Circle of Skulls

SIXTEEN

NIGHTAL 22, THE YEAR OF DEEP WATER DRIFTING (1480 DR)

Quessahn sat in silence as Maranyuss and Briarbones muttered and whispered over books and scrolls, lost in her own thoughts as the world revolved around her. Jinn had been right; she should never have sought him out, should never have hoped that what she'd had with Kehran could be resurrected, as Kehran had been, in Jinnaoth. All of that she knew and somehow had always known, in the deepest parts of herself, and yet Jinn had also been terribly wrong about one thing.

She had been obligated to try.

Rubbing her dry, reddened eyes, she placed it all behind her, feeling useless and self-absorbed as the others worked to solve the secrets of the murders and delve into the mysteries of the nine skulls. Dregg's body had been removed, taken away by Briar with his reluctant word given not to raise the rorden's body to serve as one of his macabre guards. The table he had lain upon had been cleaned and was strewn with pages and notes, as though Tallus's mind had been dissected and placed on display.

At length the strange pair stepped back, both still cloaked in the illusions that had become so much a part of them in Waterdeep; they wore their second faces like old clothes. Mara stared thoughtfully at the book, tapping her long fingers on the table, as Briar snatched up a single page, perusing it once more before setting it back down.

"The circle of skulls," Mara began slowly, as if choosing her words carefully, crossing her arms and pacing as she spoke. "Seeking to attain immortality, they began a ritual. They slew their bloodlines and made a deal with Asmodeus."

"Which they promptly broke," Briar added.

"And in the end they failed, were cursed, and lived as flameskulls. And for three centuries, they hid their souls from the archdevil," Mara continued, waving her hand at each point, ticking off the steps of the skulls' tale with a deft finger.

"During which time, Asmodeus became a god," Briar said as he absently twisted a length of dried flesh from the arm of one of his oblivious undead sentinels and began chewing on it. "Making what eternity they had managed to cling to even harder to hide."

"And now they mean to complete their old spell," Mara finished, "and spend the power they stole from the devil-god."

Quessahn shuddered in the contemplative silence that followed, wondering at the indomitable will that would gamble upon the wrath of a god, simply for the opportunity of immortality. Three hundred years of hiding their miserable souls, living as little more than magical oddities, the spellhaunt of the House of Wonders. When she had been but a child, the skulls had hidden in shadow for more than a century, a trivial topic for curious wizards as they schemed and plotted to take what they had lost.

"Nine immortal wizards with a century to adapt their Art to the effects of the Spellplague," she whispered in disbelief, having lived through the wave of blue fire following Mystra's death, but learning her magic well after the calamity that had swept the world.

"They are somewhat limited by their curse, only manifesting in Pharra's Alley and only dimly aware of events throughout the city in the time in between," Mara said, and she turned several pages in the book, near the end of Tallus's scribbled notes. "But the Nine are the least of our concerns."

"Sathariel?" Quessahn asked. "The angel?"

"Even he, whatever role he has to play, is nothing compared to the ritual itself," Briarbones said. "The birth of just one immortal, in this powerful release of old magic, could destroy a handful of city blocks."

"Then all nine at once… plus whoever is helping them…," Quessahn whispered, her eyes widening at the implications.

"It could consume all of Sea Ward, at least," Mara said.

Quessahn shook her head, unable to imagine such destruction and looking to Briarbones. "Is this the prophecy you feared?" she asked.

The avolakia raised an eyebrow and leaned over the archmage's notes, his lips moving as he scanned several passages.

"I do not believe so, though Sathariel's interest in these killings makes me wonder," he replied. "The First Flensing, as it is called, is an ancient covenant, far older than the circle of skulls. It is a formal invitation, preparing a single front for battle, an outpost from which Asmodeus's influence in our world would become more direct. Before his ascension the prophecy was a frightening novelty, one of many such threats, and though dangerous, a manageable one, but now that he has attained true divinity… catastrophic."

"Likely angering the gods of good," Mara added. "And inspiring envy among those of evil."

"A war among the gods." Briar nodded. "With mortals caught in the middle."

Quessahn squeezed her eyes shut, rubbing her temples as the idea escalated. Her head ached, assaulted with far too much for one evening and wondering if the sleep she desired would be possible at all. She tried to banish the speculation of the others, but nagging details kept her from ignoring them completely. Jinn's words haunted her, his talk of the killings as a distraction, a show to obscure whatever Sathariel was truly working for-and she began to agree, finally seeing some of what he feared.

"I think," she said, "we must find the souls of the circle of skulls and protect them, keep them from the angel, just in case."

"And what of the other souls? Those of their slain bloodlines?" Mara asked. "Speculations of prophecy aside, the ritual of immortality being prepared is dangerous enough."

"How many do they have left to take?" Quessahn asked. "We must have time to find them."

"Less than a dozen remain," Briar answered. "All of them children, orphaned and displaced, living with other families. A well-kept secret of the Watch, but-"

"Not secret enough," Quessahn finished, cursing. "They saved the easiest for last. Gods above." She sighed. "And we need to rest, or we'll be useless to do anything."

"I do not sleep," Briarbones said, eyeing the list, his false face twitching as he waved her and Mara away. "Take what rest you need. I'll work on locating the children."

"Find them quickly; we need to keep them safe," the eladrin said, sitting in a dry corner and pulling her cloak tight.

"Yes, of course. Keep them safe, at least until we run out of options," Mara muttered as she took the opposite corner, her illusion fading as she curled within her long, tattered robes, crimson eyes glowing dimly in her hood.

There was no malice or feeling at all in the hag's words, though they sent a chill down Quessahn's spine. If they could not keep the children from the skulls, if all else failed, she wondered if she would have the conviction to kill them herself. The thought of it made her sick, but she could not deny the possibility of failure. It was some time before she could sleep, listening as Briar worked, wondering if all their study had been for naught.

It occurred to her that, if they were already too late, she might not wake up at all.

Thin, lacy threads of smoke drifted from the ashes of a hearth fire in a high-ceilinged drawing room. Chunks of charred wood tumbled and hissed, sending small sparks to fly and die through an ornate grating. They glowed, casting an eerie light on a fine-cushioned chair and low couch. The front doors stood open, unguarded and allowing the season's chill to race through the manse, though no one remained to clutch at warm covers or to investigate the source of the sudden cold.

Jinn stood before the glowing embers, sword drawn as he waited, listening and letting the settling noises of the Saerfynn house guide his senses. Drops of blood had pooled and dried near the cushioned chair. A large, woven carpet of simple design and bright thread dominated the center of the drawing room, its far edge stained by ashen boot prints. With Pharra's Alley a short walk from the front gates, he was not surprised to find evidence of something amiss in the mansion. What he could not understand was why it had been abandoned.

The quiet home remained uncooperative, giving no indication of anyone on the premises and keeping its secrets close. He strolled around the edge of the room, looking at the paintings of the Saerfynn family, of the absent parents and several children, most, he assumed, lost as well. Callak, he observed, bore the hawkish features of a cruel man even as a child, each depiction of him including a slight sneer. Those of Rilyana were plain and unassuming, though Jinn noticed that the two never appeared in any portrait together as the other children did.

He wandered the remainder of the house, swiftly and quietly examining each room, finding most well ordered but in need of dusting and two recently used. The one he presumed as Callak's was filthy and stank of sweat and stale spirits, the bed unmade for what appeared several days by the condition of the sheets. The other bore a large, four-poster bed veiled in lace with blood upon the pillow and the sheets.

It stained his fingertips, cold but still damp and sticky.

He turned to study the rest of the chamber when the sound of shattering glass echoed through the mansion, thunderous and startling as Jinn whirled, sword raised. His skin felt flush as he waited, muscles tensing and heart racing. Tingling arcs of energy stabbed through his limbs as he crept down the long halls and winding stairs back toward the drawing room. Trembling and anxious, he paused in the arching doorway, his eyes caught by the dangling shadow of a limp body high above.

A young woman, rope wrapped tightly about her torso, a gag in her mouth, hung from the rafters of the chamber, swinging slightly. Her eyes stared down, wide and silently screaming for help, but Jinn was drawn more to the other end of the rope. In the half light of the broken window, dark wings gently folded around Sathariel's armored body, the trailing ends of his angelic form folded like legs beneath a robe of shadow as the angel sat in the cushioned chair.

The stolen sword burned in Jinnaoth's grip as he stepped forward, unable to resist the strange energy flowing through his body, at one with the sharp intent of the blade.

"Do come forward, deva. I'm quite sure she won't mind," the angel purred, pulling on the rope so the young woman swung at its end, stiffening with a muffled gasp. "What is one life, after all, when compared to countless others, eh?"

Reluctantly, Jinn forced himself to stop, an action that tested his strength, the effort frightening and exciting all at once. He could not lower the strange sword, its point trained upon the angel's heart and urging him to follow through, as if every answer to his every question were but a few strides away, the whole of creation's mysteries hidden behind a veil of angelic flesh. He fought the desire, lowering the weapon a hand's width.

"What is this?" Sathariel asked, sitting forward, eyes bright with sparks of ice. "Why do you hesitate? Am I not what you have been seeking? Is this not the moment you have desired?"

Mastering himself, an eye on the girl dangling above them, Jinn took a single step backward but could retreat no farther. One step he demanded of himself, to be sure of his own will despite the hungry blade in his hand.

"Not this," he said at last, golden gaze absorbing every detail of the angel, dissecting his opponent into parts. "Face me on even ground; she is not a part of this."

"Isn't she?" Sathariel replied, glancing up to his captive. "She is young, innocent, and deliciously random. She is a world of souls contained in one supple body. Such as these will always be a part of this, they always have, since the beginning. They will always hang in the balance, so to speak."

"Your kind hangs them there like shields," Jinn muttered, holding his ground and mustering the patience to deal with Sathariel's overconfident preaching.

"Of course!" The angel laughed, a strange sound at odds with the blank face and flowing, mistlike hair. "It works so well! It has for eons. And your side, it is not always so righteous, no?"

"Say what you came for," Jinn said, feeling as though his resolve might slip at any moment, though he loathed the idea of proving the angel right. He tried not to think of Variel, tried not to imagine her in the angel's embrace, but his every effort only served to dredge up what he feared to recall.

"You are weary, deva," Sathariel replied, leaning back in the chair as he twisted and untwisted the rope around his wrist, causing the young woman to slowly spin back and forth. "There is a weight of time on your shoulders unlike others of your kind, pressing you down, grinding away at your spirit like a desert wind…"

"Where is Callak Saerfynn? Where is his sister?" Jinn asked, muscles tensed to leap across the room.

"He is with us," Sathariel answered. "And she is safe. Do you truly care?"

"I do," Jinn lied.

"I can give her back to you. It is within my power, a gift from me to you," the angel whispered, the simple words sliding into Jinn's mind like a cold razor, for there had truly only ever been one woman between him and Sathariel. He leaned back, sword shaking in his grip at the statement.

Absently Jinn shook his head, wide eyed at the very prospect, well aware of the twisted deals made with servants of the devil-god. They promised all one could wish for and generally held true to the letter of the contract-if not the spirit.

"In exchange for what?" he asked, the question slipping out before he could think.

"Very little. Take her and leave; live in peace. Live as she desired to, as you did once, but leave the souls of the Nine to me, they have certainly earned the place that Variel currently resides in." He placed a hand over his abdomen, stroking it softly as suffering moans whispered from within him, wailing for release. "Surely you cannot think to protect the circle of skulls for all that they have done?"

"What all have they done?" Jinn asked, calming himself and playing along, easily sensing the dark lie in Sathariel's offer, making what truth he could glean shine all the brighter.

"The details are none of your concern, but consider, with their plans and schemes ended, have you any idea how this city might change? Who can know what all they have orchestrated in three centuries?" the angel replied, rising from his seat to float just above the floor. "In any case, they will trouble this city no more, and they shall face a reckoning within the House of Thorne."

Jinn hid a smile and eased himself forward once again, sword rising. Sathariel had shown his hand, using lies to tell the truth, illusions of sincerity to display his true desires. Though Jinn saw through the angel's double-speak, he would allow the deception and use it to his advantage.

"Let me consider your offer. Just release the girl," he said evenly, just desperate enough to sound genuine as he took a careful step forward, his sword responding with renewed waves of fury that banished all traces of hope of seeing Variel again.

"Of course, take your time, deva," Sathariel replied and let the rope slide through his fingers.

Jinnaoth dashed across the room, leaping for the rope as his blade cut a wide arc through where the angel had been. A blur of wings and shadow streaked into the air, disappearing through the window with a thunderous roar of beating wings. A step too late, Jinn cursed, the rope slipping through his fingers. Unbalanced, he tried to turn as the girl fell from the rafters, but could not reverse his momentum.

Her body made no sound as it struck the floor, and the rope faded into an insubstantial mist, leaving only a dirty dress, settling lightly, the angel's illusion revealed. The stolen blade fell still in Sathariel's absence, leaving Jinn light-headed and flushed. He leaned on the cushioned chair for long moments, staring at the place where Sathariel had sat, disgusted at how close he'd been but still heartened by the small measure of control he'd earned by the confrontation.

He knew the angel sought to use him. And Jinn decided that he would allow himself to be used. But the next time he encountered the angel, he planned to have his own stolen souls to barter with.

Commander Tavian strolled down Mendever Street amid long shadows stretched between shafts of yellow-gold morning light. Broadsheet criers ran excitedly through the streets, taking their corners for the midmorn rush, fresh broadsheets slung under their shoulders after selling through the early editions. The smell of baking bread, made sharp by the cold snap in the air, wafted everywhere, mingling with the familiar scents of the city.

Tavian drew his heavy cloak tight over his shoulders, suppressing a shiver and casting a withering glance at the nigh-ineffectual sun. He much preferred the spring and summer, never quite getting the knack for the winter patrol. He sneered as Swordcaptains Aeril and Naaris rounded a corner after him. Aeril drew in a long breath and rubbed his hands together, practically ignoring the warm cloak hanging loosely over his shoulder.

"Fine day, Comma-eh, Tavian," Aeril remarked as they avoided the thicker traffic of Mendever Street.

"Cold day, Aeril. Bitter, bright, and spiteful day," Tavian replied, keeping an eye peeled for more of the ward's Watch, hoping to catch a glimpse of Rorden

Dregg in the press of bodies passing by. "I trust our other men have their orders?"

"Aye, sir-I mean, yes, they've been instructed to observe and report only," Naaris answered. "Though I have a feeling even if we were in full uniform, we might not be noticed…"

He gestured west, but Tavian was well ahead of the observant officer, noting the carriages lined up along two estate walls, some already laden with locked chests. Servants worked feverishly, hauling various items back and forth through the gates as hired guards stood by. Tavian had been told that once, well before the Spellplague, Sea Ward during winter was a veritable ghost town, nobles and the wealthy abandoning the area for homes elsewhere. The howling winter wind off the shoreline was not entirely unbearable, but those with enough gold had never had to bear what they could afford to avoid. In more recent times, the practice was mostly unheard of, especially among the newer families, not as loose with their coin as in times past.

Others with coin to spare seemed intent on staying put, their hired bodyguards reporting for duty and standing sentinel at ornate gates.

At the corners of the next intersection, two crowds had begun to gather, pausing to talk in low voices as the shouts of competing broadsheet criers echoed above the din of business as usual.

"Eighteen massacred in Sea Ward!" one cried.

"Wealthy blood on Sea Ward streets!" another added as customers crowded the lads, each vying to read the scandalous headlines first. Dozens were sold in a matter of breaths, the smiling boys stuffing coins into their satchels. Buyers stood by in small groups, poring over the tale and conferring with worried faces before racing away, lost in the tide of crowded streets.

"Torm's blessed fist!" Tavian swore quietly. He clapped Aeril on the shoulder. "Buy one of those broadsheets before they're all gone!" he said, backing out of the street. He crossed his arms as more full carriages rolled by, wealthy socialites riding with their valuables. "What in the Abyss is going on?"

At a second glance, as he absorbed the shouted headlines, he noted the lack of patrons in the eating establishments and the concerned looks of other shop owners as potential customers passed them by with barely a glance. Such was the frantic pace of it all that Tavian half expected to find similar scenes playing themselves out all across the city, business as usual forgotten in the mad dash to escape being the next victim or, he mused, the rush to gawk at the next body found.

Aeril returned, winding through the crowd, already reading the broadsheet.

"Two families slaughtered last evening, sir," he said, scanning the print for details. "The Loethes of Ivory Street and the Sedras Family off of Breezes Cut, along with six as of yet unidentified men in Watch uniforms. The bodies were marked up, but Watch commanders have made no comment yet on the details of the crimes or any possible suspects."

"So much for keeping this quiet," Tavian grumbled, absently tugging at the end of his beard. "Go. Get your uniforms and a sharp blade. Sea Ward is out at least one patrol; we can help with that. We'll gather the others at midday and have the Watchful Order in the ward by gateclose."

"Lucian Dregg appears to be missing, sir," Naaris said, reading over Aeril's shoulder. "He was last seen outside the Loethe manse, dueling an unusual man in the street."

"Well, it's not all bad news, then," Tavian replied under his breath. "Off you go. Meet back here within half a bell."

The swordcaptains joined the tide of bodies as Tavian lingered, carefully crossing the street, drawn by the sound of children. As worried parents oversaw the packing of their carriages, the children played in the street, turning in circles and singing within the imposing and jagged shadow of an older house, nearly overgrown by the creeping vines of a once-impressive garden.

Tavian shivered as they sang.

Roses in the garden, roses in the hail,

Roses on the window, roses on the wail,

Roses 'round your neck, nine sterns shorn,

Roses on the floor in the House of Thorne!