There, the text ended, at the bottom of the page. The page that should have followed was missing-as were fully a dozen other pages. They’d been deliberately removed, by the look of it. The threads that had held the signature in place were cleanly cut, and there was a small nick at the inside edge of the page that followed, likely made when the signature was cut free.
Torrin flipped pages, hoping to find another reference to the mysterious River of Gold, but the rest of the book contained only prayers and notes on caverns of great natural beauty. Nor was there any mention of earth nodes, or, for that matter, of the Soulforge. Just that one cryptic reference to a river of molten gold that flowed through the earth in a constantly shifting vein.
A vein that could, he was willing to wager, be “pulled” to any spot on Faerun by the runestone that lay on the table in front of him.
Torrin stared at the runes carved into the stone. “Earth magic,” they read. The runestone, he decided, must act like a lodestone, drawing not one but two sets of magical “filings” to it: the wild magic of spellfire, and the River of Gold. But only, it would seem, when it was activated within the magical lines of force that crisscrossed Faerun and converged to form earth nodes.
Any other dwarf might immediately have turned his thoughts to the limitless wealth the runestone could convey. Torrin, however, was delving deeper than that.
He thought about what he’d learned so far.
Someone-likely some enemy of the dwarves-had invoked the powerful curse that caused the stoneplague. That curse might have been placed on any object. Copper coins, for example, would have been a better choice, since they’d guarantee a wide and rapid distribution throughout the dwarf settlements. Yet the spellcaster had chosen the noblest metal of all. Why?
The answer might be as simple as the fact that dwarves coveted gold, something the caster of the curse would have in abundance. Armed with the runestone and the missing pages from the book, the spellcaster had called the River of Gold, tapped it, and cast the gold into bars, before fouling them with the curse.
Kendril, the dwarf Torrin had purchased the runestone from, was likely the one who’d removed the pages from the book. His brother had mentioned that Kendril came to Sundasz to study after their falling-out. Kendril had been a cleric at the time; he would have had an interest in such texts. The prospect of wealth without limit must have tempted him. And somehow, the secret Kendril had uncovered in that book wound up in the hands of the person who’d cursed the gold. Later, after Kendril realized the use the pages had been put to, he’d felt remorse for his role in creating the stoneplague. But instead of reporting what he’d done, he’d stolen the runestone and sold it, so that his own clan might be saved.
Given Kendril’s affliction, he was probably an unwitting pawn, unaware until it was too late that a curse had been placed upon the gold. Which explained Kendril’s deep remorse. A dwarf, Torrin knew, would never willingly condemn his race to so dire a fate.
Vadyr, as well, was likely only a minion of whoever had cursed the gold. If he’d been powerful enough to invoke a ritual capable of producing so strong a curse, he would have used magic to lay Torrin low, not a rogue’s sap.
There was someone else-some powerful wizard-lurking in the shadows behind those two. Torrin was certain of it.
That was all well and good, but it still left Torrin wondering what to do next. The puzzle, like the one Frivaldi had challenged Torrin to solve, seemed no closer to a solution, despite the fact that more than one link had just fallen into place.
One thing was certain, however. Torrin’s runestone was a lot more valuable than he’d thought. Literally priceless, since using it could make a person wealthy beyond even the greediest prospector’s wildest dreams.
He idly gave the runestone a twist, and listened to it rasp against the tabletop as it spun. Which direction next, he wondered? Back to the Wyrmcaves or some other earth node, to try once more to teleport to Vadyr? On to Helmstar to make enquiries about Kendril, to see whom he’d associated with there? Whatever course of action Torrin embarked upon next, he’d have to be as stealthy as a rogue, even with the brooch the Lord Scepter had given him pinned inside his shirt. As soon as word got out of the runestone’s capabilities-which it surely would given that Torrin had told Zarifar about it-Vadyr wouldn’t be the only rogue going after it.
That raised a question. Why hadn’t other rogues tried to grab the runestone? Surely the wizard who’d invoked the curse had enough gold to hire every rogue on Faerun, and could have sent countless hirelings on Torrin’s trail. The only answer Torrin could think of was that Vadyr must have gotten greedy. Rather than telling his master the location of the runestone, he’d made a grab for it himself.
If that was what had happened, whoever had cast the curse might not know about Torrin yet.
Dumathoin grant that it stays that way, Torrin thought.
He caught the spinning stone, halted it, then spun it in the other direction. Caught it, and spun it again the other way, watching its shadow wobble across the tabletop. Caught it and…
Suddenly, he realized the answer.
“Of course,” he said, grinning at himself for sounding like Zarifar. “The opposite direction.”
He tucked the runestone into his pack, where it would be safer, and hurriedly departed from the library.
Chapter Twelve
“Better an ounce of happiness than a pound of gold.”
Torrin counted out the last of his coins onto the merchant’s counter. He had just enough to buy wayfarer’s bread and a round of cheese. Behind him, he heard a woman calling his name. He turned and saw Val’tissa striding through the market toward him. The dark elf wove her way through the stalls heaped with truffles, dried apples, cured meats, and bags of spice, skirting around the dwarves and tallfolk who crowded the narrow walkways. She moved with the grace of a dancer.
Torrin braced himself as she drew closer. “What news?” he asked.
Val’tissa’s expression was grim. “It was as you feared. Our ritual couldn’t cure her.”
Torrin felt as though ice water had been poured down his back. His hands shook. “Eralynn is…”
Val’tissa said what he couldn’t. “Dead.”
Torrin closed his eyes and wept, tears streaming down his face. Another of his clanfolk, gone! Eralynn had been so certain the dark elf’s magic would save her. But she had died, far from clan and hearth. If only Torrin had more of the ointment Mercuria had sold him, he might have prevented it! He might have kept death at bay, as he’d done with Kier.
He’d been wrong to place his trust in the dark elves.
“I’ll…” He swallowed. Forced the words out. “I’ll take her body home. For…”
For burial, he’d been about to say. But he couldn’t get the words out.
Eralynn’s soul would already be on the Fugue Plain, waiting for Moradin’s messengers to convey her to his realm. There, she would dwell until the time came for her to be reborn. When that time came, her soul would return in a new body forged by the Dwarffather and filled with the breath of life. She’d live again-of that, Torrin was certain. Yet that promise held as little comfort as cold ash. As Eralynn had herself said, Torrin would likely never recognize her, in her next incarnation. And she would not know him.
Torrin wiped his cheeks with the back of one hand. “Take me to her,” he said in a husky voice. “Prayers need to be spoken.”
Val’tissa nodded, as if she’d been expecting that. Together they left the marketplace and made their way through Sundasz to the sacred cavern of Corellon. The sun was overhead, streaming golden light that turned the oak leaves a vibrant green-the color of life budding anew. The beauty of the grove did little to cheer Torrin, however. All he could focus on, as he walked to the statue of the elf god, was Eralynn’s body.