It wasn’t generally known, outside the dwarf clans, that the goddess Sharindlar’s second, secret aspect was fertility. The Merciful Maiden was naked under that robe. And she was looking at Torrin far more directly than she needed to.
“Fifty Anvils,” she announced.
Torrin blinked, startled out of his sidelong appraisal. Fifty gold pieces! How was he to get his hands on that much coin? The only thing he had left of value, after paying for the runestone, was his mace. And he wasn’t about to part with that. The magic of the mace was what had led him to discover who he really was. He’d rather part with one of his arms.
Despite his consternation, he kept his composure. “Done,” he agreed. “Although I’ll need some time to raise the coin.”
“You have until Midsummer Night,” she replied.
Torrin groaned inwardly. Midsummer wasn’t that far off. If it wasn’t for his human body, he’d have been given as much time as he needed to pay the tithe. Quite possibly, he wouldn’t have had to pay it at all.
“I so swear.” Torrin clapped his right arm across his chest, his fist over his heart, and spoke the sacred oath. “My word is my shield,” he quoted. Then, with a grin, he added, “Without it, I am naked.”
“Indeed you are, Torrin Ironstar. But your words wear a pretty costume.”
Torrin’s eyebrows rose. She’d used his dwarf name! Was it just his imagination, or did he see an appraising look in her eye?
“Perhaps you’ll honor me with a dance at the Midsummer Festival?” he ventured to say. “It will be Fullmoon, after all.”
The Merciful Maiden didn’t answer. She pulled a thin strand of blue silk ribbon from her pocket and wrapped it around Torrin’s left wrist, tying its ends off in a knot. She’d tied it a little too tightly-likely distracted by regions that lay further south.
“A reminder,” she told him.
“Of my promise to dance with you?” he asked, smiling.
“Of your debt, and the trust the temple has extended to you.”
Torrin stroked his full red beard, purposefully drawing her attention to the silver hammers tied into its braids. “You mistrust me, because of this human body that I wear,” he said. “But I need no magical compulsions to seek you out a second time.”
She made no reply to his banter.
“Could you tell me your name?” he asked.
“Why?”
“I’d like to deliver the tithe to you in person. Prove to you I’m a dwarf who pays my debts.”
She stared at him a moment before answering. She was coy. He liked that.
“Maliira,” she said. “Clan Gallowglar.”
She seemed to be waiting for him to say something. Or, perhaps, to do something. Torrin glanced around the pool room, which was empty save for the two of them. A soft rain had begun to fall through the portion of the ceiling that was open to the sky; it pattered on the water behind him. A murmur of voices echoed down the corridors leading to the temple’s guest rooms, hinting that the privacy they shared was fleeting. But the way she was looking at him… Had the stories he’d heard about the Merciful Maidens really been true? Some dwarf women had a taste for the exotic, after all.
Footsteps sounded from one of the corridors. Maliira turned in that direction. “Another supplicant is coming,” she said. “You should leave now, Torrin Ironstar.” She gestured at the corridor that led to the room where he’d left his clothes and equipment, then turned her back on him.
Torrin nodded to himself. Patience. That was what the goddess was demanding of him. He slipped into the corridor that led to his change room, casting one last, longing glance back over his shoulder at Maliira.
Her back was to him. She was busy greeting the next visitor to Sharindlar’s sacred pool. Torrin saw that it was Ambril, a cousin of Eralynn, the woman who’d spoken in Torrin’s favor when he’d first applied to join the Delvers. Ambril was in the final month of her pregnancy. Her belly was so distended she had to lean back, hands on hips, to counterbalance the weight as she waddled into the room. Twins, the midwives had said, but whether girls or boys-or one of each-was still a matter of much debate.
It was no surprise to see Ambril in the temple. Ever since learning she was pregnant, she had imagined herself to have one ailment or another, and had made trips to a shrine at least once a tenday. Her husband, Haldrin, had gritted his teeth each time he’d opened his coin pouch, but he indulged Ambril, just the same. Likely the thinness of his pouch was what had caused Ambril to seek out blessings at such a lesser temple, outside of Eartheart proper.
Torrin made his way to the change room, all thoughts of the lovely cleric washed from his mind. He whispered a prayer of thanks that he hadn’t run into Ambril before his cleansing, when he still had the taint of disease upon him.
The gods had just sent a sobering reminder of how important Torrin’s visit to the temple had been. Whatever Kendril had been afflicted with might have been passed not only to the living, but also to those generations of dwarves yet to be born.
Torrin pushed open the doors of the Delver’s Roost and strode into the room, ducking under the heavy wooden ceiling beams that were just at his forehead height. The curtains on the far wall were drawn-as always-across the window, hiding what would otherwise be a spectacular view of East Rift and the Underchasm beyond. Delvers were a secretive bunch and liked to keep their doings from prying eyes.
The other Delvers looked up from their maps and ale glasses, and a familiar rustle of whispers broke out in Torrin’s wake. One fellow, whose red face suggested he’d had a little too much ale, rose to his feet, slung his beard over his shoulder, and stepped into Torrin’s path. “What’s this?” he asked loudly. “Has our order adopted a pet human?”
Torrin bit back his anger. He turned slightly, so the fellow could see his backpack. “My apologies,” he told the other Delver. “I didn’t realize you couldn’t read. Shall I tell you what rune is on my pack? It’s a ‘D.’ You must know what that means, since there’s one on your pack, as well.”
The dwarf’s eyes narrowed. “A beard and pretty bracers don’t make a dwarf.”
Torrin stared pointedly at the ruby set into the pommel of the dagger the other Delver wore on his forearm. “Nor does a pretty blade make a sharp wit,” he replied. “Sharpening it would be a better use of your time; you’ve clearly dulled it on me.”
Some of the dwarves at nearby tables chuckled. The face of the Delver who’d confronted Torrin grew even redder.
“Let him be, Nardor,” one of the others at his table called out. “He’s not worth your time.”
“You’re right,” Nardor said. “I’ve ale to drink.” Muttering one last insult into his beard, he returned to his table.
Torrin smiled at his fellow Delvers as he continued through the room, but despite the fact he’d held his own, he still felt the sting of the fellow’s taunt. One day, he’d just like to walk into the Delver’s Roost and not be challenged-just walk in, unnoticed and unremarked upon, like any other Delver.
An ale would help, he decided. He made his way to the everful cask at the center of the room, lifted his ceramic cup down from the hooks above-most of which held mugs of pewter or etched glass with gilded rim-and held it under the spigot. Frothing ale rose in his mug. When it was full he carefully turned the spigot back. He fished out the last coins in his pocket, counted out ten copper bits, and tossed them into the money jar.
He sniffed. The room smelled better than it had. Two months before, Torrin’s friend Eralynn had been blamed for breaking the spigot-an unfortunate occurrence that had flooded the room ankle-deep in ale. The bottom edges of some of the wall maps had been damaged, but fortunately the maps were only copies of common views of the East Rift and the surrounding lands. The flood hadn’t done any real harm, other than lending a musty odor to the carpet, but it had taken more than a tenday to dry the room out. And the other Delvers had yet another reason to whisper about Eralynn behind their beards, gossiping about how “unlucky” she was. They were always commenting on her spellscarred hands. Useful though the magic a spellscar granted might be, few among the Delvers were willing to overlook the fact that the “taint” on Eralynn’s hands was the same blue fire that had almost torn the world apart, nearly a century before.