My light shows a hall of hundreds upon hundreds of strange stone pillars, extending as far as we can see, though that is not very far; there are not three yards of space between each. I gaze at them. They are not smooth cylinders, and nor are they shaped in regular geometries, so they are likely not of dwarven make. However, neither are they thicker at the roof and base like columns formed from joined stalactites and stalagmites are. They are all similar in form, but no two are exactly the same. Grown, not carved.

I run my hand along one. Its surface is rough, crinkled like withered skin. The color is deep gray. The tops of them appear strangely broken-looking, and I hold my lantern up to get a better impression. The stone spreads out like crystals, or like a network of thin, interlocking fingers strewn through with discs.

"What in hell?" whispers Ithis.

"A surface tree!" says Rtayor. "I went somewhere like this, once. A surface forest of brown pillars and swaying green plates above. But this is all stone."

"Fossils," says Hayhek. "When something once-living is buried and the stone turns it into a part of itself."

"I've never seen fossils as grand as these."

Too fascinated to speak, I walk forward carefully, shining my lantern all around. Surface trees—I've read about them, though I never saw any up close on the dragonhunt. They're a kind of fungi with a tall, brown stem, and instead of a single cap, they have many thousands. The caps are bright green, and drink in the sunlight, but of course down here there is no sunlight, and every part of each is gray stone.

How long have they spent in the darkness, these things of warmer lands? The leaves above, edged with crystal growth, are dense and large. They were born for a sunny land, not a cave. They must have been brought down in ages past by dwarves or some other kind of being. Long dead elves, perhaps. What light was used to nurture them? I can't imagine.

My lantern cannot uncover those mysteries. That's one limitation of light, I realize. It can only show what is on the surface, not what lies behind the facade.

The other four proceed carefully behind me.

"Let's not go too far," says Ugyok. "We don't want to lose our way."

I'm filled with a kind of recklessness, though, an intense desire to uncover more and more. There are not just fossilized trees here, but bats with strange fur—birds, I think—and other small creatures, some just bones but some with skin turned to stone also. I shine my lantern on them and try to observe the long-faded colors. Although most have melded to the stone and taken on its grayness, some, especially the birds, are nearly vivid.

This is what I want to discuss in my poem: uncovering spots of true color within the gray. Original color in gray chaff. Yes, this shall be the central metaphor.

"Zathar?" Hayhek calls. "Zathar!"

I turn, shaken from my trace. The other four are a way off. All have their own lanterns lit brightly. Long shadows of trees extend away from them, and the gaps between those shadows are like a sun-burst's rays. The scene is like the forms of my runes.

"What is it?" I ask.

"We ought to turn back. Who knows what lives here?"

"Everything's dead."

"Even so, we really don't want to get lost."

"He can roam as he likes," Ithis counters. "We'll stay here and be his beacon."

The offer is tempting, but no. I don't want to put them in danger. We'll head back another time, with more runeknights, perhaps in armor of light and mirrors.

"I apologize, Hayhek. You're right. Let's return."

I'm back in the forge, fresh wire before me. I have it now, an idea in mind, the seed of a truly strong poem. I flex my fingers.

"Let me burn for a while first," I caution Lekudr, who has volunteered for the honor of witnessing my runeforging. "Don't throw the chains and water over immediately."

"Yes, Runeforger," he says.

I shut my eyes and will the heat to come forth. It does so even more forcefully than usual—blazing pressure crushes me from all sides, and the appearance of the sphere and its pressure near flattens me. I resist, though. I smile. It's almost as if the sphere knows that this hour I will make runes truly worthy to be called so.

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Two stanzas. The first: a dwarf bearing a lantern walks through a lifeless land. The sky is slate gray and there is no sun, no stars nor moon either. There is only dust and vague, shapeless boulders that might once have had distinct form and purpose, but these are long since lost.

I go into greater detail, linking runes for light and color with negative grammar-pieces—these are shaped like circles with gaps in them. At the end of the first stanza, I relate everything to metal and ore. Dull, formless substances that even so contain the potential for great brilliance.

In the second stanza, the dwarf, his heart filled with a desire to see the true nature of the world, lifts his lantern high and wills it to blaze like a new sun. Radiance explodes out, tearing away the dust of darkness and revealing the boulders' true forms: statues so beautifully colored and densely detailed that they do not merely equal reality, but surpass it. They spring to life and glow with their own light, and dance like sparks in the forge do. Finally, at the end of the poem, I relate them to the true metal: metal with life.

The power is burning my soul as I write these final runes, and I am sure my real body is burning also. I struggle to shut away the flow through me and succeed with only a little difficulty. I reach out to the coldness. The heat vanishes and am back in the forge, dripping wet and strung over with heavy silver chains.

Lekudr is staring down at the anvil, empty bucket by his feet, his jaw hanging slack. Upon the steel are hundreds of glittering platinum runes in the exact form and order I just composed. It seems that I didn't go so far as to graft them in my trance, but that is not to say they aren't worth grafting.

I can tell immediately that they are far superior to my earlier failures.

"Incredible..." Lekudr murmurs.

"Thank you."

"Not just the runes, but... the way you didn't use a draft, or anything. It seems perfect already."

"I usually use a draft. Not this hour, though. Why, I had no runes to draft with!" I laugh. He looks a little comical, this short-beard, standing there with eyes wide and mouth open. "How long was I burning for?"

"Just a few minutes. It didn't hurt?"

Waves of coolness from the ruby are killing the pain. I shrug. "It's hurt worse before. I suppose I'm getting used to it all."

"I can't imagine."

"I don't know that anyone can, not since the First Runeforger."

"Do you know much about him?"

"About him?" I stroke my beard. "The Runeking told me a few things."

"The Runeking himself?" Lekudr's eyes widen further. "Runeking Ulrike?"

"What other Runeking would I have been talking to? I hope you don't mean to suggest that I discussed my power with the hated Uthrarzak."

"No, no! Never! I just—"

I laugh loudly. I am filled with mirth, with joy. "Only joking," I say. "But I have to confess that even he could not tell me much. Only that there has only been one runeforger until me, and that he was slain."

"Slain?"

"Yes. Out of jealousy, I imagine."

My joy diminishes a little. Might one of the dwarves of my guild, as worshipful as they are now, someday feel envious of my powers? Might I one day meet the same fate as the First Runeforger? We are linked together, aren't we? I remember his face vividly, and the deep shadows in its recesses that gave it a similarity in shape to mine, my brother's, Hardrick's.

"Jealousy?"

"Let's not talk about this now. I have grafting to do."

"May I watch? I won't talk—and I'll pay. My two friends will join. I'll persuade them."

"All right. Just this once." I stretch, smiling once more. "Observe carefully a second-degree at work."

I get to grafting, tracing out the shapes of the runes in glassy hytrigite, then overlaying both rune and reagent upon the titanium. I push gently with a small rod to align the rows exactly. It's tricky, for they tend to slide a little. I might have found this frustrating once, but now I know patience. Lekudr, behind me, does not. He nods off several times, sleeping as he stands. It's foolish of him to do this, to throw away the chance to watch a second-degree work, but I suppose I can't expect too much of one so inexperienced. He'll mature as the guild does.

When I touch a heating rod to the first rune, it flashes bright and glows a brilliant silver.

It's not quite as brilliant as it would be if grafted with almergris, though. I wanted to test; there is power in the grafted rune, and I think this knife will be able to scrape out the true metal with ease, but to ward off the darkness—I think we really will need almergris for that. There is an angry, vengeful power in that reagent that hytrigite cannot quite match.

I was also a little afraid of how that vengeful power might react with the true metal.

"Incredible," breathes Lekudr. The light has woken him.

"You're not to read the poem on this craft," I warn. "You're not to know what this is for."

"Why not?"

"Don't be so impudent. It's a secret, that's why. But you will get a chance to learn each rune individually. Then, when you are a third or second degree, you might look back upon this moment and understand what you must do to advance further."

He nods respectfully. I finish grafting each rune on this side of the blade and turn it over to attach the next stanza.

I'm still working on aligning them when there comes a rapping at the door. Lekudr opens it and Ithis walks in, face is flushed and glistening with sweat. I drop the rune I'm holding.

"Ithis? What happened?"

"This!" he laughs, and he unslings a bulging sack from his back. The sound it makes when it hits the floor is of hundreds of bits of metal clashing against each other. A tear appears in the fabric, then it rips apart. Gold and silver coins pour out in a flood, a river.

The promised river of profit.

"Your cut," he says, gesturing down at the coins. "One third of the guild's work."

The coins are glittering in the furnace-light. There are too many of them to count. I feel a smile appear on my lips. It slowly widens until my cheeks hurt.

"How much?" I ask.

"More than five hundred gold and twice the same in silver."

A third of the way to uncut gems and good equipment to facet them with.

"Relay my thanks to every guild member," I command. "And tell them that for the next feast, I will buy every barrel from my own funds."

"Yes, guildmaster!"

Lekudr looks on in awe.

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