“So why is this gold passing red light, instead?” Torrin asked.
“It must be the curse,” Wylfrid replied.
Torrin lowered the tube, shuddering. Carefully, he placed the tube back on the workbench, beside the gold bar. “Can you remove it?”
Wylfrid sniffed, as if Torrin had just asked if he could drain a beaker of wine in one draught. “Of course,” he said as he rubbed stained his fingers together and smiled. “If you have the coin. Seven hundred Anvils is the going rate for a ritual to remove curses. Expensive, but I’m sure you’ll find it.” He eyed Torrin’s mace. “Somehow.”
Torrin barely suppressed his anger. He’d hoped Wylfrid, who’d known Torrin’s human family for many years, would be motivated by sympathy alone to perform the necessary rituals. But Torrin saw how the ground lay. Wylfrid was just like the rest of the tallfolk, grasping greedily for whatever profit the stoneplague could bring. Torrin should have expected as much from a human.
Torrin glanced down at his mace. It was everything to him. Not just a powerful magical weapon, but a link to his true past. Solid proof of who he was- what he was. But he’d pinned his hopes on Wylfrid. The gold bar that lay on the workbench was what had spread the curse of the stoneplague to Kier. If Wylfrid could remove the curse from that particular bar of gold, Kier could be healed. Torrin was certain of that.
With Kier’s life hanging in the balance, the decision was easy. Torrin started to untie his mace from his belt.
Then he paused, as an idea struck him. He glanced up at Wylfrid. “How about seven thousand Anvils-or better yet, seven hundred thousand?” he asked. “Would you be willing to defer payment, if that was the amount of coin you’d make?”
Wylfrid snorted. “What nonsense are you spouting now?”
Torrin nodded at the gold bar. “The Steel Shields are confiscating gold,” he replied. “So much gold it’s going to take dozens of wizards, casting rituals morning, noon, and night, to purify it. Those wizards won’t be expected to perform their rituals for free. Just as they paid the tithes for Sharindlar’s cleansings, the Council will pay for the rituals.”
Wylfrid’s eyes glittered behind his smudged lenses. He was probably already performing the calculations in his head.
“You may have heard that I was summoned before the Council the other night, to speak to them about the stoneplague,” Torrin continued. “I spoke with the Lord Scepter himself. If I were to mention your name to him, I’m sure he’d take heed. Especially if I were able to tell him you’d already demonstrated the ability to perform the necessary ritual.”
Wylfrid smiled. “Even if I were to charge a pittance above the actual cost of the ritual’s ingredients, I’ll turn a tidy profit.”
Torrin returned his smile, though it galled him to do so. “You certainly will,” he replied. Kier, he reminded himself. This is for Kier. He made a show of starting to retie his mace. “So we have an understanding?”
“We do,” replied the alchemist. “Let’s get started.”
It took Wylfrid some time to set up the necessary paraphernalia. He shoved the clutter off his workbench, drew patterns on it with greasy chalk, and sprinkled those with powdered herbs that smelled like the inside of a bat-infested cave. Then he poured a dusting of what looked like white ash and smelled like sulfur between the lines. All the while, he kept consulting a thick, leather-bound book. When Torrin tried to glance at the page Wylfrid was reading, the alchemist waved him away. Wylfrid continued his preparations, interrupting his work from time to time to quaff a glass of wine from a grimy goblet. He didn’t offer any to Torrin. For that, Torrin was thankful.
When all was ready, Wylfrid placed the bar of gold and the metal tube at the center of the patterns he’d drawn. Then he pushed up his frayed sleeves. “Stay out of the way,” he warned.
Torrin did.
Wylfrid picked up a vial and tipped it, letting just a single drop of silvery liquid fall from it. As the drop struck the pattern, he spoke a word. The pattern flashed white, so bright it dazzled Torrin’s eyes. He blinked furiously, and slowly the room came back into focus.
He saw Wylfrid holding the tube to one eye, staring through it at the window. The alchemist didn’t say anything. He moved closer to the window, and threw it open with one hand, still peering through the tube.
“Did it work?” Torrin asked.
Wylfrid hurled the tube onto the workbench. It rolled off, clattering onto the floor. He scooped up his goblet, slopping wine on the ash residue the ritual had left, and skulked over to an armchair in the corner. He sank into it, raising a cloud of dust, and drained his goblet.
He stared up at Torrin accusingly. “I should have guessed it,” he said, shaking his head. “The curse is as stubborn as the stoneplague itself. It can’t be removed.”
“No!” Torrin exclaimed. “You said the ritual would work.”
“Well, it didn’t,” Wylfrid said. He waved blearily at the tube. “If you don’t believe me, look for yourself.”
Torrin picked up the tube and held it to his eye. He saw the same red light as before, still pulsing. With each pulse, his heart sank still lower. He’d been so certain the ritual would remove the curse, would allow Kier, at least, to be cured. He’d prayed it would be so. Yet his prayers had gone unanswered.
Slowly, he lowered the tube. He stared at the bar of gold, still reeking with contagion. Still cursed.
Was there nothing that would remove the curse? Surely a ritual that had been done could be undone.
Somehow. By… someone.
Suddenly, Torrin realized his next step. He needed to find out how the gold had become cursed in the first place. He needed to find the people who’d cast the spell, and force them to tell him how it had been done. Then the curse might be lifted.
But how to do that?
The answer lay in front of him: the gold bar. The gold had to have been placed in the earthmote by someone. Maybe that someone could be found, and could lead Torrin back to the curse’s originator. The earthmote itself would be a logical starting point, but Torrin doubted there were any answers there. The entire city had heard of the skyriders’ spectacular find. Whoever had hidden the gold in the earthmote would already know that it was gone. They weren’t likely to return to that hiding spot.
There was one other possible source of information, however. The talismonger Mercuria, who’d given Eralynn one of the gold bars in trade, might have some answers.
The lead was as thin as thread, but it was the only one Torrin had.
Baelar let out a long, slow sigh as Torrin finished his tale. “So it was the gold,” he said. “But why? How?”
“That’s what I hope to find out,” Torrin replied.
He had caught up to Baelar, Kier’s grandfather, in a corridor that led to one of Eartheart’s armories. The skyrider must have been on his way to his post or returning from it. He carried his plumed helmet in the crook of one arm, wore the distinctive Peacehammer cloak, and had a battle-axe strapped to his back. He wore different armor than usual, however. The breastplate had a wavy, flamelike pattern embossed on its black surface. Baelar’s long gray hair was tightly knotted at the back of his head, and his beard was tucked into the leather bead bag that blacksmiths wore for protection against sparks.
“I need your help,” Torrin continued. “I need a sending stone.”
“What will you do with it?” asked Baelar.
“There’s someone in Hammergate who might be able to tell us where the gold bars came from-a shopkeeper of disreputable character who was handing them out in trade. I have one of the gold bars in my possession, one the Peacehammers didn’t find. I’m going to use it to confront the shopkeeper and trick him into saying something that will lead us to whoever hid the gold in the earthmote. If we can track the gold back to its source, maybe we can learn how the curse was invoked, and how to remove it.
“Obviously, I can’t take a Peacehammer with me. That will only scare the shopkeeper off. But you could listen in with your sending stone and pounce when the moment is right. And if I should be injured or killed, well…” He shrugged. “At least you’ll have the benefit of whatever I find out.”
Baelar stood, thinking. “So that’s why the Council was convened,” he said at last, nodding to himself. “They’ve likely started rounding up the gold already. They’ll want that gold bar you’ve got. It’s my duty to report it.”
Torrin’s breath caught. Had he made a mistake in confiding in Baelar?
