Led by flickering lights, they descended into the shadows beneath the tower, Mara hungrily taking the lead. Jinn drew his sword, nerves on edge, wondering if they might find Tallus and hoping they would encounter Sathariel. Sight of the statue above had excited his bloodlust, and he prayed that his hunt would soon be over.
A second circular chamber greeted them below, ringed on all sides by arcane torches that gave off no heat or smoke. Indeed, there were several old books lining shelves along the walls, some sat open upon pedestals, but it was the rune-covered circle in the center of the chamber that drew their full attention. Stinking of blood and fear, wide splatters of crimson radiated outward from the mangled corpse on the floor, its form only vaguely resembling something once human. Shredded bits of dark robes still clung to the severed and broken limbs, the body's torso barely clothed and still attached to a crushed lump that Jinn suspected had once been the wizard's head. Nearby a gnarled, wooden staff had been shattered into splintered stumps.
"I think Tallus has already had visitors," Quessahn said, keeping her boots at the edge of the mutilation but seeming unable to look away from the grim scene. Jinn stared as well, his eyes narrowed, seeing less the body than the questions it raised.
"But his books," Mara said. "By all the souls in suffering…"
Her deep voice was full of awe as she approached the first pedestal, heedless of the ruined flesh and blood beneath her, swearing quietly as she gently caressed the old tome's yellowed pages.
"What is it?" Jinn asked.
"Notes," Mara muttered, perusing the handwritten text. "Bits of an ancient spell, old magic, and here… the nine families… nine bloodlines…"
"Nine," Jinn whispered as Quessahn tore her eyes away from the body and strode through the blood to see what Maranyuss had found. They conferred in hushed whispers over the book, pointing at and debating the archmage's notes. Jinn didn't listen, his attention taken by a strange vibration in the floor. The walls shook, sending dust raining down from the ceiling. Cracks spread quietly out from the corners of the room, as if the tower itself were awakening and stirring into life. He backed toward the stairs, watching the ceiling closely as the cracks grew larger. "Let's be swift, ladies…"
"The Loethes!" Quessahn proclaimed, turning wide eyed as Mara took the book from the pedestal. "Their family is next!"
"The spell must not be completed, Jinn," Mara said, eyeing the walls as more dust drifted down in clouds. "Or we may never catch up to Sathariel."
A sound like stone grinding against stone groaned menacingly from upstairs, cracking and grating like the birth pangs of a mountain. A section of the ceiling buckled violently, covering the wizard's mangled body in dust and plaster. Chunks of masonry crashed from above as they dashed to the stairway, narrowly dodging being crushed. Mara and Quessahn fell into the wall behind the deva, panting and cursing, their robes and boots stained by the wizard's blood.
"The spell, Jinn…," Mara said breathlessly, shaking her head as the ceiling buckled again. The enchanted torches were knocked from their sconces and buried, leaving the chamber in darkness.
Despite all, Jinn was most startled by the sense of urgency in Mara's voice, the earnestness in her ember red eyes. The night hag, in the end, was a selfish creature, devoted solely to her own interests and survival. The barest edge of fear in Mara was enough to put his boots in motion far faster than the threat of a tower falling on his head.
"Let's escape with our own lives first," he said as he bounded up the stairs two at a time. "Then we'll see to those of the Loethe family."
Stairs split beneath their heels as they ran for the surface floor, blinded and choking on dust, thunderous crashes booming from above.
Darvehsa strode slowly and deliberately through the ballroom, her gaze critical as she inspected every inch of every surface. Several times she clucked her tongue in disapproval, finding a smudge here, a patch of forgotten dust there. Even a casual glance at the long, velvet curtains revealed that they hadn't been beaten in days, covered in specks of lint and the occasional strand of hair. She picked at them meticulously, collecting the unwanted bits in a deep pocket of her apron, careful not to drop them on the finely woven carpet Lady Lhaerra had received from an old suitor in Calimport. As often was the case, Lhaerra had kept the carpet but done away with the man.
After inspecting the chamber to her satisfaction, Darvehsa sighed in satisfaction, folding her hands over her apron and looking proudly over the ballroom that had been filled but a few scant bells ago. She was grateful the Winterfirst party had been cut short, needing no more of the guests' messes to clean up, wincing at every spilled crumb or stray drop of hastily consumed wine. She shuddered at the thought of it and, with a silken handkerchief, took the double door handles and quietly closed them behind her.
Or course her arrival in the entrance hall meant no less of a daunting task, though her skills at maintaining the Loethe household were prodigious. The gleaming marble floor was rarely gleaming enough. The polished frames of old paintings often needed more polishing and occasional repair, the canvases themselves requiring almost yearly restoration to maintain the vivid colors of the family's patriarchs. Clucking her tongue again, she shook her head and imagined the eagerness of the younger staff to escape their duties and partake of their own celebrations. She didn't fault them entirely; however, she would have none of their excuses on the morrow.
Double-checking the locked doors, she took down a list of mental notes as she walked through the room, her heels tapping on the marble loudly in the shadowy gloom of late evening.
She paused as the resounding click of the bolts faded from the chamber, listening as a faint noise like panting reached the edges of her keen sense of hearing. Turning slowly, she spied a door at the far end of the chamber standing slightly ajar, enough to let escape the dim, flickering glow of a torch or candle. She approached it carefully as a pained gasp stretched into an almost longing moan from the shadows beyond the door.
Hesitantly she pushed the door open wider, gazing down a spiral stairway that wound around a highly detailed column of stone. Hollowed faces in the column, carved into a myriad of ghoulish visages, held small pots of glowing embers and candles that dripped thick from the frowning corners of stone mouths. Wax coated the tips of her fingers as she quietly descended the first few steps, straining to hear more, her breath held in little gulps of air lest they obscure the approach of something hideous from below.
Murmuring voices rose and fell in a harsh language that flowed rough on the air, grating in her ears even though their melody seemed to call her farther down. Deep and sonorous, the chanting was joined by heaving breaths; contented sighs; and short, desperate wheezes.
On a wide, stone wall, the glow of unseen torches brightened, casting dark silhouettes that danced and wavered on a field of flickering orange. A crowd of figures in shadow intermingled on the wall, their forms merging with one another in lustful and furious configurations. Hands were offered to gently stroke a curving cheek or raised to smash violently down on something wet and indiscernible. Whispered pleas could be heard among the throng and a scent of heavy perfume, incense, sweat, and blood filled Darvehsa's nose as she turned to swiftly ascend the spiral stairs, stepping lightly toward the entrance hall above.