The Gilded Rune

Chapter Seven

Torrin dreamed.

In the dream, he sat at one end of a massive feast table in the great hall of Underhome, a place he’d heard the bards sing about. In his dream, it was still whole, not yet in ruin and overrun by drow. The walls were intact, and the furniture and chandeliers were unbroken. The intricate tapestry against the far wall, depicting the Morndinsamman grouped around Moradin’s throne, was vibrant and unfaded.

A host of dwarves was gathered around the table where Torrin sat, feasting and chatting. Though he spoke Dwarvish fluently, Torrin couldn’t make out a word they said. Their voices were muffled, indistinct. Nor could he see them clearly. Their bodies wavered like candle flames seen through thick, wavy glass.

His own body was clear enough, though. Glancing down at himself, he saw that his chest was thicker, his legs shorter. The fingers that gripped his feast cup were short and blunt.

He was a dwarf!

Before he had time to rejoice at that, someone tugged at his sleeve. He glanced to one side and saw-clearly-a dwarf whose white beard trailed so far behind him that it stretched out of the door. The longbeard wore a blacksmith’s leather apron and leggings, and bracers of solid gold. The smell of charcoal smoke clung to him. He placed a wooden strongbox on the table in front of Torrin.

“What’s inside?” Torrin asked, nodding at the box.

“A puzzle,” the blacksmith said.

Torrin opened the box. Inside was the runestone he’d purchased from Kendril-except that it was made not of stone, but of gold.

Torrin lifted it out.

Suddenly, the runestone turned red hot. Torrin gasped and dropped it on the table, where it turned into a puddle of molten gold. The chest and table became an enormous pile of kindling, which went up in flames. The dwarf revelers who had been seated around it likewise burst into flame and melted in an instant to glowing heaps of slag.

Torrin turned to the blacksmith, seeking an explanation, but the longbeard had turned into a statue. He stood, stiff and gray, with cracked-mud skin and eyeballs like chipped white marbles. Soon his statue crumbled into a heap on the floor, leaving only the apron, leggings, and bracers behind. A moment later, the bracers melted into twin puddles of molten gold, just as the runestone had.

Curiously, though the blacksmith was gone, he still could speak.

“You must help me,” the statue dwarf pleaded in a voice like cracking stone. “No one else can.”

“How?” Torrin said. “How can I help you?”

Silence whispered through the great hall, stirring up nothing but dust.

Torrin awoke with a start, his heart thudding. That dream! What had it meant? Trouble, obviously-he could feel it-but in what form? And from where?

He sat up in bed. The blanket lay in a heap in his lap. He stroked his beard fretfully. The blacksmith had worn golden bracers and had an impossibly long beard-he’d been a dream manifestation of Moradin. The Dwarffather himself was sending Torrin a warning. Something to do with the runestone. But what? Should Torrin use it? Not use it?

He glanced at the shutters. No light came through the cracks. It was still night. The middle of the night, judging by the stillness that hung over the clanhold.

He rose from the bed, splashed his face with water from the bowl on his bedside table, and dried his beard with a towel. A walk would help clear his mind, he decided. He pulled on his breeches and picked up a shirt, only half noticing, from the singed smell of the wool, that it was the one he’d been wearing in the Wyrmcaves. Ah well, no matter. At that time of night, he didn’t expect to run into anyone, anyway.

As he pulled the shirt on, something sharp scratched his arm. There seemed to be a shard of something caught in the fabric of the sleeve, near a burn hole. Torrin poked a finger through the hole and dug out a jagged-edged fragment of metal the size of a fingernail, soft enough to bend. His eyes widened as he saw what it was: a thin piece of gold, obviously once molten but hardened.

“Smite me with a hammer!” Torrin exclaimed, his hand trembling. “Was the dream real?”

No, he realized. That wasn’t it. Thinking back to the Wyrmcaves, he remembered he’d felt something hot splatter onto his bracer and run down it, onto his left arm. Not candle wax, as he’d thought at the time, but molten gold.

The cavern where the dragon had cornered Torrin and Eralynn had been heavily veined with quartz, a stone often found with gold. The dragon’s fiery breath had likely melted a vein of gold in the ceiling and caused it to drip onto the spot where Torrin and Eralynn had taken shelter. Some part of Torrin’s mind must have realized that, and woven it into the fabric of his dream.

“Except,” Torrin told himself, “that it can’t be that simple. That dream was a message from Moradin. I’m sure of it.”

He fingered the hardened splatter of gold. It held the answer to the question. Of that, he was certain. Yet the metal was mute. And he still didn’t understand what the dream message meant.

Haldrin was the one to ask, Torrin decided. Haldrin was the most learned person that Torrin knew, aside from a loremaster. That’s what came of being a scrivener-you picked up all sorts of odd bits of information from the texts you copied. What’s more, Torrin thought with a wry smile, Haldrin was also the most likely person to be awake at that time of night. He was always complaining about Ambril’s fretful tossing and turning. Odds were, his pregnant wife’s fretfulness had him up out of bed and pacing the halls, yet again.

Torrin slipped out of his room and headed for the portion of the clanhold where Haldrin and Ambril resided. As Torrin walked, he felt slight vibrations under his feet. Though the Thunsonn clan had been generous enough to give Torrin a place to stay, his room wasn’t exactly in the best section of Eartheart. It was close to the smelters, which operated day and night. The smell of soot and hot metal lingered constantly in the air. The corridors there were narrow and rough cut, a far cry from the grandiose halls elsewhere in the dwarf city. Ceiling lanterns, their wicks trimmed low to save oil, filled the corridor with a reddish light that flickered like the dim light from a forge.

As Torrin drew closer to Haldrin and Ambril’s chambers, a door to his right opened suddenly. Mara, Ambril’s sister, stepped out, nearly colliding with him.

“Torrin!” she exclaimed. “You heard it, too?”

“Heard what?” he asked.

“She’s in pain.”

Mara, wearing a misbuttoned robe over her nightgown, looked as though she’d also just gotten out of bed. Her auburn hair exploded in an unbraided tangle from the edges of her night coif. She stared in the direction of Ambril’s room, her eyes wide and alarmed.

Torrin glanced in that direction. “I don’t hear anything.”

“The babies,” Mara said. “They’re coming.”

Oh, Torrin thought. So that was it. Mara’s cryptic comment at last made sense. Ambril must finally be giving birth. The sisters always seemed to know what the other was feeling or thinking-dwarf twins were like that. And Ambril and Mara were a typical pair. They never bothered to explain anything. They just jumped into a story mid-stride and looked at anyone who couldn’t follow as if they were simpletons.

Mara’s husband Sandor followed her out into the corridor. He yawned and rubbed the small of his back. He looked exhausted, and had every reason to be. Ore hauling was heavy work. “What’s the commotion?” he asked.

“Ambril,” Mara said tersely. Her expression grew strained. “It’s hurting. More than it should.”

At last, Torrin heard a muffled groan from the direction of Haldrin and Ambril’s room. Mara winced, then hurried toward it. “Run to the temple,” she shouted back over her shoulder at Sandor. “Bring back one of the Merciful Maidens. We’re going to need her!”

Torrin exchanged a glance with Sandor. “Would you like me to do it?” he asked, partially in sympathy, but also because it might be an excuse to see Maliira again.

Sandor shook his head. “That’s all right,” he replied. “I can sneak back to bed once I’m back from the temple. I doubt Mara will even miss me.” He hurried away.

Torrin’s dream nagged at him, and the anxiety in Mara’s voice had put him on edge. He yearned to be doing something to help, even though he knew he should go back to his room. A birthing was no place for a man-least of all, a man who wasn’t the husband. But then he spotted Kier up ahead, creeping down the hallway to his parents’ room. The boy peeked in through the door Mara had left ajar, his expression a mixture of curiosity and worry. Mostly worry.

Perhaps Torrin could be useful, after all.

He made his way to Kier’s side. The boy jumped as Torrin touched his shoulder, startled by Torrin’s approach.

“Back to your room, Kier,” Torrin said sternly. “You’ll only be underfoot here.”

As he spoke, Torrin glanced into the bedchamber. Ambril was stumbling across the room, alternately groaning and sobbing, supported by Haldrin on one side and Mara on the other. A sick smell wafted out of the door.

“I’m not leaving,” Kier said. Unlike the adults, the boy was fully dressed. One hand was thrust into his pocket, worrying something. Likely his “lucky” stone, the quartz crystal with the double point.

Mara glanced at the door. “Torrin!” she shrieked. “What are you doing here? Where’s the Merciful Maiden?”

Kier ducked back out of sight.

“Sandor’s gone to fetch her,” Torrin explained.

“He’d better hurry,” Mara replied.

Ambril groaned as a contraction shuddered through her body. She looked terrible. Her face had a grayish cast, and her nightgown was soaked with sweat. She gasped weakly between each brief, stumbling step. Her stomach, enormous with the twins, would have toppled her forward, had her sister and husband not been clinging to her arms.

Even though Torrin hadn’t seen a birthing before, it didn’t look right to him.

“Is Mother going to die?” Kier whispered.

“No,” Torrin said. He put a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. “As soon as the cleric arrives, your mother will be in good hands. The Merciful Maiden will shoulder her pain, and use her prayers to help the babies come. Your mother will be fine.”

Ambril gave a low, creaking groan and sagged. Her arms slipped from Mara’s and Haldrin’s grasp, and she fell to her knees. Her entire body shuddered, and a rush of liquid puddled beneath her. Torrin smelled blood.

Haldrin-a smaller, bespectacled version of his brother Sandor-spotted Kier peeking into the chamber. He glanced up at Torrin with a strained look on his face. “Get him away from here,” he shouted. He reached for the door and yanked it shut.

Kier’s shoulders shook.

Torrin steered the boy away down the corridor, toward his room. “Don’t take it personally, Kier,” Torrin said to the boy. “Adults do strange things when babies are being born. Soon enough, your father will be laughing and happy, with a baby girl in either arm.” He waited. “Your sisters.”

Kier didn’t rise to the bait. He trudged along in front of Torrin, sniffing back tears. Torrin heard running footsteps, and pulled Kier aside as a Merciful Maiden hurried past them in her red robe and blue sash.

She didn’t return Torrin’s nod of greeting. She ran to the bedchamber, holding the holy dagger used to cut the cord that linked mother and newborn child. Her prayer had already begun. “Revered Mother, hear me,” she said. “Lend your blessing this night. Have mercy on the mother-to-be and her children…”

The door opened on screaming and Haldrin’s panicked shouts that the cleric do something and do it now. It closed again, muffling Ambril’s cries.

Torrin guided Kier into his room and closed the door behind them. Like the rest of the rooms in the clanhold, the bedroom was small, barely big enough for a bed and a small chest of drawers. The floor was covered with toys. A small army of cast-lead dwarf warriors lay strewn in front of three paint-scuffed wooden dragons. Chipped glass “gemstones” lay beside a brightly painted wooden chest, and a toy drum and bell-shaker were near the door.

Torrin stepped carefully over an articulated toy dragon with a clockwork mechanism in its belly and sat with Kier on the bed. The blankets, he saw, had been mounded over Kier’s imitation Delver’s pack, to make it look as though the boy were still in bed. Torrin pretended not to notice the fact that Kier had been out on another of his illicit late-night rambles. It was not the time for a reprimand.

“Show me your new dragon,” Torrin said, nodding at the toy on the floor. “What’s his name? Does he breathe fire?”

Kier snuffled back a tear and shook his head. “Lightning,” he said. He picked up the dragon and showed it to Torrin. “See? He’s blue, not red.”

“Oh. I see that now.” Torrin’s mind, however, was on what was happening down the hall. Perhaps Ambril’s worrying hadn’t been all a flight of fancy. Perhaps she’d sensed quicksand, instead of bedrock, under her feet. If she didn’t survive the birthing…

Torrin heard the toy dragon’s wing creak, and realized he was gripping the toy too tightly. He passed the dragon back to Kier and whispered a prayer to Sharindlar, begging the goddess to intervene.

“What did you say?” Kier asked.

“Nothing,” Torrin demurred. “Just thinking out loud.” He picked up the wooden chest. “You’d better clean up, Kier,” he said. “When your mother comes to show off the babies, she’s going to step on your toys.” One of the fake gemstones rolled away from his hand. Torrin bent down to scoop it up, and spotted a pouch under the bed. He picked it up, intending to put the gemstone inside.

Kier bounded off the bed. “Don’t!” he cried. “I’ll do it, Uncle Torrin. I’ll pick them up!” He clumsily jerked the pouch out of Torrin’s hands. Something heavy fell out of it and landed with a thud on the floor: a bar of gold.

Kier looked as though he were about to cry as Torrin picked up the bar. Torrin didn’t need to ask where it had come from.

“Kier,” Torrin said. “I had a thought, just now. Perhaps the gods led you to that secret chamber in the earthmote. Maybe they knew your mother would need not just a blessing from the Merciful Maidens this night, but expensive healing potions afterward.”

Kier brightened immediately. “Do you think that’s enough to pay for them?” he asked.

“Of course,” Torrin replied, tousling Kier’s hair. “Your mother will have you to thank for her well-being, Kier.”

The boy beamed.

Torrin slipped the bar of gold back inside the pouch and rose to his feet. “Wait here,” he said. “I’m going to see how your mother is doing.”

Torrin slipped out and closed the door behind him. He hurried back to Ambril’s bedchamber. His pace quickened as he heard sobbing coming from behind the closed door. Worried, he knocked. No one answered. After knocking again unsuccessfully, he let himself in.

Ambril lay on the bed, pale and still. The smell of blood was even stronger, almost overwhelming. Blood dripped from the bed onto the floor. Torrin’s heart lurched. When Ambril moaned, he whispered his thanks to Sharindlar that she was still alive.

Mara held Ambril’s hand. She was the one who was crying. Sandor stood behind her, gripping her shoulders. He glanced at Torrin and grimly shook his head.

The Merciful Maiden bent over Ambril, praying softly. She held her hands over Ambril’s stomach, lacing her fingers together in a complicated pattern. The embossed silver disk that was her holy symbol swung slowly back and forth on its chain, like the pendulum of a clock winding down.

Haldrin sat on the ground, his back against one wall. He stared at the floor, his hands drooping between his knees. He didn’t even look up as Torrin entered.

Torrin approached the bed. As he drew closer, he saw a bloody knife on the floor. The Merciful Maiden had used it to performed a knife-birthing. The prayers she was using would knit Ambril’s stomach back together again, and ease the pain. The cleric’s face was pinched and pale. She had taken on most of Ambril’s pain during the cutting, something Sharindlar gave her clergy the strength to do.

Torrin suddenly realized what was missing: the sound of an infant’s cry. Two lumps lay on the bed, each wrapped in a bloodstained cloth. Neither was moving.

Mara caught his eye. “Dead!” she said in a strained voice. “Moradin has taken them both!”

Torrin halted as abruptly as if he’d been dashed with ice water. Then he remembered what everyone else seemed to have forgotten. The Merciful Maidens knew rituals that could raise the dead. The magical unguent needed for the ritual was terrifically expensive. Yet surely the gold bar in his hand would help cover the cost.

He stepped forward, trying to catch the Maiden’s eye. He held up the pouch. “This gold will pay for the unguent you need to resurrect these babes, and I’ll have more gold in short order. Thanks to the delves I’m planning, I should be able to raise several hundred Anvils, if not more…”

His voice trailed off as he realized the cleric wasn’t listening. Nor was anyone else. There should have been smiles and cries of relief. Instead, Mara whirled angrily on him.

“How dare you!” she cried. “Coming in here and bragging about your delves. Can’t you see it’s no use!”

“I…” Confused, Torrin turned to Sandor for an explanation.

Sandor stepped away from the bed and pulled Torrin aside. “They can’t be resurrected,” he said. He glanced back at Ambril and lowered his voice. “They’ve been dead too long. The Merciful Maiden says they’ve been dead for a tenday, maybe more.”

The Merciful Maiden finished her prayer. She touched Ambril’s head in a brief blessing and turned to the door.

Torrin hurried to her. “Merciful Maiden,” he said, “begging your pardon, but is there a chance you’re wrong about how long the babes have been dead?”

The cleric’s lips tightened. Her eyes were shadowed. “As I told the others, there’s nothing I can do.” She reached for the door.

Torrin caught her arm. He felt ridges under her sleeve, as if she were wearing chainmail beneath her robes. Strange. “Won’t you at least try?” he asked.

The cleric looked pointedly at her arm. Torrin hurriedly removed his hand.

“There is nothing I would like better than to save them,” she told him. “But… I can’t.”

She touched the disk that hung against her chest and turned briefly back to the bed. “May the gods bless this clanhold, and all in it,” she intoned. “A swift flight to the souls of the departed. May the gods greet them at Dwarfhome, where they will be forged anew.”

She left the room.

Torrin turned back to the others, still holding the pouch. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Sharindlar blessed this pregnancy-several times over. Ambril visited her temple every other day.”

“It’s the stoneplague,” Sandor said, his voice tense. “It’s here. In Eartheart.” His eyes fell to the bed. “That’s what killed them.”

Torrin felt as if he were going to be sick.

Ambril, still pale but healed, sat up suddenly. “My babies!” she wailed. “My babies!” She clawed for the bundles at the end of the bed. Mara grabbed her shoulders and yanked her back. “Don’t touch them!” Mara cried. “You’ll catch it too.”

“Show some sense, Mara,” Sandor retorted. “They were inside her. Touching them now won’t make a pebble of difference.”

Glaring back at him, Mara let go of her sister. Ambril grabbed the bundles and held them to her chest. A tiny foot, as gray and mottled as granite and covered in a froth of blood, peeked out of the end of one bundle. Ambril rocked back and forth on the bed, crying.

Torrin’s mouth felt dry. The stoneplague. Did the air in the bedchamber carry the disease? He fought down the urge to cover his mouth with his sleeve.

A second, even more chilling thought occurred to him. Was this all his fault? Had he somehow brought Kendril’s stoneplague back to Eartheart, despite his cleansing?

No, he told himself sternly. He’d been cleansed by Sharindlar. Unless… He glanced down at the gold bar in his hands. Was the one he’d used to pay for his third cleansing actually a worthless fake, as Eralynn had suspected? Had the goddess removed her previous blessings from him in retaliation for her tithe being paid in pyrite?

No, Torrin thought, staring at the dead babes. The goddess of mercy would never be so cruel. Long before she’d harm an innocent babe, she would strike Torrin himself down.

Sandar stood apart from the others, hands wringing the tip of his beard. “They’re going to quarantine us,” he said in a hoarse voice. “In this room. We won’t be allowed out.” His eyes were wide as he glanced around the room. He’d been in a cave-in, years before, and had lain a tenday with his legs trapped by fallen stone, surrounded by the groans of the dying and the reek of the dead. It had left him with a morbid fear of being closed in.

That, at least, was something Torrin could help with. “Ease yourself, Sandar,” he told Mara’s husband. “They may quarantine the clanhold, but they won’t lock us in just one room. And it will only be until the Merciful Maiden comes back to cleanse us.”

“She’s not coming back,” Haldrin spat.

The others all turned to stare at him. Haldrin still sat on the floor by the wall. Finally, he raised his head. His eyes were red with tears, and his laugh was bitter. “You heard what the Merciful Maiden said,” he continued. “She can’t cure the stoneplague. We’re all going to die.”

Mara visibly fumed. “Nonsense,” she said, hugging her sister’s shoulders. “That’s not what she said. She couldn’t resurrect the babes because they’ve been dead too long.”

“Weren’t you listening?” Haldrin said. His red eyes glared defiantly. “The Merciful Maiden never spoke those words herself. She just nodded when you asked if that was the reason. It’s not commonly known, but a cleric can raise someone who’s been dead a month-or even longer-if a Ritual of Repose is cast on the body. The Merciful Maiden wasn’t lying about being unable to save the babes, but she wasn’t telling us the truth about why. The truth is, Sharindlar’s clerics can’t cure the stoneplague.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Mara cried. “Sharindlar would never withhold her healing magic, especially from innocent babes. Moradin himself wouldn’t permit it.”

Haldrin’s laugh had a wild edge to it. “Just like he wouldn’t permit the collapse of the Rift, or the fall of Underhome?” he cried. He flung out a hand, pointing. “Moradin let my babies die! What kind of god countenances that?”

“Stop it!” Mara cried. “You’re sounding like Father now.”

“Maybe your father was right,” Haldrin spat back. “The gods care as little for us as we do for the ants underfoot.”

“I won’t hear it!” Mara screeched. “Stop this blasphemy! You’re going to bring the stoneplague upon us all!”

Sandor was breathing heavily. He edged to the door. “I won’t,” he gasped. “I won’t be trapped here. I won’t.” He yanked the door open and bolted from the room.

Ambril sat on the bed, rocking the bloody bundles. “Sunder and Sorn,” she moaned. “That’s what we were going to call you. Oh, my babies. My little ones.”

A part of Torrin’s mind registered the fact that they were boys’ names, and that he’d lost his bet with Kier. Not that it mattered any more.

“Their souls are with Moradin,” Mara said, trying to ease the dead babes out of her sister’s arms. “In his realm. Coddled and protected by the gods. They’ll return to the world again one day. Take comfort in that.”

“Your father didn’t find any comfort in that,” Haldrin said. “Why should we?”

Torrin turned, unable to listen any more. As he did, something crunched underfoot-a chunk of dried mud on the floor. He glanced down at it, wondering whose boot it had come from. Then he realized that the spot had been where the Merciful Maiden was standing when he grasped her arm-the arm that had felt so strangely rough. His mouth went dry as he realized what he was staring at. It was a chunk of calcified flesh, the same color and texture as Kendril’s broken finger.

The Merciful Maiden the temple had sent to aid Ambril with the birthing had the stoneplague.

He used his foot to scuff the chunk of tainted flesh into a corner, where it wouldn’t be stepped on by anyone else. Not that it really mattered. Everyone in the room had either touched the dead babes already, or had breathed in their taint.

Including him.

Ambril’s voice rose to a wail again. Her rocking grew more violent. “My babies!” she cried.

Mara and Haldrin were shouting at each other in a stupid, pointless argument about Moradin and whether he was truly merciful, about whether Haldrin echoing her father’s “blasphemous” beliefs had brought the curse of the stoneplague down upon their clanhold. If they weren’t careful, they would indeed prod Moradin into hurling a curse down upon them.

“For the love of the gods!” Torrin bellowed. “Haldrin, your wife needs you. Tend to her. And you, Mara. Go after your husband and stop him before he panics everyone in Eartheart!”

Both blinked, chastised. Without bothering to see if they did as he’d ordered, Torrin whirled and ran out of the door. His first impulse was to follow Kendril’s advice, to hurry those he loved out of Eartheart, as far from the city as they could run. Instead he ran past Kier’s room, in the direction the Merciful Maiden had gone.

He caught up to her in the Hall of the Fountain, a vast room that echoed softly with the sound of splashing water. During the day it would have been filled with people, coming to fill water kegs at the fountain’s brass taps. At that hour of the night, it was empty.

“Merciful Maiden!” he shouted.

She kept walking.

Anger flushed his cheeks. “I know you have the stoneplague!” he called.

She halted abruptly. Slowly, she turned. “That’s not something you should be shouting,” she said in a low voice.

Torrin moved in front of her, panting slightly from his run. “You admit it,” he said.

She touched the disk at her chest. “Sharindlar will not permit a lie.”

“What in the Nine Hells was your order thinking?” Torrin blurted out. “They sent a cleric who’s diseased-to a birthing!”

The Merciful Maiden raised a hand as if to touch his shoulder in sympathy, but let it fall to her side as Torrin glared her down. “I pose no danger,” she said. “The stoneplague isn’t spread by touch or by breath. Nor by spittle or by blood.”

Torrin bit back the urge to shout that she was lying. “How can you know that?” he asked.

“The woman who gave birth tonight wasn’t the first one afflicted,” the cleric replied. “Dozens of others, here in Eartheart, have come down with the stoneplague in the past few days. The family members who’ve tended them have all remained healthy, even without the benefit of a healing ritual. In contrast, the Merciful Maidens who have fallen ill-who continued in their duties, unaware that they were afflicted with the stoneplague-did not spread the contagion to those they ministered to.”

“You’re not the only Merciful Maiden with the stoneplague?” Torrin asked, horrified.

“No.”

“But why don’t you heal yourselves?”

The cleric sighed wearily. “We’ve tried. We can’t. Much as it pains me to admit it, Sharindlar appears to be powerless over this illness. But you needn’t worry. We’re not spreading the stoneplague. That’s the one thing we’re certain of.”

“What about… other gods?” Torrin asked as diplomatically as he could. “Couldn’t a cleric from Berronar Truesilver’s temple heal you?”

“When it seemed Sharindlar had turned her face from us, we tried just that,” she said. “We also took one of the afflicted to an elf healer, but it was no use. The cleric’s prayers to Corellon also went unanswered. Nor were magical potions effective.” The Merciful Maiden looked on the verge of tears. “There’s nothing any of us can do.”

Her words turned Torrin’s veins to ice. If the Maidens couldn’t even heal themselves, Haldrin was right.

Eartheart was doomed.