up. “Valraxaxath..?”

The man nodded. "He's known as the Master of Teleportation. He's a legend among dragonkind. A powerful dragon, with fearsome arcane abilities that he's mastered over the centuries he's terrorized the Rethlid.” His eyes hardened. “...black dragons are cruel. Perhaps the cruelest of the chromatic breeds. They lack the ambition of reds, and the guile of greens... but they are savage. Even seconds upon hatching, a black dragon will look to shred and tear any before it, to cause as much pain and terror as possible before moving to sentient prey.”

Marcello winced. “...he went for the weakest of us first,” he muttered. “When a smarter dragon would have gone for Aven... or myself.”

“He did it to demoralize you.”

Marcello’s eyes squeezed shut. “I can’t stop seeing it,” he whispered. “What he did to her... we were never able to recover her. Her body, her bones... they’re still out there. We have nothing for-” his voice strangled. “..for her funeral.”

The Castellan reached out. His fingers fastened with Marcello’s. “...I’m so sorry, Marcello.”

The man gave a laugh. A dry, humorless, strained laugh. “That’s not all.”

The Castellan grimaced. “What is it..?”

Marcello leaned back. “...I think I might be ill.”

“You looked ill the moment I saw you,” the Castellan noted. “I attributed it to the fact that you may not have been eating or sleeping well.”

“That’s true. I haven’t been. But...” Marcello grimaced. “...do you remember the Merrenoloth I mentioned. The ferrier that bid us passage over the Styx..?" The Castellan nodded. "He asked a trade. I..." Marcello swallowed. "I offered myself. I thought he'd kill me... perhaps I wanted him to kill me. But when the deal was over, I was alive. Ever since then, I've been feeling ill. Especially when I use my magic. It's almost like..."

"What happened to your father?"

Marcello nodded. "I never understood how or why father's magic began to make him sick. The servitors said it was like a cancer of his magic but... perhaps he made a deal somewhere down the line as well. And if it is the same...it will kill me. As it did him."

The Castellan however, shook his head. “No, Marcello. The curse that took your father’s life was not some terrible deal he made.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I was there when he became sick.” Marcello’s brows furrowed with confusion and the man heaved a breath. “...your father was a spellthief. You know very well his... obsession with draining the mana of others, to pass off as a powerful mage.”

Marcello grimaced. “I don’t have to be reminded.”

“He put you and your siblings through immense strain, forcing you to expend mana for him to drain. But it was not enough.... It was never enough.” The Castellan hesitated. “...has your father ever told you about the Midnight Caverns?”

“The...Midnight?”

The Castellan snorted. “Of course he didn’t. How very much like him... the Midnight Caverns are a series of caves beneath Halruaa. They are the sole reason why Halruaa has been blessed with arcane prowess. For within the caves.... Is a direct tear into the Weave itself.”

“That’s impossible.” Marcello leaned forward. “The last time that happened, there was disaster. The land split apart because of the magic that seeped into the world through the tear.”

“You’re right. Without a conduit for that magic, it would have been a catastrophe. But this tear resided within a cave of crystals. Much like the crystals used in Aeliorn to power spells with metamagic. The crystals absorbed the raw essence of the Weave - the source of all magic. It was a limitless source of magic. Never ending... and immensely powerful.”

“I suppose that explains why my father wouldn’t tell anyone of it,” Marcello muttered. “I imagine he was drawn to those caves like a vampire to blood. But how did this tear happen..?”

“It’s quite a long tale.”

“I came here to talk.” The edge of Marcello’s lip lifted tiredly. “So get talking, old man.”

“Watch your tongue, boy.” Humor twinkled in the Castellan’s eyes as he leaned back. “...Mystra, the goddess of magic, has taken many forms. As mighty and powerful as she is - she simply cannot seem to stay alive. It was said Cyric, with the aid of Shar, murdered Mystra in order to obtain control over the Weave.”

“And it was not what they anticipated,” Marcello said dismissively. “With Mystra’s death, the Weave collapsed, plunging the world into the era of the Spellplague. We all know this story, Castellan. It was the breaking point of Halruaa. All the land was entirely uninhabitable. I fail to see how this relates to caverns supposedly underneath my country.”

“Ah, not just your country, but your city.”

“Even better.”

The Castellan chuckled. “The caves were chosen by Elminster himself to be the grounds of a powerful ritual that would bring the Mother of Magic back to us. He took her divinity within himself, and embarked on a journey across the wasteland of Halruaa - once the verdant seat of magic - to a special location deep beneath the earth.”

“A testament to how much Elminster cared for her,” Marcello noted. “Most would have simply kept that divine power for themselves.”

“He was a man in love. He transferred that divinity back to Mystra. The power of the ritual was immense. Crystals grew rampant about the cavern, filled with raw arcana, and the underground pool from which she arose was said to be a direct line to the weave itself, filled with beings of her design, blessed to oversee and protect her site of rebirth. It was enough to cleanse the whole land of its diseased and withered state, making it once again prosperous as magic returned.” He paused, sweeping a look over Marcello to make sure he was still listening. “Above that cavern, the very first Silvercrest, a child of Mystra’s daughters, built a grand palace atop it, swearing to defend it for many generations to come. And with that promise, he took the title of Netyarch, rebuilding a nation that we know today as Halruaa.”

“But what does this have to do with my father..?”

“Murdock Silvercrest was the first to rediscover the caves. The crystals that grew in response to Mystra’s resurrection were infinite vessels of mana...he would spend hours in those caves. Draining them until they were expended of magic, only to be filled with mana hours later. He grew obsessed. It’s why he stopped feeding off of you and your sister.” The Castellan sighed. “...but it was unnatural. It defiled a holy place of Mystra. And after many long years... the mana that he drained from the crystals began to sicken him. Like your very blood turning to poison in your veins.”

“He corrupted them.”

The Castellan nodded. “Cancer of the arcane. Birthed through his own arrogance, and obsession. In his desperation to be seen as a powerful mage, he withered from the inside until his death. Your sickness...” The Castellan grimaced. “...while it may not come from the same origin.... It would not be unlike a demon to curse you with the ailments of your father, simply because it amuses them.”

Marcello went cold. He gripped the edge of his seat and took a long breath. “...so what do I do now?”

“What your father couldn’t. Find a cure.”

Marcello’s lip quirked. “You make it sound so easy,” he murmured.

“It won’t be easy. It will be hard. Your father tried for many years to find a cure, but... the difference between you and your father is he was terrified of other nations becoming close with Halruaa. Fear of thieves, of ambitious mages stealing our knowledge, our secrets... you have changed Halruaa forever. We have an ally in Lucian Arceneaux. Aeliorn is magically competent. And if I know that Prince... he will not stop until you are healed, and free of your father’s curse. You have a friend in Lucian. In Aven...” The Castellan leaned forward to take Marcello’s hand and squeezed. “...and in me. I have been with you since the day you first drew breath, Marcello... I will always be here for you.”

Marcello lunged forward.

His arms hooked around the Castellan’s neck, tight and gave a shuddering breath as he gripped close. “I don’t know how I’m going to be able to do this.” His voice trembled. “I lost everything.”

“You have breath in your lungs,” The Castellan’s breath was warm on Marcello’s neck as he held him. “Magic in your veins, and two working hands. The grief will not take you...I swear it.”

“...may I stay here for the night.”

“Of course. Allow me to refill your tea.”

Marcello wasn’t sure when he fell asleep. Only that when he woke, he was reclined in the comfortable seat with a blanket draped over his shoulders.

The Castellan was gone - likely having begun his morning duties. Soft golden light steamed in through the drawn curtains and Marcello slowly pushed to his feet, every bone from his neck down to his toes cracking in protest.

The Council Summit. It was to be taking place in the afternoon, leaving not a lot of time to get changed and ready...he’d have to hurry if he was to fit in his errand before the gathering. He wasted no time in getting ready, washing himself in the Halruaan royal baths, changing into a magnificent ensemble of a heavy purple coat decorated with glittering fabric designed to resemble a shifting galaxy.

Halarahh’s Palace prisons were designed for two things. Security and luxury. They were not built for the common prisoner, but enemies of the state, nobility and holding cells for those of dubious nature. Such as Marcello's Crinti prisoner.

They were all but impenetrable, accessed only by portal, through which Marcello stepped through and into the long stretch of hall flanked by cells. Each was padded, with a ring of deadened magic to dampen arcane powers from being cast within. They held lush cots, tables, toilets. More ammodities than common folk in less fortunate countries might have in their own homes.

Sweeping down the hall, his eyes glanced left and right for his Crinti... when he heard voices echoing down the hall.

"Look over here, Filth-Skin!"

"Underscum, just wait until I get my hands around your neck!"

"How dare you come into our home, chimney sweep!"

Marcello scowled and his pace quickened.

Prisoners - mostly nobles who’d gotten into trouble with the law - were leaned against their cells. Their shouts echoed down the hall, reverberating across stone and finally, Marcello reached Rhaen. He sat on his bed, knees pulled into his chest and his ears leaned downward as he ignored the harassment.

Marcello waved his hand, and the voices died as a solid wall of stone separated them from the outside world.

One ear slowly pricked up as Rhaen glanced upwards, tired bags under his green eyes. “Thank you...”

“I figured you could appreciate the quiet,” Marcello said. He stood in front of Rhaen’s lock-less door. A door that could only be opened by the hand of the Netyarch and those with his seal. “Have you been treated well?”

“You mean other than by my neighbors?” He asked. “Yes. I was given a hot meal. Have to say, Halruaan’s might have magical supremacy but your food pales in comparison to Dambrathan cuisine.”

“I’m not so sure,” Marcello purred. “I’ve been living off of Dambrathan meals for the last week.”

“Commoner meals. Obviously that wouldn’t compare to the fancy feasts your cooks give you. But one taste of some Moktessa with our spiced horse stew and you’ll be begging to live in Dambrath.”

“I beg to differ. Horse meat doesn’t sound too good.”

“Can’t know until you’ve tried it.” Rhaen swung his legs over. “You look... fancy. Seem to be in your natural state, without a sheet of mud and blood and misery on you.”

“It does feel good, having refreshed a bit,” Marcello said. “A fresh set of clothes does wonders on your mental state... which is why I’ve a pair for you, as well.”

“Clothes...?” Rhaen frowned. “I’m happy with the ones I have, thanks. Unless you intend on shaping my hair like one of those big wigs you wear. I’m afraid my hair’s a bit too short for that.”

“No. It’s nothing flashy. Even I draw the line at wigs, I prefer all natural. I think you’ll appreciate it.”

“If it means getting out of this cell, I’d wear a hoop skirt if you asked me to.”

Marcello chuckled and pushed his hand to the cell door. It burned silver, the insignia of the Silvercrest family appearing in a flash on the steel before it pushed open. “Come. Let’s get you out of this place.”

The stone wall went down. Rhaen tucked himself to Marcello’s side as they made their way through the hall. More venomous slander was thrown at the Crinti who kept his gaze forward, jaw tight. He only relaxed as they passed through the portal and back into the Palace halls. His eyes were weary. “They hate me.”

“Of course they do.”

“Do they know..?”

“That you murdered Theseus?” Marcello asked, a hand at Rhaen’s back as he prodded him forward gently. “No. But they don’t have to know. To know that you are Crinti is enough to hate you.”

“It seems Dambrath and Halruaa are not so different after all.”

“What do you mean?”

Rhaen watched as a passing servant cowered in the face of a half-drow, ducking around a corner and sighed. “The Crinti hierarchy is much like hyenas. The females are stronger, and in command, just as full blooded drow. The males are, while of higher ranking than Arkaiun, still expendable. And we’re taught from the moment we can recognize our own shadow that the Halruaans are selfish liars, hiding away knowledge that could improve the world all to themselves.”

“Well, they’re only half wrong,” Marcello hummed. “Halruaa has been very selfish with its knowledge. And perhaps for good reason. The moment my brother opened the doors to Halruaa for our neighbors and visitors, he was killed.” They entered Marcello's private room and he eased the door shut. The first thing Marcello made for was the wine - and then, as Rhaen took in the room, pulled an item from a locked chest.

Rhaen peeked at it curiously. “What is that...?”

It was a crystalline sphere, glittering and glowing as though a small, silver sun resided inside, casting a kaleidoscope of lights across the room's walls. "It's a Crystal Orb," Marcello hummed, tossing it from hand to hand. "It's the device used by the Netyarchs to summon all four hundred members of the council."

'A powerful item."

"Indeed. Which is why it's enchanted so that if it's ever disturbed without my knowledge, both the orb and thief will be teleported to Mount Talath."

Rhaen's lip quirked upwards. "Out of the frying pan and into the fire."

"Precisely." Marcello drew his thumb along the edge of the sphere and it glowed to life with energy. "I summon the Council of Elders to a summit for a trial in the next hour. All are to attend." With the message given, he places it back in the chest.

“That’s it?”

“All of the Elders will have received the message. They’ll be here soon...You’re free to use the baths if you’d like. They’re just through that passage.”

Rhaen blinked. “...this is your room.”

“Yes.”

“You’d let me use your baths..?”

“Well, you can’t be looking like a dusty washup from Dambrath for the trial.”

Rhaen stiffened. His fists curled. “...ah. Yes. The trial.” He drew a breath. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t want to be looking dusty for that.”

“These are the clothes I chose for you.” Marcello lifted white silks up from the bed and passed them into Rhaen’s arms.

“White isn’t exactly my color.”

“It’s the color of a treaty. I do believe it will fit your form... it was my brother’s, when he was younger.”

Rhaen stared at the clothes. Soft and silvery, with golden trim along the seams. Something about it made his dark features pale a bit more. “Thank you.” He turned to make for the baths.

“And Rhaen?”

The half-drow turned.

Marcello lowered himself down to sit on his bed, summoning a glass of wine to hand. "My brother was an idealist. He believed that knowledge and safety was a right all people of Toril should have. He did not die because the Masters wanted to share in that knowledge. He died because they sought to keep it all to themselves."

“...I know. He was a good man.” Without another word, Rhaen slipped into the baths and closed the door behind him.

The Council of Elders always took little time to congregate. Most lived in the Capital, while others in outlying settlements simply teleported or took portals directly to Halrahh's palace. They were the prime governing body of Halruaa, second only to the Netyarch, whose word was law - as well as the voice of reason among 400 independently-minded proven spellcasters.

Debating with the Council was always exhausting. Even when they hadn’t been summoned only an hour before the summit.

Marcello stood outside the entrance to the grand chamber, still and tall and poised - a guise to hide the heavy hammering of his heart. So much to discuss. This was the day they would learn who the traitors were....and what to do with Rhaenoran A'Daraulur.

"Marcello." The man turned. Aven and Lucian were grim as they approached, once again dressed in Halruaan fashions, much to Aven's immense displeasure. He had at least avoided wearing a powdered wig.

"Lucian," Marcello breathed. "What have you found?"

"Aven and I were with the Castellan... the plan worked. The decoy going to Mithtar, along the Eastern Wall was attacked.”

Marcello couldn’t feel any satisfaction from the revelation. His shoulders slumped. “Then we were right. There is a traitor in our midst. Now, do me a favor and tell me how I look."

"You look fantastic. As always."

"Where is Rhaen..?" Aven asked and Marcello shook his head.

"The summit should not begin with bringing a Crinti half-drow into their midst. It would undermine every other point I attempt to make. Rhaen will be introduced when it's time."

He looked pale. Aven frowned and reached forward, catching the man's shoulder. "...are you ready for this?”

Marcello placed his hand over Aven’s. “...Halruaa was not always a cesspool of corruption,” he murmurs. “At a time... it was the central focus of arcane prowess and progress. Until the Netyarchs began to fear the prospect of other nations using that power, and rising to their level. My brother was the first Netyarch to open our borders, to align with foreign nations beyond small gatherings... to create real, true change for Halruaa. And he died for it.” He gave a breath. “...I am not Theseus Silvercrest. But I intend to fulfill his dream. And in order to do so... it’s time to flush the system.”

“We’re right behind you, Marcello,” Lucian promised.

Marcello sent a gracious look to his friends, and pushed open the mighty double doors into the chamber.

They entered into a hall that was silent and attentive. Men and women of every creed sat before the three men, watching closely - for the smallest mistake, the simplest flaw to pick apart. Aven and Lucian flanked their friend as they entered and once in the center, and staring up at the rows of seats that surrounded them in an ascending half-circle, Marcello nodded his head. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "I bid you welcome to the Netyarch's Palace, and thank you for coming on such short notice."

"Your majesty." Vernan Hollowind, sitting beside his wife Ingrid, bowed his head. "It brings us immense pleasure to see you returned home safely. The Council wasn't nearly as lively in your absence."

"Oh, I imagine so," Marcello said. "My apologies for my absence, as well as my sister's."

"Lady Silvercrest has yet to join us," Councilman Arcturius scowled. "And has not been seen since your arrival. Where is she?"

A wave of murmurs erupted in the court.

Any tension he may have had before was gone, dissolved away in his iron will. Not a single emotion splayed on his features as he stood before each man and woman with purpose.

Shoulders straight.

Eyes watchful.

"Lady Silvercrest and myself departed a few days ago under covert means to draw out the Crinti in order to gauge what we were up against." The rise of whispers turned into shocked voices. "There were complications during the journey. My sister fell to the black dragon Valraxaxath along the border of Halruaa and Dambrath. It leaves me to regretfully inform that Lady Silvercrest is no longer with us.”

The stunned silence was only broken by the immediate outburst as a hundred council members launched from their seats.

"You went alone, through the Rethlid?!" Arcturius boomed. "You know it is dangerous to take that passage!"

"Lady Silvercrest should not have been traveling so soon after her imprisonment," Councilman Shaun Ravenstride said grimly. "She would have been very weak, and unfit for travel."

"Netyarch Marcello, you should have alerted the Council at once!" Another shouted. A hundred voices resonated angrily through the hall.

Still not a drop of emotion. "Quiet,” Marcello said, toneless. “Please, allow me to finish. I will hear your words nearest the end of all I have to say."

He waited until the voices had settled before he continued. "My sister was never one to simply sit back, and let the world move on without her," he said. "Even from a young age, she would not sit idly by while there were those that needed help. It is the sole reason she could not simply do nothing when she heard of the atrocities occurring at Spellhold. And it is why she did not allow me to travel alone, on a mission to save our home, and our kingdom. Through her sacrifice, and much grief, we were able to succeed in our goal. Vital resource routes belonging to the Crinti have been destroyed and their supply lines crippled. Giving us time to recover and find footing in this war. It was in the journey home....that I met someone. I have captured and taken into custody a Crinti assassin, who made an attempt on my life.”

Before questions could be asked - the doors pushed open, and Rhaenoran swept into the room. “I bring to you Rhaenoran A'Daraulur.”

The Council’s roar of disbelief and outrage could barely be heard over the sudden rush of blood to Marcello’s cheeks as he watched the dark elf enter. White certainly was his color. Silvery silks dripped down his body, arms bare to reveal the Spellthief runes that twisted down to the tips of his fingers and opened at the stomach, the seams trimmed with gold.

“You dare bring a Crinti into our home?!” A councilman roars. “Without our notice?!”

“What is the meaning of this, Netyarch?!”

Marcello waved his hand. “Be still. You will all have a chance to speak. Rhaen has promised cooperation and an exchange of intel. He will expose the enemy's secrets, plots and aid us in the war. In return, he will remain in my company."

"And expose our secrets in return?" Fastrid pushes to his feet. His Red Wizard robes flowed down to his ankles, glowering down at Marcello as he gripped his staff in hand. "Your majesty... who was with you at the time of Lady Silvercrest's untimely demise."

Marcello's jaw twitched. "Prince Lucian and his protective guard."

"Two foreigners, one of which has been accused of treason. How very reliable." Fastrid turned his attention to the auditorium of mages. "We must heed our Netyarch's words with care, fellow councilmen. I fear... treasonous intent."

There's the slightest drop in Marcello's facade in a twinge of shock. "You have not been given the room, Lord Fastrid."

"Oh?" The man said. "Am I to stay silent in my suspicion of foul play? Has that dark elf slave of yours been hissing in your ear?"

Turning back to the other mages, he throws out his arms. "He divides our attention, directing us to all four corners of the country while Marcello Silvercrest takes his sister and a foreign prince disowned by his own country for the attempted murder of his own kin. Lady Silvercrest has been slain, and a hoard of Arkaiun now enter into our lands under the permission of the Netyarch... with an assassin of Dambrath on his arm."

Murmurs ripple through the court.

"You may be looking within the wrong places," Marcello said, voice low. "Please, I urge you to take your seat, Elder Fastrid. I will address any concerns but taking control of this court is not the way in which matters are to be handled. That is instead, how chaos breeds." Fastrid scowled, and slowly lowered into his seat as Marcello addressed the rest of the Council. "I will happily shed light to ease nerves, but I ask for cooperation." No one saw it. The arm tucked behind Marcello's back, where his fingernails bit so hard into a clenched fist that the skin threatened to break and draw blood.

No one but Rhaen, who stepped close to Marcello's side to nudge him. A reminder he was not alone.

Marcello's eyes softened in gratitude and he gave a breath. "...I understand times are hard, when we are on the brink of war," he began, stepping forth to the mercy of his council. His tone has turned into something far more soothing, emotion seeping into his features in warmth. "Pointing fingers is inevitable, as is doubt. I am not half the man my brother, Theseus was. But I would not forsake his position, nor his love for Halruaa. I was raised to believe family and my country was all that mattered. We will endure these hardships, and we will surpass them. In these difficult times, I ask for your patience and loyalty. I will not let us down... and I will not betray my name." There's a pause, and his eye flickers to Elder Fastrid. "I never meant for chaos and disruption in bringing Rhaenoran back with me.”

The room was still. Still as the Council contemplated his words. Still, save for Lucian who shook with rage beside Marcello, eyes focused right on Fastrid with a snarl that tugged at his features, ice dripping from his fingers. "The Crinti," Ingrid Hollowind says, leaning forward. "Should be taken into the custody of the Council and put through interrogation. Their weaponry, their strategies... who knows what it may know."

"Am I not of the council?" Marcello replied tamely. "He is here before us today in our custody, but under special care to ensure he is not perceived as a threat. He will remain at my side.”

"Not a threat?" Fastrid sneered. "Your brother was assassinated on grounds of which you prompted."

Marcello's face went a shade white. "...he was proposing. I arranged the venue on his behalf."

"Proposing?!" Fastrid said. "To whom? There was never any record of Netyarch Theseus being involved."

"They kept their relationship secret. To keep themselves hidden from prying, judgemental eyes."

"Of course, of course. And your sister was slain by-" Fastrid barked with dry laughter. "A dragon. I think... it would be in our best interests to perhaps reevaluate your candidacy for the position of Netyarch... as well as your allegiance to our country."

Marcello’s vision went red as, for a single moment, his armor broke. Electricity crackled at his fingertips as arcane energy surged through his body like the blood in his veins.

But it was a deadly sharp spear of ice that barreled towards the Councilman - not electricity.

The spear caught Fastrid by surprise, impaling his shoulder and his scream echoed through the room as shocked Elders leapt to their feet.

In horror, Marcello spun on Lucian who stood with quivering shoulders, a twisted look of rage on his features as he glowered up at the man he had just speared.

The response was immediate.

Bands of metal shot at Lucian from all directions, locking around his neck, his ankles, his mouth. He was knocked off his feet and there was a hiss of steel as Aven drew his sword and placed himself between Lucian and the mages.

"Stop it!" Marcello shouted.

It was drowned in the chaos as Fastrid staggered to his feet, cold eyes glittering in triumph. "You see?!" He roared.

Red bled into Marcello's white face and a snarl curled at his lips. "Enough!" He shouted, foot smashing into the ground, and a wave of energy rippled out among their seats, knocking all who stood down to the ground. "I will no longer tolerate the disrespect shown in this hall presented on the account of Elder Fastrid. I strongly suggest you hold your tongues and calm yourselves. There is no treachery among myself nor my companions." He gestured to Lucian. "Prince Lucian was invited into our home as a guest, and promises have been made to aid his country. There was no opposition until tensions arose, and I will not have fingers pointed among our people like children on a playground."

"That does not dismiss the attack he has made on a member of our council," Lady Nadeen Ravenstride reminded.

"Indeed," Fastrid huffed, hand igniting on fire to melt the spear from his shoulder. "Perhaps the boy should be made tranquil. Fortunately, the Netyarch has brought us a spellthief to do the job. Perhaps it does have its use."

Aven snarled and leveled his blade at any who would dare come near.

Chaos erupted. Those appalled at the mention of using a spellthief for such wicked means. Others who approved. In the midst of the chaos, Rhaen tugged at Marcello's sleeve.

"What?!" Marcello hissed furiously.

"I've seen him." Rhaen pointed to Fastrid, now speaking directly with the Council in a seize for control of the chaos. "He spoke with my Master through divination. As well as several others here."

"What?" Marcello whispered. "Are you sure?"

"I never forget a face."

Marcello turned his glower to the council, fists curled at his sides. "...Which ones. Point them out."

The room went dead silent in alarm as the spellthief's runes burned to life in colour as he cast his stolen mana. Seven small orbs of light materialized around him, like a bobbing halo around his white hair before they darted across the room - each one hovering above the head of a council member. "I've seen them," Rhaen repeated, louder. "Conspiring with the Crinti Masters."

Marcello passed the half-elf a grateful look. "Elders of the Council, turn your attention. I urge the importance of this information above all else that has transpired today." He had their undivided attention. Fastrid, standing beneath one of the bobbing teal lights, looked murderous. "There has been much chaos today," Marcello began. "I apologize for the stress and wear, but I would like to turn attention to Rhaenoran. Yes... I gave him access past Halruaa's borders, our capital and even the Palace itself. And for good reason. Each traitor among us now has a light above their head. I sent four parties to weed out traitors amongst our ranks, each following decoys posed as me to the furthest corners of Halruaa. One of them was struck by Crinti assassins... and all of those before you were involved in the group selected for that decoy. Lord Fastrid among them."

"Are we to believe this boy?" Fastrid snapped. I bring light to the crimes of our Netyarch, they are cast aside with no investigation and now he comes to us with wild accusations with only the words of a crinti servant and foreign traitor. How are we to believe him?!"

"We will leave it to the divines, of course." All turned to a man who swept forward beside Marcello. Armell Heron - a divine servant of Mystra. A servitor of legendary prowess.

Fastrid sneered. "The word of Mystra has no place here, servitor."

"Perhaps not," Armell said calmly. "But through the divine sight of the Mother of Magic, I may weave the truths from lies." He looked to Marcello. "My lord, I seek permission to cast Zone of Truth, to question those accused of treachery."

Marcello bowed his head. "You may. Are there any objections?"

No one dared to object. Armell Heron drew the medallion around his neck, decorated with the symbol of Mystra. The room glowed silver as a divine circle drew itself around all in attendance and the holy light of Mystra glowed from its center. "The Zone of Truth is now in order, your majesty."

"Good. I volunteer Elder Fastrid to go first."

Fastrid swallowed. “This is a waste of time. We are here for a trial. For the dark elf, yes? For his attempt on your life?”

“Oh, there will be a trial, Elder Fastrid, I assure you.”

All eyes were turned on the man who gripped the edges of his seat so tight his knuckles were white - and no one noticed Aven prying the bands of metal off of Lucian. Marcello, emotions reigned in once more, met eyes with the Thayan Red Wizard. "Elder Fastrid, have you had contact with the Crinti Masters?”

Fastrid's eyes were narrowed to slits. His lips twitched as he struggled to speak... but in the Zone of Truth, there was no room for lies. "Yes."

Marcello nodded. “Have you discussed classified information with the Crinti?”

“Yes.”

“One final question. Were you involved in the skirmish that resulted in the deaths of my decoy and their guard to arrange for my murder?”

No one said a word. Not a single breath was shared as four hundred eyes leveled on Fastrid.

A break in his guise. It was the only warning Marcello had as the man's lips pulled back into a horrible snarl, lightning dancing between his fingertips and in a blind, desperate strike for retribution, leveled the lethal blow at the Netyarch.

The great room sparked with blue as the electricity bolt tore through the air towards Marcello, faster than the man could blink... and Rhaen was suddenly there.

He tore Marcello behind him, hand outstretched towards the lightning, like he was reaching out to take it in hand.

It struck him.

"Rhaen!" Marcello screamed.

It coursed through the spellthief’s body, making his runes flare up in a beautiful light show of blue and gold. Marcello could see the pain in the drow’s eyes - holding within him that much raw energy. With an agonized cry, Rhaen navigated the electricity through his own body, and out his other hand - directly towards Fastrid.

It struck the man in the chest, sending him onto his back and Rhaen collapsed to his knees in exhaustion. The stunned silence was broken by the sound of metal bands shooting from the palms of guards and mages, binding Fastrid and the six other traitors.

Marcello fell beside Rhaen. "Rhaen," he hissed. "Are you all right?"

Rhaen grimaced, but at Marcello's touch on his shoulder, jade eyes turned up tiredly and he offered a weary smile. "...it's called Redirection," he muttered. "Neat little trick that we spelltheives know."

Rhaen was all right. Marcello couldn't help the look of relief as he pushed to his feet, pulling Rhaen up to stand beside him. "Bind them. As I said - there will be a trial. All in favor for imprisonment of the seven accused?"

The voting was unanimous as all hands raised and Marcello gave a nod. "Tomorrow, we will conduct the preparations of Kendallyn Silvercrest's funeral, and the journey to Aeliorn, to fight beside Prince Lucian for the crown. This summit is adjourned."