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.
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
