The mage nodded down at one of the runestones on the table. “Order,” he said, flipping it over, blank side up. “Disorder.” Then he paused, and stared hard at the back of the tablet. “And yet… patterns, within the grain of the stone itself.” He seemed to have forgotten that Torrin was even there. He flipped the tablet faceup again and mumbled to himself.
“Yet channelling spellfire is possible,” Torrin insisted. He thought of the blue fire that crackled through Eralynn’s hands. “The spellscarred do it all the time when they work their magic. Why couldn’t a magical runestone do the same?”
“Impossible,” Rathorn said. He was obviously one of those dwarves whose tightly tied beliefs were impossible to unknot. “Next you’ll be telling me it’s possible to wring water from a stone.”
Torrin smiled and said, “Funny you should say that.” He lifted his pack and pulled out a stone he’d collected from Araumycos, long before he became a Delver. He carried the stone around with him still, as a souvenir. It was about the size of a walnut, and porous, like volcanic rock. Torrin shook it, then held it above the table. A dribble of water trickled out-more water than the holes alone could have held. The water puddled on the table and dribbled down onto the floor, prompting a frown from Rathorn.
Zarifar’s attention was immediately captured. “A rock gourd,” he said.
Torrin nodded. It was one area of geomancy in which he was well versed. “Rock gourds are valuable, if they’re large enough,” he said. “Kind of like a never-empty waterskin. But this one’s hardly big enough to quench a mouse’s thirst. Still, the point is made.”
Rathorn folded his book shut. His cheeks were pink above the beard bag. He stood. “That’s enough for me,” he said. “Good night, Zarifar.”
The dark elf didn’t answer. He was still staring at the rock gourd, his lips moving silently as he counted the drops falling from it. One finger moved downward, drip by drip, as he traced their fall.
“Good night, Delver Torrin,” the cleric added. “And… good luck with your quest for knowledge.” With that, Rathorn took his leave.
Torrin scrambled to his feet and bowed. He realized he’d embarrassed the cleric, for which he was sorry. But lately, it seemed even dwarf clerics didn’t have all the answers. As Rathorn left, Torrin turned back to the dark elf, who’d fallen silent.
Zarifar stared off into space, one hand idly playing with the tablet he’d been spinning earlier. “It just might be possible,” he said.
“What?” Torrin asked.
“Channelling spellfire,” replied the drow. He nodded at the runestone. “Grooves cut deep in stone expose the patterns within. Spellfire could leak into them and flow, like water through a trough. But only if the caster dug deep.” He pointed at Torrin’s chest. “Deep inside himself.”
Torrin stood for a moment, lost in thought. “Emotion?” he guessed.
Zarifar nodded.
So that was what triggered the runestone’s magic when it was within an earth node. Strong emotion. The first time, it had been Torrin’s fear and his desperate need to be safe, to be home. The second time, it had been his concern about Eralynn. But the runestone hadn’t worked when he’d tried to find Vadyr, despite the fact that Torrin’s hatred for him smoldered. That emotion should have been enough to carry Torrin past any magical wards the rogue had surrounded himself with. Yet it hadn’t.
That mystery notwithstanding, Torrin was making progress. The Dwarffather himself, it would seem, had steered him to Sundasz, the library, and a meeting with the strange dark elf. For that, Torrin gave praise. He was one step further along the path that he hoped would save Kier.
Zarifar yawned. He pushed his stool back from the table, as though getting ready to leave.
“I have one more question,” Torrin said hurriedly. “If you’ll indulge me?”
Zarifar had half-risen, but the stones seemed to catch his attention once more. He sat down again and began lining them up in a column, largest to smallest.
“When I used the runestone and it drew spellfire,” Torrin said, “something else happened. Gold dripped from the ceiling of the earth node cavern. The first time, there was an explanation. A red dragon was attacking, and I assumed its breath had melted a vein of gold. But the second time I used the runestone, gold also dripped from the ceiling. What might have caused that?”
“Gold,” Zarifar said, not looking up. His finger traced a line through the water left on the table by the rock gourd, dragging a wet smear across the wood. “Molten gold. Flowing. Spellfire, flowing. Patterns atop patterns.”
Abruptly, Zarifar tapped the wet finger against one of the books Torrin had taken from the stacks. “This one,” he said. “Page two hundred and sixty-four.” He pushed the tablets he’d aligned into an untidy pile and stood. Before Torrin could protest, he exited the center of the library and was gone, leaving without so much as a farewell.
Torrin picked up the book the wizard had indicated. It was a small book, its leather binding flaking with age. It was titled Moradin’s Mysteries and had a hammer and anvil, symbols of the Dwarffather, embossed on the cover.
Torrin frowned. He didn’t remember pulling it from the stacks.
He opened the book carefully. The vellum pages were loose in their bindings, spotted with age, and musty smelling. Several were missing, and others were hanging by their binding threads. Page two hundred and sixty-four was still there, but was loose. The page began with one of the standard prayers to Moradin, written in Auld Dethek. The runes were scribed in a small cramped hand that made them difficult to read. Torrin had to decipher the prayer rune by rune. Grant me the strength of heart, O Moradin, to do something good this day. Something useful, something of lasting worth… Torrin knew the prayer by heart; he said it every morning. He skipped past it, to the bottom of the page. What was written there immediately caught his attention.
One of the lesser known wonders by which Moradin makes his blessings manifest upon Faerun is the River of Gold. Glory to those who cross its ever-changing path! For not only shall they bask in Moradin’s presence, but shall be rewarded with riches the like of which have not been seen on Faerun since the coming of our people to this Realm! But beware, treasure seekers, the River of Gold is a difficult vein to tap. Use only stone vessels to draw from its current, for it melts all base metals that come in contact with it.
Torrin paused, thinking. A river of molten gold? He’d had never heard of such a thing. Gold might be melted by proximity to a volcano, perhaps-or by the breath of a red dragon, or by spellfire-but once it flowed away from the source of the heat, it cooled and hardened. It didn’t keep flowing through all the earth like a river. That wasn’t possible. Or was it?
He leaned forward to read on, his arms crossed. His right hand rested atop his left bracer, his fingers picking at the groove in it. The groove wasn’t sharp-edged, but smooth, like a line traced through sand. A groove made by flowing water.
Or by flowing gold?
He thought back to the piece of hardened gold he’d plucked from his scorched sleeve. Had it come from the River of Gold?
He picked up the magical runestone, the hairs on the back of his neck shivering erect. He could almost feel the Dwarffather standing beside him, watching. Waiting.
He was on to something-something important. Another piece of the puzzle that the dream-Moradin had urged him to unearth. He placed the runestone back on the table and read on eagerly.
No map exists of the River of Gold, nor will it ever be found in the same location twice. It flows as the Dwarffather wills. It ever must be hunted anew, in the deepest and most remote regions of the earth. It alters course continually, from channel to channel, following the magical conduits that were forged, eons ago, at the time the gods themselves first took form. Some runemasters claim to be able to direct its flow, to temporarily pull…