I struggle to my feet and look upon my helm. Pride wells up within me. It's just as I envisaged it: a brilliant craft of pale titanium, flowing in shape, its pale runes like lines of light. I pace around the anvil, marveling at my own skill—during my previous time in the fort, I could never have made anything approaching this level of craftsdwarfship. My creations back then were crude beyond measure, compared to this.

I circle around the anvil again and then twice more, watching how the fire flickers on the metal. Like I described in my metaphors, the reflected image of the forge looks more real than reality. My runes of light are strong. Not only can I see this by the clarity of the reflection, I can feel it—my helmet emanates power.

"It looks very fine," says Alae.

Her understatement irritates me a little. "Of course it does. I'm a runeknight of the second degree. Don't compare me to your human metalworkers."

"I never thought to."

"Good. Now let me read my runes, and then I'll tell you what I promised."

"Take as long as you need."

She sounds nervous, almost frightened. Her self-assurance has vanished in the face of my power—she understands that when it comes to the control of unknown forces, I am at the very least her equal, if not her superior.

I pick up my helm and begin to read from the base. The first set of two stanzas is exactly as I remember: a sword of light rebounds from polished silver-diamond armor.

I move on to the second set. A mace forged of light falls toward a frozen lake. Yes, I remember writing this. But there's something else here that I don't recall. Although I haven't yet reached the second stanza, I can see the forms of many dark runes waiting for me. The runes of no-light, circles with sections oddly cut out. Why are there so many?

Worried, I continue to read. The wielder of the weapon is described in more detail than I remember, as he swings the mace down. The weapon has a haft of dying gray, a color between light and darkness. At least it ends as I envisioned, with the mace being deflected from the frozen surface.

I read through the third and fourth couplets. Every few lines, I hear a low groan escape my lips. There are many dark runes here too: the wielder is reflected like a cut-out scar in the pristine water, and lets loose his arrows from a bow of cold colorlessness.

It is in the final pair of stanzas, however, that he looms largest. He's written about clearly as a troll whose flesh is formed from shadow—more than shadow—from an absence of light—and he hurls the light like a mighty boulder against the mirror.

The final line, thankfully, has no alterations. The light is thrown back and I've implied that it harms the wielder in some vague way.

But even though the strange alterations seem to have done no harm to the craft this time, I'm disturbed even so. I place down the helm and walk away to the wall. I stare into a fiery brazier, worrying.

What is that being of shadow I wrote into my poem? Just a metaphor? Something more? And the runes of no-light—what are they? Why did I create them in the first place?

I could have made the words using a negative grammar-piece. Why did I have to create entirely new runes for them? What was I thinking?

Was I thinking? If not, then who was? What lies within the sphere? The three shadows I saw—what were they, or who are they?

"You seem troubled," says the witch. "Did you make some mistake with the words?"

"Mistake?" I shake my head bitterly. "That's not quite right."

"Then what has happened?"

"I don't think you'd understand."

"I've seen many magicks go wrong. I might understand more than you expect."

I turn to face her. Fire and shadow outline her wrinkles deeply.

"Go wrong how?" I ask.

Her mouth twists. "They take in too much power and burn themselves. Break themselves. I worried, when flames started to appear, that the same was about to happen to you."

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"It might be similar, but that's not what concerns me now."

"What does, then?"

"Sometimes, when I finish my craft—when I awaken and read the runes—things have changed."

"The runes themselves?"

"Yes. What else?" I laugh, darkly. "At first it was always like that. I'd write my runes and later find out that they weren't what I'd remembered from the dictionaries, though they worked, and worked better than the ones from the dictionaries."

"Unconscious manifestation of power. It's a familiar phenomenon, up in the human world."

"But who manifests the power, usually?"

"Who?" A look of confusion comes across her strangely elongated face. "The wizard, of course."

"The wizard? Not some being or force working through them?"

"Some claim their power speaks to them, guides them. But we in Hyvaen have proven that to be superstition. The wizard channels the power. No Creator-God speaks through it, telling them where to let fly their bolts."

"I see."

"But if you think something works through you, I won't dismiss your magic as superstition. You dwarves, after all, do have beings you say are Godlike in power."

"The Runegods, yes. But it isn't one of them that lurks down there."

"What, then? A rumored demon?"

"Demons? We saw them off—creations of dwarves, is what they were. Set to defend a great treasure of knowledge."

She tilts her head. "What knowledge?"

"If only I knew fully. Vanerak has it now," I spit. "Curse him forever."

"But you do know partly. Perhaps it is related to this."

"It is—it's knowledge of the First Runeforger. A statue of him stood in the center of the topmost hall, clutching a sphere of power, and on the walls around kneeled the first runeknights."

"A sphere? Some kind of arcane object?"

"You mean like a wand?" I shake my head. "It was not flimsy piece of wood like you hold. It was—well, whatever it was, only Vanerak and Halax know that now."

"There are many kinds of foci for magic. We humans use wands, the elvish peoples used living plants, the trolls use their own flesh."

"And we dwarves have runes?"

She shakes her head. "No. That is the uniqueness I mentioned before."

"If runes are not a focus for magic, then what are they?"

"No one knows."

I gesture to my craft. "Is it not magic that's flowing around it?"

"It is. But the runes are not its foci, but its producers."

"So you humans cannot create power."

"That is correct."

I frown. "Where do you draw it from, then?"

"We humans take our power from the sky. This is the principal of our magic—we train ourselves to read the patterns present in the airy reaches above, and then we direct our will to control them."

"All humans?"

"No. Most are not sensitive enough to said patterns, and out of those who are, most do not have the willpower requisite to control the forces above."

"Perhaps it is a little like forging, then. Most do not have the talent to understand the metal, and out of those who do, most do not have the patience required to work it properly."

"Maybe. I am not a blacksmith, however, and cannot comment."

I think for a moment. "How can you read the patterns in the sky from down here?"

"Because I have trained my mind thoroughly. How did you gain control over your rune-making?"

"It's to be one coin for another, I see."

"That was our deal."

"Very well. I had no control over it for a long time. I just wrote runes as best I could, and hoped my power would improve them, make them fit better to my poems. And then, during my trial, in its final task—"

I suddenly hesitate. Can I really trust a human with this knowledge? Though she pulled me from the fires, she didn't necessarily do it out of kindness. She is hungry to know—I can see it in her eyes.

"What happened?"

It's too late for doubts, I decide. And I won't go back on my word. "I found myself standing inside of a great sphere. Within were three shadows—I was one of them. The others seemed to be my lost brother and an old enemy."

"Made of shadow? Or were they casting shadows?"

"I don't know. I was only there for an instant before the sphere cracked. A torrent of fire consumed me and I was thrown up and into the deep magma. When I awoke, my runes were in my head, in my fingers—new runes. I created them in a frenzy. That was the turning point—the discovery of the trance."

She is silent for a while.

"And whenever you fall into one of these trances, you are inside the sphere?" she eventually says. "Does it end when magma pours in?"

"No, no." I shake my head. "This is something that's always bothered me. Usually I'm not in the sphere, but just nearby it. A few times I've touched it, or even sunk into it, but usually it's just next to me."

"Interesting."

"It shook, recently. When I made my first few runes of this script of light. I don't know why. I can't fathom anything about it."

"You mentioned that the statue of the First Runeforger depicted him clutching a sphere. Do you think it's the same one?"

"I don't know. I couldn't read the runes in it. They were too small. And the thing he held had no runes on its outside either. It was perfectly smooth."

"I see."

She goes silent again. I wait patiently, but even after several minutes, she still hasn't said anything. She just stares past me at nothing in particular. Her red-shot eyes are glazed.

I clear my throat. She ignores me. Is she in her own trance? I back away hurriedly.

"I'm in no trance," she says. "I'm merely thinking. Considering my next words."

"Take as long as you please."

Her eyes snap back into focus, like lenses suddenly readjusted. "I've considered long enough."

"Then say your piece. Give me your half of the trade."

"Very well. I'll tell you what I can. I do not have the answers: but my knowledge may lead to your gaining them."

She steps back, raises her wand. Light flares at its terminus, making my eyes water, though I refuse to look away.

"I shall show you something of our human magic," she announces. "And I will teach you, as promised, of our theories of what you dwarves' magic should be and yet is not."

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