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.