She lay on a bier that Val’tissa and her fellow clerics must have constructed-a platform of living tree roots that had been magically drawn from the earth and woven together. She was on her back, her blonde braids tamed at last and lying neatly across each shoulder. The spellfire that had once crackled across those poor, gnarled hands had fled. Her face, so determined and defiant in life, was stiff and gray in death, her mouth open slightly. Val’tissa had closed the eyes, for which Torrin was grateful. He didn’t think he could bear Eralynn’s reproachful stare-a stare that would demand why he’d not yet found a cure, as he’d sworn to do.
Torrin knelt beside the bier and held his hands above Eralynn’s body, his fists clenched. As Kendril had done on the day Torrin had met with him near Needle Leap, Torrin brought his fists together-hammer on anvil. “Dwarffather, hear my prayer,” he said. “Convey to your realm the soul of this, my fellow Delver. May she bask in the warmth of your forge, may her soul prove to have more about it that is pure than dross, may it prove worthy of being cast anew.”
With his voice cracking at times, he continued the ritual prayer. When it was done, he stood and stared at Eralynn’s pack. It would need to be taken to Eartheart, to Delvemaster Frivaldi-assuming that he too hadn’t also succumbed to the stoneplague. As for her short sword, dagger, and shield, they would need to be conveyed back to Clan Thunsonn’s armories. The one thing that had been Eralynn’s alone was the heart-shaped glass pendant made by her mother.
Torrin lifted the leather thong that held the pendant over Eralynn’s head-carefully, as if Eralynn were sleeping, and he might disturb her. He slipped the thong over his own head and let the pendant fall. It came to rest below the spot in his throat where a painful lump of emotion welled within.
He touched Eralynn’s shoulder. “Goodbye, my shield sister,” he said.
Val’tissa waited a respectful distance away.
“I need to convey her body back to Eartheart for burial,” Torrin said. “And her weapons, and gear. But I’m not sure when I can-”
“No need for haste,” Val’tissa said. She gestured at the bier. “She can rest here until you are ready. We will cast a preservative ritual upon her body.”
Torrin sighed as he said, “Thank you.”
“What will you do now?” Val’tissa asked.
“Find the people who did this,” Torrin said, his jaw clenching as he looked down at his dead friend. “Force them to tell me how the curse can be lifted.”
“How will you do that?” asked the drow.
“I have something that was stolen from them,” he replied. Something they want back. My runestone.” He turned to Val’tissa. “That will be the bait. But I’ll need your help.”
Three days later, Torrin walked into an inn-one of the more opulent in Sundasz-and headed straight for the polished teak bar with its carved griffon heads on the corners. He motioned the barkeep over. “A pint of Samman, if you please,” he said.
The barkeep-a dwarf with close-cropped hair and a single-plait beard that he wore tossed over one shoulder-held a mug under the spigot. Meanwhile, Torrin glanced around the room. The small inn was crowded. Pipe smoke swirled blue against the ceiling, and a fire crackled in a hearth in the far wall. About two dozen patrons, several of them tallfolk, sat at heavy wooden tables. Torrin wondered which of them was the one who’d responded to his offer. The message he’d received-delivered by middlemen-hadn’t provided any details. Any one of the inn’s patrons might be the rogue who’d journeyed from Helmstar to meet Torrin that night.
Val’tissa was also somewhere in the room. Cloaked by invisibility, she’d slipped into the inn behind Torrin. He wondered where she was. Over by the window? Was that rustle of curtains a breeze from outside, or had she brushed against them? Or was she in that blank spot along the wall, next to the door that led to the storeroom?
Torrin continued his covert survey of the room. He was careful to not let his eye linger on any one table overly long, but his “idle” glance was enough to spot the person most likely to be the one he’d come to meet-a half-elf sitting with two dwarves near the fireplace. The three were playing tumblebones at a table heaped with gold coins. Dice clattered, landing between the ale mugs and fluted wine glasses. Laughter and loud groans followed. Clinking coins changed hands, mostly passing from the half-elf to the dwarves.
Elsewhere in the room, other patrons watched from behind their mugs, more than one of them staring greedily at the gold.
Torrin had instructed the middlemen to circulate his offer amongst Sundasz’s rogues, especially any found suddenly spending gold by the handful. The half-elf certainly seemed to fit that description.
“Barkeep!” the half-elf shouted. “Another round of your best for my friends and me. No, make that a round for everyone!” He swept a hand through the air, indicating the rest of the room. The other patrons grinned, raised their mugs in salute, and drained them.
The barkeep hastily thudded Torrin’s ale down on the counter, reached for fresh mugs and glasses, and filled them. Then he carried three to the half-elf’s table and collected payment. The half-elf waved away the change, and the barkeep bowed his thanks. There was a big smile on his face as he returned to the bar, obviously pleased with the large tip.
“Is my ale paid for, too?” Torrin asked.
“That it is,” replied the barkeep. “Let’s hope the elf’s generosity continues.” He carefully tucked the gold Anvils away in his strongbox as the other patrons lined up at the bar, thirsty for refills. “Funny that he’s so cheerful, even when he’s losing. Still, if he wants to toss away his coin…”
Torrin nodded, no longer listening. Those gold Anvils could very well be forgeries, struck from the cursed gold. Torrin pictured spellplague seeping into the barkeep’s blunt fingers, worming its way toward his heart. It would do the same to any dwarf patron who bought the expensive ales and wines offered by the inn-expensive enough to warrant receiving an Anvil or two as change.
Torrin, however, said nothing, gave no warning. It was for the greater good, he told himself. Yet keeping silent was as painful as trying to swallow a jagged shard of slag.
He made a show of staring at the fire and shivering. His cloak was dripping from the heavy rain in the open canyon outside. He rubbed his hands together, then picked up his mug and made his way to the hearth. He stood before the fire, warming himself and drying his cloak, using it as an excuse to get a closer look at the half-elf.
The fellow was well dressed, in what looked like brand new leather breeches and boots with brass buckles. His velvet doublet was embroidered with thread-of-gold and had a high ruff collar, slashed sleeves, and silver buttons on the cuffs. The clothes, however, didn’t match the rest of him. The half-elf’s hands were calloused, with grime under the fingernails. His graying hair was greasy. He took a long drink of wine, and wiped his lips with the back of a stained cuff.
He noticed Torrin looking at him, and held his eye for a moment, obviously sizing him up. Torrin raised his mug in salute.
The two dwarves at the table were as well dressed as the half-elf, but better groomed. They seemed far more comfortable in their clothes, and less coarse in their habits. One had a pipe in his mouth that had long since gone cold. The other drank wine from a fluted glass, like the half-elf. Torrin saw, to his horror, that the wine contained tiny flakes of gold. Elven “gold dust” wine, they called it. Very expensive stuff. And, if that was cursed gold, ultimately lethal.
A third dwarf sat slightly back from the table, but close enough to the half-elf that he was obviously with him. He was roughly dressed, with a sword slung across his back on a bandolier, and two daggers on his belt. He was a broad-chested man even for a dwarf, with hard black eyes, a shaved head, and long gray beard. His nose looked as if it had been flattened more than once. Numerous small scars criss-crossed his hands, which, Torrin noted with alarm, had a slight grayish tinge to them. The stoneplague?