James Davis: Circle of Skulls

"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."

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.

He looked down as he drew the curtains closed, raising his left arm, brow furrowed as he pulled his sleeve back to stare at the pale skin of his wrist. Every day since he had slain Sathariel, he had studied the strange scar that had been burned into his flesh, a divine sigil, some kind of angelic script that tugged at his memory and gave him only fleeting visions of the Astral Sea, flashing images of the bright and powerful gods he had once followed. They looked upon him in the visions, cold and uncaring, speaking to him though he could not hear what they said.

The bell on the front door rang downstairs, drawing his attention away from the scar, listening as footsteps crossed the bookshop floor and took the first few steps leading to his small room. They climbed the stairs slowly, as if dreading what they might find or the reaction they might garner.

Jinnaoth looked from the closed door to the foot of his bed, finding the sister symbol to the scar on his wrist glowing on the blade he had stolen from the Vigilant Order and had left embedded in the smoking armor of Sathariel atop the House of Thorne. Since then he had thrown it away dozens of times and seen it destroyed by a skilled blacksmith who was well paid for the effort.

But each time it returned to him, appearing someplace close by, occasionally returning to his hand or slipped beneath his belt, hanging ominously at his side. He had thrown it away again that morning, casting it into the sea after hearing the broadcriers at dawn, selling tales of his last night in Sea Ward, his name and description curiously absent from the printed text.

As Quessahn lightly knocked on his door, Jinn felt he was ready to accept the responsibility of the sword, though he wondered-and feared-if the eladrin would accept him along with it. He crossed the room and reached for the door, letting his actions be guided, for once, by hope.