was it possible to steal. She had no cause to think the boy would come to further harm. Or maybe she was too exhausted to care.
Torrin slid his arms under Kier and lifted. The boy felt twice as heavy as he should; Torrin grunted under the strain. He picked his way through the cavern, steadfastly ignoring the pleas of the others.
“Muh… muh-hah…” Kier croaked.
“Your mother is-” Torrin halted himself just in time, before Berronar’s magic could force the truth out of him. His eyes and nose prickled. He bit his lip, refusing to let the tears come. Ambril had died yesterday, vomiting blood that looked like tar and smelled like mud. Kier would have to be told that his mother had died, but his father should be the one to tell him that sad news.
Torrin carried Kier toward the Thunsonn clanhold. They passed the empty steam caverns. No one wanted to chance sitting on a bench next to someone who might have the stoneplague, breathing the same steamy air, despite all assurances that it was impossible to catch the stoneplague that way. He made his way by side cavern to the clanhold, hoping to pass fewer people. And he wore his dagger at his hip, just in case a confrontation turned ugly.
He needn’t have bothered. The few people he did pass refused to make eye contact. They shied against the far wall or turned and walked swiftly the other way.
At last Torrin reached Kier’s room. He went inside, closed the door with his foot, and laid Kier on his bed. Torrin’s back creaked as he straightened. It had been a long walk. “I’m going to take off those stale clothes, Kier,” he told the boy. He stripped Kier, took one look at the hollow looking stomach and staring ribs, and pulled a blanket over the boy.
He prayed he was doing the right thing. And that Kier, in his next life, would forgive Torrin if he were wrong.
Haldrin arrived a few moments later. Dust from Ambril’s burial still smudged his hands. Kier turned his head. “Fah…” he began.
“Hush, Kier,” Haldrin said. “Don’t try to speak.”
“Muh…?” the boy asked.
Haldrin’s eyes filled with tears. He sat on the edge of the bed and took Kier’s hand in his. “She died yesterday,” he said.
Kier let out a soft cry.
Torrin forced down his own anguish. Kier needed comfort-which his father was providing-and hope, which was what Torrin could offer. Torrin pulled out the ointment Mercuria had given him and peeled the lead foil from one end. The bone was sealed with a wax plug; he punctured it with the tip of his dagger. He caught Haldrin’s eye. Haldrin nodded.
“I’ve got a magical ointment here, Kier,” Torrin said. “It’s going to suspend time for you and stop your illness from progressing. Keep you alive until they find a cure for the stoneplague. As soon as they do, we’ll ‘wake’ you by dispelling its magic. In the meantime…” Torrin paused, his throat tight. “The oil numbs the body,” he continued. “Stops the pain. But it doesn’t halt the mind. You won’t be able to see or hear, but your mind will still work. If you want it to stop-if you want to ‘wake up’-you’ll have no way to tell us.”
Haldrin gently stroked his son’s hair as he said, “If you’d rather just… If you’d rather go to Moradin, son, I’ll understand. It’s your choice. I won’t…” He visibly pulled himself together and went on. “I won’t be angry, if that’s what you choose. But I’ll miss you.”
Torrin stared down at Kier, feeling the same way. Eight years of life just didn’t seem enough, even by human standards. Yet was using the ointment really the right thing to do? If Kier died, his pain would end. His soul would fly to the realm of the Morndinsamman, and be forged into a new body by Moradin. He’d return to the world.
But Torrin would never again know him. Not as Kier.
Am I just being selfish? he wondered.
“Your mother’s soul will have reached the Fugue Plain, by now,” Torrin told the boy. “It will be a while yet, before Moradin claims her. You might want to…” His eyes filled with tears. He wiped them away, angry with himself. He was supposed to be strong. Set an example for Kier to follow. “You might want to go to her.”
Kier’s head moved fractionally right then left. “Nuhm,” he said emphatically. “Yuh… will find… summfin… delf… summfin… cure… me.”
Torrin closed his eyes. Such faith! Kier expected Torrin to find an artifact that could cure him. Just like that. Torrin realized he had become a hero in the boy’s eyes. It was an honor he’d yet to earn.
Torrin was humbled. Kier was willing to take the risk-spend months, even years trapped in his ailing body-all for a faint hope.
Torrin caught Haldrin’s eye and raised the bone.
Haldrin nodded.
“All right, then,” Torrin told him. “Ease Kier into as comfortable a position as you can.”
Haldrin pulled back the blanket and gently arranged his son’s limbs.
“Here goes,” Torrin said as he tipped the bone. The ointment was as white as milk. He poured a thin line of it onto Kier’s forehead and nose, over his lips, chin, neck, and body, down one leg, then the other, and then down his arms. The magical oil spread itself evenly over the boy’s skin, coating it. Even Kier’s hair and eyeballs turned white. After a few moments, his raspy breathing halted in mid-breath. The potion had done its work.
Haldrin stared at his seemingly dead son, little gasps catching in his throat with each breath. Torrin gave his shoulder a squeeze. “It can be dispelled at any time,” he told Haldrin. “Any wizard or cleric can do that for you. If it stretches into tendays, or months, you may want to consider-”
Haldrin shook his head. “I’ll make that decision when the time comes,” he said.
Torrin nodded. Then, even though Kier wouldn’t feel the cold, Torrin pulled the blanket back over the boy’s body. He started to touch Kier’s hair, then stopped. The ointment had soaked into the boy’s skin-the white color was already fading-but disturbing it wouldn’t be a good idea.
Torrin picked up his pack. Time to leave Haldrin with his son. He paused, one hand on the door latch. “Rest easy, Kier,” he said. “Rest until I find the cure.”
Torrin walked, heavy-hearted, down a staircase that connected to a back entrance to the Thunsonn clanhold. It was barely used at all any more with so many of the clanfolk ill or dying, and it was devoid of passersby that night.
With Kier suspended between life and death and so much riding on Torrin finding a way to cure him, being alone suited his brooding mood.
“Delver Torrin,” came a whisper from seemingly empty space. Instantly on his guard, Torrin yanked his mace free. He swept it in a lethal arc behind him, through the spot where he expected an invisible assailant to be standing. Was it another attempt on the runestone?
The mace swung through empty air. There was no rogue behind Torrin, waiting to knock him down while his attention was diverted.
Torrin stepped back, putting his back against the wall. He kept his mace ready. “Who are you?” he asked.
“A friend,” the voice said. “There’s no need for that weapon.”
The voice was male and not a young man, by the sound of that deep rumble. It came from waist height- either a dwarf or one of the tallfolk squatting, pretending to be a dwarf.
“They’re coming for you,” the voice said. “Who is?” Torrin asked.
“The Steel Shields. The order has gone out for your arrest.”
Torrin tensed. “Why?”
“You took a bribe. As a result, someone they hoped to question escaped.”
A hollow sensation gripped Torrin’s stomach. Any denials would have been futile. “I see,” he said.
A mithril brooch seemingly materialized out of thin air as it sailed toward Torrin. It landed with a clatter on the stairs.
“Put it on,” said the voice.
Torrin glanced down at it, still not lowering his mace. The brooch was shaped like a mountain, encircled by a band of braided mithril, gold, and silver wire. A pebble-sized geode, cut in half to reveal the amethyst crystals within, was set into the center of the mountain like a gemstone.
The mountain-and-gem motif was the symbol of Dumathoin, keeper of secrets under the mountain. A dwarf
