The Gilded Rune

Chapter Eight

Kier sat at the table in the clanhold’s common room, frowning down in concentration at the soft wax tablet. He moved the stylus with slow, deliberate strokes, copying the runes from the story tablet. Torrin stared over the boy’s shoulder, supervising the lesson, occasionally reaching down to rotate the round wax tablet so that the inscription would spiral inward correctly.

“That’s not bad,” Torrin commented. “But if you’d just take off those gauntlets, you’d have an easier time of it.”

Kier shook his head without looking up.

Torrin sighed. The gauntlets-toy replicas of those worn by the Steel Shields-were made of leather, but even so they hindered Kier as he tried to write. The boy insisted on wearing them all the time, even to bed. No one reprimanded him, however. The family was still grieving the death of the newborn twins, and Ambril herself had fallen ill with the stoneplague. It was as if the disease, no longer having babes to feed upon, had turned its attention to the mother instead. Ambril was too ill to rise from her bed, and Haldrin was run ragged caring for her, nearly frantic with worry he’d lose her, too. It had fallen to Torrin to watch over Kier, to keep some sense of order and routine in the boy’s life.

Torrin stared down at what Kier had just written. “It’s delvar, ‘to dig,’ ” he corrected. “You’ve scribed deladar, which means ‘to descend.’ Here, let me show you.” He tried to take the stylus.

“No!” Kier shouted. “I’ll do it.” He yanked the stylus back with such force that his hand knocked over a drinking mug that had been on the table beside him. Ginger beer spilled everywhere, splashing onto the tablets and soaking Kier’s sleeves.

“Now look what you made me do!” Kier shrilled.

Torrin kneeled beside the boy. “It’s all right, Kier,” he said. “We’ve done enough for today. Let’s stop.” He picked up the stylus rag and dabbed at the tablets. But when he tried to pat dry Kier’s gauntlets, however, the boy reared back. It was as if he didn’t want Torrin to touch his hands.

Torrin suddenly felt his face pale. “Kier,” he said in a low firm voice. “Take off your gauntlets.”

“No!” Kier cried as he shot to his feet, nearly knocking over the bench.

Torrin clasped his shoulder gently. “Kier, you can trust me. I’m your delving partner, remember? Your uncle. Whatever’s wrong, you can tell me.”

Slowly, jerkily, Kier took off his left gauntlet. Torrin knew, the instant he saw the first wince of pain, what he would see. The sight, however, still made him ill, made him feel as if he’d been punched in the stomach hard enough to make him vomit. Kier’s fingers were crooked and gray; the discoloration had spread up his hands, almost to the wrists.

The stoneplague.

“Oh, Kier,” Torrin said in a hoarse whisper. He held out his arms. Kier fell gratefully into them, allowing himself to be hugged. To be touched.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Torrin asked.

Kier buried his face in Torrin’s shirt. “Everyone’s so scared,” he said in a muffled voice. “I worried what people would do to me. People are acting so… badly. I’ve seen what they do.”

Torrin felt his anger rise. He pulled back slightly so the boy would meet his eye. “Nobody’s going to hurt you,” he said. “If they try, I’ll-”

“Moradin is punishing me, isn’t he?” Kier whispered, an anguished look in his eyes. “I’ve offended the Dwarffather.”

Torrin grasped the boy’s shoulders firmly. “Nonsense,” he said. “You’re a fine boy. What could you possibly have done?”

“I… don’t obey my parents,” Kier whispered, his eyes locked on the floor. “I sneak out. And… I took grandfather’s griffon-and that gold bar. Now the gods are punishing me. The very next day after I flew to the earthmote, my fingers started to feel funny.”

“Kier, listen,” Torrin said. Gently, he lifted the boy’s chin. “That gold bar was yours by law. It was an honest find. You know what they say: ‘Delvers, keepers.’ I was there, too, and the stoneplague hasn’t touched me.”

“Of course not,” Kier said, meeting Torrin’s eyes briefly before glancing away again. “Because you’re…”

The unspoken word hung in the air between them for an uncomfortable moment.

“Human,” Torrin said at last, the word coming out as a sigh. In all those years, Kier had never once called him that.

Kier gave the slightest of nods, further twisting the dagger in Torrin’s heart. “Everyone knows the stoneplague only strikes dwarves,” he said.

Torrin opened his mouth to protest. But no words came. He was a dwarf, no question of that. Until that moment, he’d fully expected to eventually succumb to the disease. And yet, he was forced to admit, his body was indisputably human, and thus he likely would never have to fear the stoneplague. He…

“Moradin smite me,” Torrin cried as the implication struck home. “ That’s why he did it!”

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 Faerun. 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.

“Interesting,” he said. He handed the tube to Torrin.

Torrin lifted the metal tube to his eye. “What am I looking for?”

“You understand how prisms work?” asked the alchemist.

Torrin nodded. “They split light into its constituent colors.”

Wylfrid gestured at the tube. “Light that passes through gold leaf normally assumes a greenish tinge,” he said. “The gold acts like a filter, blocking all of the colors of light except green.”

It took Torrin’s eye a moment to adjust to the dim light inside the tube. It wasn’t green at all. It was dull red, veined with black lines. And pulsing.

“So why is this gold passing red light, instead?” Torrin asked.

“It must be the curse,” Wylfrid replied.

Torrin lowered the tube, shuddering. Carefully, he placed the tube back on the workbench, beside the gold bar. “Can you remove it?”

Wylfrid sniffed, as if Torrin had just asked if he could drain a beaker of wine in one draught. “Of course,” he said as he rubbed stained his fingers together and smiled. “If you have the coin. Seven hundred Anvils is the going rate for a ritual to remove curses. Expensive, but I’m sure you’ll find it.” He eyed Torrin’s mace. “Somehow.”

Torrin barely suppressed his anger. He’d hoped Wylfrid, who’d known Torrin’s human family for many years, would be motivated by sympathy alone to perform the necessary rituals. But Torrin saw how the ground lay. Wylfrid was just like the rest of the tallfolk, grasping greedily for whatever profit the stoneplague could bring. Torrin should have expected as much from a human.

Torrin glanced down at his mace. It was everything to him. Not just a powerful magical weapon, but a link to his true past. Solid proof of who he was- what he was. But he’d pinned his hopes on Wylfrid. The gold bar that lay on the workbench was what had spread the curse of the stoneplague to Kier. If Wylfrid could remove the curse from that particular bar of gold, Kier could be healed. Torrin was certain of that.

With Kier’s life hanging in the balance, the decision was easy. Torrin started to untie his mace from his belt.

Then he paused, as an idea struck him. He glanced up at Wylfrid. “How about seven thousand Anvils-or better yet, seven hundred thousand?” he asked. “Would you be willing to defer payment, if that was the amount of coin you’d make?”

Wylfrid snorted. “What nonsense are you spouting now?”

Torrin nodded at the gold bar. “The Steel Shields are confiscating gold,” he replied. “So much gold it’s going to take dozens of wizards, casting rituals morning, noon, and night, to purify it. Those wizards won’t be expected to perform their rituals for free. Just as they paid the tithes for Sharindlar’s cleansings, the Council will pay for the rituals.”

Wylfrid’s eyes glittered behind his smudged lenses. He was probably already performing the calculations in his head.

“You may have heard that I was summoned before the Council the other night, to speak to them about the stoneplague,” Torrin continued. “I spoke with the Lord Scepter himself. If I were to mention your name to him, I’m sure he’d take heed. Especially if I were able to tell him you’d already demonstrated the ability to perform the necessary ritual.”

Wylfrid smiled. “Even if I were to charge a pittance above the actual cost of the ritual’s ingredients, I’ll turn a tidy profit.”

Torrin returned his smile, though it galled him to do so. “You certainly will,” he replied. Kier, he reminded himself. This is for Kier. He made a show of starting to retie his mace. “So we have an understanding?”

“We do,” replied the alchemist. “Let’s get started.”

It took Wylfrid some time to set up the necessary paraphernalia. He shoved the clutter off his workbench, drew patterns on it with greasy chalk, and sprinkled those with powdered herbs that smelled like the inside of a bat-infested cave. Then he poured a dusting of what looked like white ash and smelled like sulfur between the lines. All the while, he kept consulting a thick, leather-bound book. When Torrin tried to glance at the page Wylfrid was reading, the alchemist waved him away. Wylfrid continued his preparations, interrupting his work from time to time to quaff a glass of wine from a grimy goblet. He didn’t offer any to Torrin. For that, Torrin was thankful.

When all was ready, Wylfrid placed the bar of gold and the metal tube at the center of the patterns he’d drawn. Then he pushed up his frayed sleeves. “Stay out of the way,” he warned.

Torrin did.

Wylfrid picked up a vial and tipped it, letting just a single drop of silvery liquid fall from it. As the drop struck the pattern, he spoke a word. The pattern flashed white, so bright it dazzled Torrin’s eyes. He blinked furiously, and slowly the room came back into focus.

He saw Wylfrid holding the tube to one eye, staring through it at the window. The alchemist didn’t say anything. He moved closer to the window, and threw it open with one hand, still peering through the tube.

“Did it work?” Torrin asked.

Wylfrid hurled the tube onto the workbench. It rolled off, clattering onto the floor. He scooped up his goblet, slopping wine on the ash residue the ritual had left, and skulked over to an armchair in the corner. He sank into it, raising a cloud of dust, and drained his goblet.

He stared up at Torrin accusingly. “I should have guessed it,” he said, shaking his head. “The curse is as stubborn as the stoneplague itself. It can’t be removed.”

“No!” Torrin exclaimed. “You said the ritual would work.”

“Well, it didn’t,” Wylfrid said. He waved blearily at the tube. “If you don’t believe me, look for yourself.”

Torrin picked up the tube and held it to his eye. He saw the same red light as before, still pulsing. With each pulse, his heart sank still lower. He’d been so certain the ritual would remove the curse, would allow Kier, at least, to be cured. He’d prayed it would be so. Yet his prayers had gone unanswered.

Slowly, he lowered the tube. He stared at the bar of gold, still reeking with contagion. Still cursed.

Was there nothing that would remove the curse? Surely a ritual that had been done could be undone.

Somehow. By… someone.

Suddenly, Torrin realized his next step. He needed to find out how the gold had become cursed in the first place. He needed to find the people who’d cast the spell, and force them to tell him how it had been done. Then the curse might be lifted.

But how to do that?

The answer lay in front of him: the gold bar. The gold had to have been placed in the earthmote by someone. Maybe that someone could be found, and could lead Torrin back to the curse’s originator. The earthmote itself would be a logical starting point, but Torrin doubted there were any answers there. The entire city had heard of the skyriders’ spectacular find. Whoever had hidden the gold in the earthmote would already know that it was gone. They weren’t likely to return to that hiding spot.

There was one other possible source of information, however. The talismonger Mercuria, who’d given Eralynn one of the gold bars in trade, might have some answers.

The lead was as thin as thread, but it was the only one Torrin had.

Baelar let out a long, slow sigh as Torrin finished his tale. “So it was the gold,” he said. “But why? How?”

“That’s what I hope to find out,” Torrin replied.

He had caught up to Baelar, Kier’s grandfather, in a corridor that led to one of Eartheart’s armories. The skyrider must have been on his way to his post or returning from it. He carried his plumed helmet in the crook of one arm, wore the distinctive Peacehammer cloak, and had a battle-axe strapped to his back. He wore different armor than usual, however. The breastplate had a wavy, flamelike pattern embossed on its black surface. Baelar’s long gray hair was tightly knotted at the back of his head, and his beard was tucked into the leather bead bag that blacksmiths wore for protection against sparks.

“I need your help,” Torrin continued. “I need a sending stone.”

“What will you do with it?” asked Baelar.

“There’s someone in Hammergate who might be able to tell us where the gold bars came from-a shopkeeper of disreputable character who was handing them out in trade. I have one of the gold bars in my possession, one the Peacehammers didn’t find. I’m going to use it to confront the shopkeeper and trick him into saying something that will lead us to whoever hid the gold in the earthmote. If we can track the gold back to its source, maybe we can learn how the curse was invoked, and how to remove it.

“Obviously, I can’t take a Peacehammer with me. That will only scare the shopkeeper off. But you could listen in with your sending stone and pounce when the moment is right. And if I should be injured or killed, well…” He shrugged. “At least you’ll have the benefit of whatever I find out.”

Baelar stood, thinking. “So that’s why the Council was convened,” he said at last, nodding to himself. “They’ve likely started rounding up the gold already. They’ll want that gold bar you’ve got. It’s my duty to report it.”

Torrin’s breath caught. Had he made a mistake in confiding in Baelar?

Baelar’s voice dropped to a low growl. “But if you’re certain you can learn more about whoever is behind this, and do everything in your power to ensure that no one but you and the shopkeeper touch that gold bar, and if you turn it in immediately afterward…”

“I’ll swear a thousand oaths if I have to,” Torrin said. “One for every hair in Moradin’s beard. I’ll ask him to smite me with every misfortune imaginable, should I fail, even though the weight that’s already upon my shoulders is heavier than any anvil.” His jaw clenched, as he thought of Ambril and her babes, of Kier, of Maliira. “I’m responsible for enough suffering already.”

Baelar sighed. “It wasn’t your fault, Torrin. Nor was it Kier’s. The gold would have been found, regardless of my grandson’s misadventure. The new earthmote had been noted. The Peacehammers had already been ordered to investigate it, after they realized its drift would carry it over the city. Our knights are skilled in the art of detection. They would have found the secret room themselves.”

The sound of booted feet interrupted them. Two Steel Shields marched up the corridor. As they passed, they gave Torrin a baleful look, then bowed to Baelar. He waved the knights on with a gauntleted hand.

“I suppose you’re right,” Torrin said in agreement. He thought a moment. “Perhaps I was meant to find that gold. Moradin led me to the earthmote, showed the gold to me, then gave me that dream. I am, after all, the one dwarf who can handle the gold without succumbing to its curse. I was reincarnated into this body because Moradin foresaw that I’d need this form, in order to save my people.”

Baelar nodded, but appeared unconvinced.

“Do you believe the Morndinsamman led me to that gold?” Torrin asked. “That Moradin himself has chosen me to save my people?”

Baelar opened his mouth as if to answer, seemed to reconsider, and shrugged. “When Eralynn first introduced me to you, all those years ago, I thought you were delusional,” he said. “You are clearly not a dwarf, no matter how much you might try to look and sound like one.”

Torrin’s shoulders slumped.

“But the heart that beats within your chest is as stout as that of any dwarf, and as true,” Baelar continued. “I first realized that after Eralynn told me how you’d refused to plunder the tomb she followed you to. How you drew that magical mace of yours, and threatened to use it to bring down the ceiling of the tomb, burying the both of you, if she plucked so much as a single garnet from the walls. That gave her pause. And not just because her parents died in a similar manner.”

Torrin smiled. “Eralynn still thinks I’m crazy.”

“That she does,” Baelar replied, nodding. “As do I, much of the time. But you struck gold, if you’ll pardon the expression, in puzzling out the truth about those gold bars. You’ve saved many lives this day, and that’s a fact. There are veins of truth to be uncovered yet, I’ll warrant. The stoneplague won’t affect you, and that gives you a chance to dig up that truth, to find out what’s behind this.

“But no time for chatter,” Baelar continued. “I’ll get that sending stone for you. And I’ll arrange for one of the Peacehammers-someone I trust-to listen in as you confront that shopkeeper.”

Torrin’s eyebrows rose. “But I thought you yourself would-”

“Not possible,” Baelar said. He patted his sword. “I’ve a cure to find.”

“You know of a cure for stoneplague?” Torrin asked, startled.

“Shh,” said Baelar, raising an armored finger to his lips. He beckoned Torrin closer. In a low voice, he said, “Dragon’s blood.”

Torrin’s eyebrows rose. Had Baelar gone mad? “But that’s… just a children’s tale,” he said, choosing his words carefully so he wouldn’t offend the longbeard. “If dragon’s blood did everything the sagas claim-instantly healing all wounds, driving all poison from the body, making old men young again-the stoneplague would have been cured long ago. Why, there’d be no need for clerics!” Torrin shook his head. “Everyone knows dragon’s blood is just… blood.”

Baelar’s jaw clenched. “Just as everyone knows,” he said in a low voice, “that the Soulforge is in the Dwarffather’s domain, and not here on Faerun.”

Torrin swallowed hard. That stung. But the point was taken. What’s more, Baelar was the head of Clan Thunsonn, and Torrin’s patron. He deserved respect.

“My apologies,” Torrin said, bowing low.

Baelar sighed. “You’re quite right, of course. It likely will turn out to be just a children’s tale. But I’ve got to try.”

Torrin recognized the pained look in the old dwarf’s eyes. His own face was set in the same weary lines. “Where will you get dragon’s blood?” he asked.

Baelar laughed. “Don’t you remember? You gave me the answer yourself, when you told me about your misadventure with the red dragon a few days ago. With a little luck, those wyrmlings shouldn’t prove too hard to kill. Their mother, however, will be another story. You and Eralynn were blessed by the Luckmaiden that day you escaped her.”

“I suppose so,” Torrin replied.

“What’s more, I’m not the only one to grasp at this straw,” Baelar said as he glanced up and down the corridor. “It’s gone unnoticed in the general commotion, but several of the Steel Shields and Peacehammers have vanished,” he whispered. “Some say they’ve abandoned their posts-taken their families and fled-but that’s not true. They’ve gone to the Wyrmcaves, chasing the very thing I’m seeking, and the dragons have killed them. But they didn’t know about the two young wyrmlings. Nor did they have a frost axe, or magical armor ensorcelled to shield against fire.” He thumped his breastplate and jerked a thumb at the axe strapped across his back, a weapon with an icicle-shaped sliver of clear topaz set into the top of its shaft, between the double blades.

“I’ll succeed where all those others have failed,” Baelar continued. “I know my way around the Underdark. I have magic to silence my footfalls. That wyrmling’s throat will be slit, and I’ll be on my way back with its blood before the mother dragon even realizes it.”

“But-”

Baelar shook his head. “My mind is set,” he said. “And keep your mouth shut about where I’m off to. Just concentrate on your part of it. You’ve got your own quest ahead of you-learning where that gold came from. That, my lad, is what the Morndinsamman intended for you.”

Baelar straightened. “Now let’s get you that sending stone and arrange for someone to listen in while you confront the shopkeeper. May Vergadain the Trickster grant you a silver tongue, and words that slide from it like silk.”

“My thanks for the blessing,” Torrin said. Although he knew Baelar’s quest would likely prove futile, he returned the blessing. “And the same to you. May Clangeddin Silverbeard make your axe strike true. And may Marthammor Duin speed your steps.”