Torrin’s sudden burst of wild laughter made Kier back up a step. “Uncle?” the boy asked. “Are you …?”
“Quite sane, I assure you,” Torrin said, wiping tears from his eyes. It was all clear to him: why Moradin had recast his dwarf soul in human form, why he’d sent Torrin that cryptic dream. Torrin was immune to the stoneplague. Immune. Yet he was a dwarf!
He knew his destiny, at last. He must save his people. But how?
Torrin stared across the room, thinking hard. He felt certain that the answer was buried somewhere in the dream he’d had. The runestone was a “puzzle,” the god had said, and the clue was that the runestone was gold. Molten gold. When Torrin had used the runestone, back in the Wyrmcaves, molten gold had dripped on his arm. Yet the more he twisted that fact back and forth, the more tangled the puzzle became.
Molten gold …
Gold bars with a counterfeit mark. Gold that had been melted down, and recast. Could that be the clue?
Torrin might not have figured out the entire puzzle yet, but a link had just fallen into place. He knew where to begin his search for answers: Sharindlar’s temple, in Hammergate.
“Don’t worry, Kier,” he said. “I’m going to find a way to cure you. I swear it. By Moradin’s beard, I will not rest until I do.”
Kier stared up at Torrin. Hope glimmered behind his tears. “I believe you, Uncle.”
Torrin passed through the gates that led from Eartheart proper to Hammergate, and started toward the temple of Sharindlar. In contrast to the near-empty corridors of Eartheart, Hammergate was bustling.
With the arrival of the stoneplague—not just in the Thunsonn clanhold, but in clanholds throughout the city—a significant number of its fifty thousand occupants had either fled or retreated behind their doors. Even when the general quarantine that had closed the city’s gates was lifted, those who had yet to succumb barricaded themselves inside their clanholds, barring the doors and refusing to emerge.
It was generally acknowledged that the stoneplague struck only dwarves, and the tallfolk were reaping the reward. Far and wide, the word spread about how the dwarves of Eartheart would pay good coin—no matter how steep the asking price—for food and water from outside the city, guaranteed not to have been touched by dwarf hands, delivered to their clanholds by tallfolk. In response, outlanders flocked to Eartheart like crows, drawn by the ready coin.
As he walked, Torrin passed nomads from the western Shaar, their breeches and felt hats dusty from the desert, leading pack-laden horses through the crowds. Elves from the Riftwood trod lightly in their in forest-dapple clothing, with small recurve bows strapped across their backs and bulging coin purses on their belts. Well-dressed merchants from the distant port city of Delzimmer, gold rings glittering in their ears, supervised gangs of packers whose ponies carried baskets of brilliantly colored textiles, aromatic lamp oils, exotic fruits from the south, and spiced cheeses made by those few halflings who’d survived Lurien’s deluge.
It was an open secret that neither rituals nor magical potions would cure the disease, yet people still sought magical preventatives or curatives. And the tallfolk were more than happy to supply them at grossly inflated prices. Perversely, those who sought out preventative blessings most avidly were typically the next to fall ill.
Every day, the stoneplague spread. Every day, dozens more fell ill. Torrin had observed, first hand, its dire results. Sometimes it started with the calcification of the eyes—slowly, the victim turned blind. Others seized up like arthritic old folk with brittle bones. Still others suffered as Kendril had—their skin grew crusty and flaked away like slate. Their gaping sores oozed blood the consistency of mud.
The Merciful Maiden who’d attended Ambril that terrible night was right. The stoneplague seemed to pick its victims at random. A husband would fall ill, yet the wife who shared his bed remained unafflicted. In some clanholds, only one or two people succumbed; other clans saw one after another sicken. Strangely, the latter tended to be the wealthier families. It was as if the gods had suddenly decided to punish hard work and thrift.
Rumors about the cause of the stoneplague washed through the city like dirty tides. Some said it was spread by fleas; a purge of rats followed. Others blamed bad water or miasmic air; that prompted a steep climb in the price of drinking water and face scarves. One loremaster opined that it was a second flaring of the spellfire that had wreaked such havoc upon the land nearly a century before. As a result, still more families fled Eartheart, fearful of another collapse like the one that had taken Underhome.
So far, the stoneplague had nearly always struck adults. Only a handful of children had succumbed. That lent credence to the belief that the disease was Moradin’s will. Children, after all, were innocents, without sin in the eyes of the gods. Believing that the Morndinsamman were punishing the dwarves for flagging in their worship, people flocked to their temples and heaped offerings upon the altars. Yet still the stoneplague continued.
When Torrin reached Sharindlar’s temple, he had to knock several times at the front entrance before someone responded. The Merciful Maiden who opened the door was an older woman with an ample figure and long gray hair that hung loose against her back. Deep worry lines etched her forehead—deeper than before, no doubt, thanks to the stoneplague. Dark gray circles shadowed her eyes. Perhaps, Torrin thought with a shudder, it was the start of the stoneplague.
“If it’s healing you want, human, go elsewhere,” she said in a weary voice. “We have enough of our own to tend to.”
Torrin let that slide. “I’m not here for healing,” he said. “I need to speak to the Merciful Maiden named Maliira.” He gestured at his star-embossed bracer. “Tell her Torrin Ironstar is here, to discuss an urgent matter.”
“Maliira,” the cleric said, as if trying to place the name.
“Maliira of Clan Gallowglar,” Torrin said. “She’s a devotee of the Lady of Life. Here, at this temple.”
The cleric shook her head. “She’s ill. The stoneplague.” She started to close the door.
Torrin groaned. Not Maliira, as well.
“I think I know what caused the stoneplague,” Torrin insisted.
“Oh you do, do you?” the cleric said, weariness weighting each word like a stone. “Tell me then, human. What is it the most learned dwarf clerics and sages and loremasters have thus far overlooked?”
“I can’t tell you that yet. Not until I’m certain.”
She sighed. “Just as I suspected.”
Torrin wedged his foot in the door. “Please!” he cried. “I need to talk to Maliira for a few moments. Then I’ll know if my guess is correct. In return, I’d be happy to assist the temple in whatever way I can.” He gestured at the silver hammers in his beard. “I’m a devout follower of Moradin. I pay homage to all of the Morndinsamman; I’ll do nothing disrespectful. Surely the temple can use an extra pair of hands.”
The cleric at last relented. “That we can,” she said.
She led him to the sickroom where Maliira lay, after stopping at the kitchen where Torrin, at her order, collected a tray with soup and bread. When they reached Maliira’s room, the older cleric hurried away. Obviously, she was needed elsewhere. And just as obviously, she was uninterested in his theories.
Torrin hesitated in the doorway, shocked at how ill Maliira looked. Her hair was disheveled, and her cheeks looked gray. A faint odor like damp clay—the distinctive smell of the stoneplague—filled the air. Maliira rose slightly from her bed, propping herself up on an elbow. Her beautiful dark eyes had turned nearly solid white. “Who’s there?” she asked, her voice faint. “Have you brought supper?”
“I …” Torrin said, swallowing hard. “I have.”
He glanced away. He wanted to look anywhere but at those marble white eyes. A wardrobe held robes and other personal belongings. A portrait of an older dwarf couple, likely Maliira’s parents, stood in a silver frame on the bureau. A jumble of scrolls and rune tablets on a nearby desk suggested that Maliira
liked to read. Torrin felt a pang—the pleasure had been stolen from her.
“Torrin!” she said. “I thought I recognized your voice. I just wish you didn’t have to see me like …” she gestured at her face. “Like this.” She looked embarrassed. She struggled to a sitting position as Torrin placed the tray on a table next to her bed. “If you’ve come to dance with me, you’re too late.”
Torrin straightened. “What do you mean?”
“Midsummer Night was last night,” she replied.
“Oh … Yes. I’m sorry. I should have remembered. With all that’s been happening …”
“Not that it matters. I’m in no condition to dance. And I’m … not exactly pleasing to look at any more, am I?”
“It’s what’s inside that matters,” Torrin answered truthfully. “Believe me—I know. But that’s not what I came to talk about. I came to offer you an apology.”
“For what?” she asked, a hint of bitterness creeping into her voice. “Have you offended the gods, as we seem to have done?”
Gently, he guided one of her hands to the bowl of soup and handed her a spoon. “I think I know why you came down with the stoneplague,” he said.
“Then tell me what Sharindlar cannot,” Maliira responded angrily, her soup as yet untouched. “Why is the goddess punishing us?”
“I don’t believe it’s a punishment,” Torrin said. “There’s another reason why the Merciful Maidens are coming down with the stoneplague.”
Maliira sipped her soup quietly. But she was still listening.
“Tell me when you first felt ill,” Torrin prompted. “When did you notice the first signs of the stoneplague?”
Maliira thought a moment. “It was just after you came to the temple for that third cleansing. The day that poor boy was beaten by the mob. A day or two afterward, I noticed my eyesight was dimming.”
Torrin nodded. Her answer was exactly what he’d expected and exactly what he’d dreaded. He wanted to slam a fist into the wall, to rage around the room shouting. Instead, he gently touched Maliira’s hand. “It’s as I feared,” he said. Your illness was … my fault.”
“Your fault?” Maliira shook her head. “How? You weren’t unseemly during your visits to the temple. I noticed your desire, but you gave no offense to Sharindlar. You even paid the tithe that third time, despite my absolving you from payment.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. The tithe,” Torrin said. He rose to pace the room, too restless to stand still. “The stoneplague is only affecting some of the Merciful Maidens. Is that right?”
Maliira nodded.
“It’s striking down those of your order who handled the tithes paid by the city, isn’t it?” he continued. “Those who touched the gold bars that were identical to the one I gave you.”
Maliira stared up at him with unseeing eyes. “How do you know this?”
“Clues. Observations. Dreams.”
“Dreams?”
“Never mind,” Torrin said. “The point is, the vast majority of those in Eartheart who fall ill are wealthy—people who handle a lot of gold. Several Peacehammers are also ill, I’m told—those who recovered the gold bars found in the earthmote. And then there’s Kendril. I wondered why he wanted his clanfolk paid in gems, why he seemed so certain I wouldn’t catch the ‘illness’ from him. Now I know.”
Torrin continued to pace. “I could list other clues: the fact that, for example, the stoneplague almost never strikes down children because they aren’t typically entrusted with gold. But it doesn’t matter. The stoneplague isn’t a disease; it’s some sort of necrotic magic at work. Those gold bars were cursed. They’re what we need to quarantine. Lock them away and never let anyone near them. They’re the source of the contagion.”
He heard a loud crash behind him. Maliira was standing, the table and soup overturned on the floor. She was trembling, a stricken look on her face.
“I’m so sorry,” Torrin said. He wondered if he should go to her side and comfort her. “Will you ever be able to forgive me?”
“We didn’t know,” she said in an anguished voice. “We didn’t know!”
“Of course you didn’t,” he replied. “Nor was it your fault. It was mine. I was the one who caused that gold to be found by the skyriders.” Kier and I, he thought, but he didn’t say that.
“That’s not what I meant!” she said, her face wild. She clenched her fists, tears streaming down her face. “You’re not an initiate in the mysteries, so you can’t know. The tithes we’ve been collecting … We use the gold in our rituals. Every full moon, we sacrifice a portion of what we take in. The tithes are melted down and poured as offerings.”
“Poured? Where?” Torrin asked.
“Into the sacred pools,” Maliira replied. “Here, at this temple. At the temple in Eartheart.” She sagged onto the bed. “No wonder our healing rituals haven’t worked. We haven’t been cleansing people—we’ve been cursing them. Sharindlar have mercy. We’re the cause of this!”
Torrin felt as if he were going to be ill. So that was how Ambril and her stillborn twins had become infected.
His thoughts turned to Eralynn. He hadn’t seen her since the day they had stood in line outside the temple. Surely she’d succumbed already—she’d had one of the gold bars in her possession and had, presumably, gone for a cleansing in the temple later that day. Or had she? Eralynn hadn’t returned to the clanhold, and no one seemed to know where she was. Maybe she lay ill somewhere, slowly dying?
The thought was too much for Torrin to bear.
“Forgive me for asking this,” he said. “Shouldn’t pouring the gold into the sacred pools have removed its curse?”
“Normally, yes,” Maliira said, shaking her head sadly. “I can only guess that the tainted offerings must have deeply offended the goddess. She has turned her face from us until we reverse our blunder.” She fumbled her way across the room. “We need to alert the High Maiden. Tell her what you just told me. We must drain the sacred pools, recover that gold, and perform rituals over it that will purge whatever curse it holds. Then we’ll be able to cure the sick!”
Though Torrin nodded, something still nagged at him. He knew he was treading on dangerous ground by even thinking it, but Sharindlar was the goddess of mercy. Punishing her worshippers for an error her clerics had made didn’t seem like the sort of thing she’d do.
Then again, who was Torrin to know the minds of the gods? Perhaps Sharindlar had been commanded by Moradin himself to withhold her healing. The Dwarffather was powerful. His command might have been heeded by the other gods, whose clerics’ rituals had also proved ineffectual in removing the curse. But soon penance would be done, and the stoneplague would end.
Or … would it?
Putting the contaminated gold from the earthmote under lock and key would halt the spread of the stoneplague within Eartheart. Yet Torrin had a gnawing suspicion that those bars weren’t the only source of the contagion. Dwarves in communities outside of Eartheart had fallen ill long before Kier had discovered the gold bars; there had to be more cursed gold out there, somewhere. That gold was likely still circulating and still spreading its fell curse. Like the gold that was poured into the temple pools, it wouldn’t necessarily be in its original form. It might have already been melted down and made into jewelry, or recast into coins. The cursed gold might be spread across the length and breadth of Faerûn. Finding it and rounding it all up would be a near-impossible task. Some of it would always be out there somewhere.
For the moment, though, there was one gold bar Torrin knew about—the one that had spread its foul curse to Kier. At least Torrin could do something about that.
Torrin handed Wylfrid the gold bar Kier had taken from the earthmote. A tall, thin man with thick white brows that came together in a furrow over his nose, Wylfrid was not only an alchemist, but was also skilled at casting magical rituals. More to the point, he was human, and thus immune to whatever curse the gold held.
Wylfrid placed the bar on the
pitted marble slab of his workbench and peered at it through his thick-lensed spectacles. Then he picked up a small vial of acid and opened it, letting a drop of the acid fall onto the bar. The gold sizzled, and an acrid stench rose.
“Well?” Torrin asked. “Has the gold been contaminated? What else is in it?”
“Patience,” Wylfrid said. With a rag, he wiped the froth of acid from the bar. Then he cleaned his fingers on the bottom of his shirt, which already bore holes and stains from his alchemical experiments.
Wylfrid’s home, just a few doors down from Torrin’s parents’ shop, looked equally ill-kempt. Scraps of moldy food dotted the plates and cups stacked in the sink next to the hand pump. In a corner, dust covered an untidy heap of sacks and crates. The ceiling was black with soot, and something sticky and sweet-smelling was smeared on the floor where Torrin stood. Torrin shifted away from it, hoping it wasn’t going to eat through the sole of his boot. Then again, he thought, it was likely spilled wine, judging by the smell.
Wylfrid liked his wine.
Though untidy and sometimes unsteady, Wylfrid was a highly competent alchemist. He picked up a fragment of unglazed porcelain and scraped a corner of the gold bar against it. The bar scritched against the porcelain, leaving a gold streak. He compared that streak to one on another piece of porcelain that he’d pulled from a drawer, then picked up a beaker of acid and poured it over the streak the gold bar had made. “No color change,” he noted.
Wylfrid set the porcelain aside and picked up a fist-sized dark chunk—a lodestone. He touched it to the gold bar, crouched so he was eye level with the workbench, and slowly lifted the lodestone.
“No other metals,” he said. “It’s not an alloy, either.”
“Are you certain?” Torrin asked. He’d expected the curse to be on some base metal that had been added to the gold.
Wylfrid sniffed. “I know my business,” he said. “This is pure gold. But there’s one more test, yet.”
Using a fine-bladed saw to cut a vellum-thin slice from one end of the bar, he then placed the slice between two sheets of fine cotton and used a mallet to pound the flake of gold even thinner. After several loud thumps, he lifted the top layer of cloth and used wooden tweezers to carefully lift the small sheet of gold foil he’d created. He pressed it against one end of a metal tube the thickness of his thumb and creased the edges over the end of the tube. Then he aimed the foil-covered end of the tube at a grimy window and peered through it.
The Gilded Rune Page 13
