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.
