A peaceful silence once again fell over the darkened ward. Steam rose from the slowly cooling bodies as Quessahn stepped through and over them to peer into the alley.
"What in blazes is this? Did someone beat us to the punch?" Tavian grumbled, covering his nose and mouth, the stench of the soulless even more pungent in death.
"I don't think so," Quessahn replied as she glanced to the southern sky and pointed. The column of crimson light had disappeared, leaving only a sparkling cloud of blue, drifting in the wind as the roiling clouds fell apart and returned to their normal courses. The fires in the sky were gone, and the chilling mist returned, setting Quess to shivering even as a glimmer of hope warmed in her heart. "He must have done it," she whispered. "It must have been Sathariel himself… tied to the ritual somehow. The angel died and-"
"What in Torm's name are you babbling on about, lass?" Tavian asked and grasped her shoulder, shaking the daze from her eyes. "An angel? Rituals? You're not making any sense!"
"No, she is not," a voice added from the alley as a figure approached, two faintly glowing eyes accompanied by the tapping of a wooden staff. Quess flinched for a moment but calmed as the familiar wizard came into view, dark robes covered in ancient, barbaric runes and accented by guards of leather. Long braids covered his shoulders and he wore a strange, wavy-bladed sword at his side. His eyes, blue orbs of glowing ice set in a too-pale face, regarded Quessahn curiously. "However, I am eager to hear the tale of this night if you are willing to spare her for a moment or two, Commander."
"Master Bastun, I wasn't aware that you had returned from Shadowdale," Quess said, inclining her head slightly.
"Apparently not," Bastun replied.
"I'll do better than spare her for a moment," Tavian said, sheathing his sword. "I'll join you for a bit of a chat. Warden Tallmantle will want a full report, and my own curiosity will not easily be put to rest until the tale is told… well, at least this young woman's version of it, that is." The last he added with a narrowed glance at the eladrin before extending his hand to the wizard. "Well met, Master Bastun, was it?"
"It was-I mean, it is," Quessahn stammered, her tongue caught between her racing thoughts and her racing heart, keeping the southern sky in sight as she introduced the officer. "This is Commander Gravus Tavian. He was escorting me, that is, I was leading him-"
"Calm, child. There is time. Shall we go inside and warm ourselves?" Bastun said, placing an unnaturally cold hand upon her arm as he directed the officer toward the house gate.
"You read my mind, Master Bastun," Tavian replied. He shouted over his shoulder as they strode toward the gate, "Aeril! You enjoy the cold so much, keep this alley secure until I return."
Quessahn walked with them slowly, distracted as she stared at the sky in wonder, looking for Jinnaoth until Flint Street was out of sight. Even as she tried to arrange her thoughts, placing her experiences of the past two days in some kind of understandable order, she kept thinking of the deva.
For all that had passed between them, she longed to see him alive and well-and, almost shamefully, she hoped he felt the same.
Maranyuss spied upon the eladrin as she walked through the gate of the House of Wonder. Wizards filled the alley, pointing to the sky and discussing wild theories on what had just occurred in hushed voices.
Officers of the Watchful Order began gathering the magic-users in groups, questioning them as the Watch set out to return order to the ward.
The night hag stroked the ruby pendant around her neck, calming her greedy hunger for the skulls' souls, patient enough to wait until the excitement wore down. She smiled, despite herself, at the little victory they had achieved, though she would never admit such a thing to her strange allies.
"Interesting evening, eh?" Briarbones remarked as he shuffled up to her, leaning on a branch that served as a makeshift walking stick. "It is nice to be surprised every century or two."
"Surprised?" Mara asked.
"Well, it's not every day that a gruesome series of mass murders results in what some might construe as good news. Most end quite tragically, that is, if anyone survives to tell the tale at all," he answered. "Though, I must say I am curious to hear Jinnaoth's version of events."
"I'm sure you are. You knew about that sword he carried, didn't you?" Mara asked, her eyes flashing crimson through the illusory gaze she wore.
"I suspect I knew just as much as you did." Briar grinned slyly. "Much more than him, at any rate. I honestly thought it was just a myth, a bedtime tale for good little devils to hear upon their fiery pillows at night… but the deva would have thrown it away if we had told him."
"And we would all be dead," Mara added casually, not feeling too strongly one way or another about the prospect, but not disappointed at being counted among the living. "Do you suppose we were nobly withholding a secret? Or do we merely value our lives more than we do his?"
"Well, one doesn't grow as old as I am by acting overly noble," Briarbones replied. "Make of that what you will."
"I shall," she said, slipping her hand into the crook of his good arm as they strolled away from the suddenly crowded alleyway. Mara was somewhat troubled, considering the deva as a strange emotion flickered in her fickle heart, and she wondered at it, musing it to be some kind of caring or perhaps a less disdainful form of apathy. She marveled at the curiosity a breath before scowling. "I have spent far too much time among mortals."
"Yes," Briar agreed, hissing. "They tend to get under the skin after a few centuries, don't they?"
"Disgusting," she added.
"Is it the struggle, do you think?" the avolakia asked. "Watching them fight and scratch, clawing at one another and praying to any god that will listen, always crying for something better?"
"No, I think it's the hope," Maranyuss answered. "It's rather unique among them. Where I'm from there's precious little of it."
"There is a certain appeal to that as well," Briar added. "I'll never get used to the smell of them, though."
EPILOGUE
NIGHTAL 26, THE YEAR OF DEEP WATER DRIFTING (1480 DR)
The street below Pages Curious was as busy as ever as Jinnaoth stood by his window, staring out through the narrowed curtains. A blur of people rushed by beneath his golden gaze, though, day by day, he found himself looking for only one among the crowds. Since returning he had slept little and eaten less, troubled each day he walked the city streets, wondering when the moment he both feared and desired would come-and receiving his answer early in the morning, when the broadcriers began hawking stories of angels and bloody murders.
As the sun set and shadows lengthened, he saw her face in the crowd, pushing her way through the heavy traffic before gateclose. A large bag was slung over
Quessahn's shoulder as she approached the bookshop, sliding along the edges of the street before attempting to cross. Jinn suspected she had chosen to leave the House of Wonder, having learned all that she could in her time there, and he had wondered if she would make for the High Forest again, a return to her people.
She stopped suddenly in the street, tilting her head as he caught her eye through the window. Her hair blew in the cold breeze, dancing across her shoulders, and as bodies passed her by, a lone still figure among the throngs, she smiled at him. In a blink he saw her again as he had in the tower of Archmage Tallus, the faint memory of her looking at him, surrounded by a field of green and smiling, a vision of a forgotten love in the deep forest. He smiled back at her as she continued toward the shop, but his grin faded as she disappeared below his view.