Faro ducked through the archway into Klotig's private stonehold. Klotig—or rather Klotig's forebeards—had carved a high arching ceiling in the reception hall, and Faro stood up straight once he was inside. A low stone table sat surrounded by cushions and rugs. A Vien glass lamp burned in the center, adding its flickering light to the glow of the precious red Miner's Eye that let off its dim light. The light of the fungus was strong enough for dwarven eyes to see, but Faro could only make out shapes by its glow, so he was thankful for the lamp.

"Welcome, Faro," Klotig said, rising from a cushion and approaching him with both hands extended. They clasped forearms. "Come and sit."

Faro did as requested, sitting cross-legged upon a cushion at the low table. Nesht appeared, carrying two steaming mugs of tea. She set them before Faro and her father, then disappeared back into the private areas of the stonehold. Klotig and Faro picked up their cups and sipped before speaking more. The tea tasted of honey, yet another evidence of trade. Faro knew now that the name "Klotig" actually meant "Proud-Chin," in their tongue, just as Miyeglanesht was a word for the facets the dhar cut into gemstones. The dhar had other names, but those they did not share even among their own kind, except their closest kin.

"Soon the ice will melt," Klotig said. "It is already breaking up in the channel. Trade with your kind will commence again."

As he grew in the knowledge of their tongue, Faro had learned much of the trade that occurred between the Inevien and the dhar during the two or three months when the channel between Isecan and the islands was open to navigation. The dhar called the islands the Kiel-Indal. They were little more than the peaks of mountains rising from the sea, and Kiel-Indal meant "flame mountains." The Inevien brought shiploads of delicacies—honey, fruit, wines, grains, vegetables, glasswork, and cloth—and in exchange the dhar provided steel, gemstones, and sometimes even silver. A few smiths among the dhar even traded finished mail, spearheads, and knives. Their hands were clever, despite their brutish look. The dhar could fashion arrowheads in bulk, and they traded them in sacks. These things the ships took back to the enclaves. The dhar had the upper hand in the exchange, for they traded dear for the works of their hands, and the Inevien counted their produce of little value. The dhar larders overflowed by winter. They had fed Faro well; he had even partaken of much pomegranate wine and cider from the enclaves, beloved drinks to Klotig and welcome breaks from küg.

"With the coming of the ships," Klotig said, "you will have the freedom to return to your own kind."

Faro remained quiet. He did not know what to think. There was much about the dhar that he found fascinating, even beautiful—their music, their speech, the works of their hands—but the constant smell of flesh and smoke, the dark tunnels and damp air, the ache in his back from crouching, these things had made life a sore trial. Beyond that, he did not know what kind of life awaited him back in Isecan.

"We do not entertain many guests here," Klotig said. "Truly, we have received none beneath the stone since our folk settled here in the years of my grandfather. Yet our forebeards did not fail to teach us the ways of hospitality."

"You have not hosted any Vien?" Faro asked.

Klotig pressed his lips together.

"No. We have never permitted the Vien to enter our halls before."

The next question was so obvious that Faro did not speak it, and yet Klotig answered it.

"Because we do not trust your people," he said, "as wealthy as they make us. I was young when first we met the Vien. My father wanted nothing to do with your kind. Nevertheless, they saw our steel and offered him wine. It was the beginning, but we do not permit them to see our holds or know our strength."

"Yet you brought me in."

"Ay, yes." Klotig leaned back. Faro knew that if he gave the old dhar time, he would explain to Faro all that he wanted known. Klotig rested his hands on his chest, clasping them in front of his slate gray beard. Faro took another sip of tea. "We hunted that bear," Klotig said at last. "They are dangerous creatures. We do not like them on our shore. But it was old—old and clever. It would not fall into our traps or come near the hunters. My daughter wished to lure it onto our spears. You ran across the shingle with a knife like a fool. It would have ripped you apart."

"I did not understand," Faro said. "I thought she was a child."

"I know that among your kind, you are thought a child. She is not much younger than you, but she is two years past rhundal." Faro knew that the rhundal was a kind of coming-of-age ceremony. "You proved fine bait for the bear, though," Klotig said with a grin. He took a sip from his warm tea. "It would have ripped you apart. I wondered if you were a fool, or if you were brave. Now, I think you were brave. Mostly."

"Did you let me beneath the stone to figure that out?" Faro asked, returning the smile.

"I was curious," Klotig said. "But that is not the reason. I do not know what brought you to our shore, but I took it as the hand of providence. I have need of you."

"What need?" Faro tried to hide his excitement. He'd long suspected there was more to the dhar's preoccupation with educating him in their ways than mere hospitality, but as yet he had not discerned their intent.

The old dhar took another drink, and Faro did likewise, waiting. Placing his hands on his knees and pushing himself upward, Klotig rose to his feet.

"Come," he said.

Faro followed him, expecting to return to the outer door of the stonehold. Instead, Klotig led him into the private chambers. Faro had never stepped beyond the reception hall in any of the dhar stoneholds. A Vien tapestry of deep yellow cloth served as a door, blocking view of what lay beyond, but Klotig pushed it aside. Faro had to duck through the arched door. A long hall extended beyond, and Klotig led him past many closed doors. Only the light of the red Miner's Eye illumined their way. The fungus that produced the red glow was the most prized by the dhar folk, and the hardest to cultivate.

At the end of the hall, they came to a great door inlayed with silver. Nesht had recently drilled him every day for an entire week after finding out he could still not reliably identify metals and stones. The dhar had a word for every variation and gradation of rock and ore, and many of the differences escaped his discernment.

Klotig pulled a chain from under his shirt. Affixed to it was a strange piece of dark iron with an odd shape, and he thrust it into a slot to one side of the door. When he turned it there was a sound of movement, and Klotig pulled the door ajar. Red Miner's Eye glowed within, but Klotig struck a steel to flint after stepping inside. A few moments later, the chamber flared with lamplight.

"Enter," he said. Faro obeyed. Deep shelves were carved into the stone on three sides of the chamber, and upon those shelves rested ingots of gold, silver, and steel, coiled chains of the same metals, polished jewels, and masterworks of metal and lapidary arts. Armor and weapons sat covered in grease. In the center of the chamber, a promontory of natural rock rose a few feet, and set into alcoves all around it were what looked like sealed vases of carven stone. The chamber gleamed with more patinas and glinting reflections than Faro could take in at a glance.

In the center of the far wall, something luminous sat upon a shelf. It was a helm, but more than a helm. The front was a fearsome mask with two eye-holes and a visage engraved of geometric shapes, like a screaming fiend. This was not covered in grease, but it shone without the slightest hint of age or tarnish. Klotig approached it with a reverent gait and lifted it from its stand. He turned and held it up for Faro to see.

"Do you recognize this metal?" he asked.

"No," Faro said. It had a luster unlike any he had seen before. It caught and cast the light in confusing ways, refracting it in unexpected directions.

"We call this Living Steel. Of all metals, it is the rarest and most precious. Few even among the dhar have ever held it."

Klotig hesitated for a moment, then held out the helm for Faro to take. Faro hesitated in turn, but Klotig motioned to it with his head.

As soon as Faro's fingers touched the metal, he felt power. It was Current, down in the Living Steel, as if caught there and bound within. The helm was surprisingly light.

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"It was my grandfather's," Klotig continued. "My father fashioned it for him before he went to the halls of our forebeards. Now my father rests with him as well, as will I." Klotig motioned toward the promontory of rock and the stone vases.

"It is beautiful," Faro said without falsehood. He had never beheld anything to compare it with, nor felt the presence of the Current so strongly in an object of any kind. It was the first time his mind had awoken to the presence of the Current in months—not since he had fled upon the ice. Yet the Current within the helm felt strange and unfamiliar, not like the Currents of Findel or Isecan. He did not try to grasp it.

"It is stronger and lighter than steel. Most fires can barely warm it," Klotig said. "It took my father over a hundred years to discover the method of smelting and working it." He reached out for the helm, and Faro handed the treasure back to him. Klotig replaced it upon its stand. Turning once more, the old dhar paused by the promontory and the polished stone vessels. He laid his hands upon one.

"My father has been gone for fifty years. I still miss him, and my grandfather. This is my father's ossuary. In these are the bones of my forebeards."

Faro stared at the ossuaries, realizing what Klotig meant. These vessels contained the remains of his dead relatives. Faro tried not to show the repulsion he felt. Why would the dhar collect the remains of their dead?

"No one outside of my own stonehold has ever beheld this place," Klotig said.

"I am honored." Faro bowed his head and placed his hand on his chest. He did not feel honored, but he could not insult the dhar. Klotig nodded in response to Faro's bow, then held out his arm, signaling for Faro to leave through the door.

Once outside, Klotig secured the door again with the bit of iron. At the end of the passage, Nesht awaited them. At her feet sat three large bags. She lifted one up, and Klotig turned his back to her, slipping his arms through straps. He turned and she slung a second bag over her father's shoulder. The dhar could carry immense loads, and neither of the bags looked light.

"This is for you," she said to Faro, holding up the last bag. It also had straps, and Faro turned and put his arms through. When Nesh released her hold, the weight nearly staggered him. Klotig nodded to his daughter and pushed aside the hanging cloth, leading back into the reception hall. Faro followed, confused.

"Are we going to the surface?" he asked, hopeful.

"No," Klotig said. The dhar said no more. Despite his confusion, Faro trusted Klotig. After so many months under their care, with Nesht carefully teaching him their tongue, he did not believe they meant him any direct harm, though he did not understand what they did mean for him. It was clear Klotig had some intention, yet they had saved his life and feasted him through the winter. He had seen their dances, heard their deep music. He owed them a debt of hospitality and gratitude.

Klotig led Faro out of the stonehold and down long passages where Faro had to follow hunched over to protect his head. Klotig led down turnings and stairs unfamiliar to Faro. During his time with the dhar, Faro memorized a limited number of passages that he would venture alone—from the little chamber they had given him to the feasting hall, which was near Klotig's stonehold and the chamber where Nesht taught him. He also felt confident he could navigate to the stair leading to surface and the cove where first he had met the dhar.

After a lengthy walk, they came to the end of a carven passage. To Faro's eye, it looked like a dead end. There was even blue Miner's Eye growing on the wall, but Klotig moved his hands around the stone and pulled on something. The stone moved away, and the old dhar pushed open a doorway. The door was low even by dhar standards, and with the pack on his back, Faro passed through on his knees.

Beyond the door, the passage continued for a few feet, and then a great blackness yawned. Faro could see the faintest glow of Miner's Eye beyond, but not enough to make out any shapes. It did not look like a tunnel, and the air smelled damp. Klotig knelt and rummaged in the bag slung over his shoulder, producing a lamp hung on a handle. He used flint and steel to light a bit of tinder and transferred the flame to the wick. The smell of the dhar oil, refined from the beasts they hunted and whales washed ashore, was noxious. Faro had learned to control his facial expressions out of fear of giving offense. Even in the dark, the dhar could see him.

Klotig shouldered the bag again, holding the lamp with his free hand. He stepped into the opening. Faro stared, trying to make sense of what he saw. It was a vast open space rising high, with spearlike projections of stone hanging from above and jutting up from below. The sound of dripping water echoed, and there was movement in the damp air.

"These are the natural caverns," Klotig said. "We call this the Way of Risinghand, after my grandfather who first explored it. Come."

The ceiling continued to rise higher above them as they walked deeper within the cavern. Their footsteps echoed in the vast space, along with Klotig's words as he told Faro about his grandmother, a great healer, and how in her old age she had taught him the ways of their people as she sat near the warm forge with a great kimgrip pelt over her legs in her old age.

"I wish Nesht could have known her," Klotig said. They lapsed into silence for a while. The path was not straight, winding between the rock formations, scrambling over screes, and squeezing through fearful passages where the ceiling abruptly lowered or the walls narrowed. Faro felt ill at such tight spaces. How deep were they? The monstrous weight of the mountain loomed over him, and it was a challenge to keep his breathing calm. Sweat beaded cold on his forehead. He had grown somewhat used to the carven tunnels of the dhar, but these caverns, what kept them from collapsing?

As he swam against the current of his fears, something brushed against the edge of his awareness. It was strange and yet familiar. It was power, like a faint stirring of air. As the measureless time beneath the stone wore on and Klotig led ever further along winding paths and diverging caverns, Faro's fear increased, but so did his awareness of the power.

He had felt this Current before, deep within the helm in Klotig's stonehold. There was no denying its presence, and the presence unnerved him. These were depths not meant to be trodden, secret places not fit for his kind. The dhar might belong, tunneling like worms underfoot, but the urge to flee—an urge he had repressed for months—grew stronger. Flight was impossible, though; many passages diverged. He would never find his way, wandering forever in the dark unto starvation or some sudden end.

The flow of the Current grew stronger, and as it did, Faro felt an increased movement of air—warm air. It touched his face. There was a smell he did not recognize, like many minerals mixed together. Nesht had tried to get him to taste different rocks to tell apart the kinds. That was a difficult lesson.

They might have walked for hours, but what was time in such a place? The air continued to grow warmer, until his fearful sweat was no longer cool, and the Current flowing through the caverns pulsated with his heartbeat. Their way narrowed again. Faro flinched as two great figures flared into the light of the lamp.

They weren't alive, he realized after a moment, though they were life-like to great detail, apart from their scale. They towered on either side of the path. Klotig held up the lamp. Its flickering light fell upon the statues. Yellow and red Miner's Eye covered the surface of the stone plinths, but none grew upon the figures.

To the left towered a dhar with a mighty beard, his hand holding a spear, his features grim. On the right stood a dhar female, intricately braided hair falling down her bosom. So fine was the stonework that he could see her hairs, and her dress appeared to ripple with movement. In her hands she held a lamp, its wick also carved of stone, and for a flame was set some faceted gem that returned the light of Klotig's lamp with a red gleam.

"Behold, the likenesses of Risinghand and Jet, my grandfather and grandmother." Klotig raised a hand to his lips, then pressed his fingers on the feet of each statue in turn. The dhar were skilled at all the works of their hands, but he had yet to see such examples of carving. Yet something drew his attention even more. Between the two statues lay a natural cleft of rock, and from it flowed warm air and a steady Current.

"My grandfather was a warrior in his youth. In those days, he was called Strikinghand, and he fought many battles in our homeland across the sea. He survived great peril, and when he returned to my grandmother's people, they called him Risinghand, for it was if he had risen from the dead. They lived near the base of a great mountain they called the Mouth of Fire. One day it erupted, spewing ash that filled the sky. Spring did not come that year, and the sea froze. The beasts they hunted did not migrate. Some of their people wished to go south. Many others of our kind dwelt there. My grandfather refused. He would not go south.

One day, he saw a bear like the one we killed when you arrived. He saw it a long way off, walking toward the land from the west across the sea. By this sign, he believed there was land beyond the ice. Two other stoneholds followed him, and after many days, they saw mountains rise in the west." Klotig motioned around him with two fingers. "Here they settled, delving these halls."

Faro waited. It was a fascinating tale, but he still did not know why Klotig needed him. Had the dhar brought him there just to see the statues? The flow of Current through the cleft made it hard to concentrate on the dhar's story.

"Though two other stoneholds crossed the ice with theirs," Klotig said quietly, "three generations later, there is only one family."

"What happened to the other two?" Faro asked.

Klotig smiled.

"Their children married. And their children married. The four became one. My Miyeglanesht, the daughter of my old age, is two years past her rhundal, and there is no one to suit her. There is only family here."

Faro had never figured out quite how many dhar actually dwelt there—they lived spread out through what might have been miles of tunnels, rarely gathering together.

"Can you not cross the ice again?"

"Not since the days of Risinghand has the eastern sea frozen."

"What will you do?"

"I need you, Faro of the Thin Ones."

The dhar more commonly referred to the Vien using a term that, so far as Faro could figure, translated to something like "wight" or "ghost." Sometimes they called the Vien "angle-faces" as well. No doubt, Klotig used "thin ones" out of respect to Faro.

"You have seen my hoard," Klotig continued. "There is no gold or silver or living steel that can comfort me in my age, knowing my daughter will not wed nor the line of my hold continue. I seek passage on the ships of your kind for my daughter and our young ones, to return east to the halls of our forebeards. In exchange for this, I will grant wealth beyond the knowledge of your people."

"Why do you not speak with the Vien who come to trade in the summer?" Faro asked.

"We cannot speak their tongue, and they do not speak ours. We know only a few of their runes, enough to make our trades," Klotig said.

So that was it. They needed a translator.

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