My sense of dissatisfaction does not diminish even as I move on to the gem-cutting. No matter how perfectly I grind each diamond, I cannot feel satisfied. They all look somehow rough. The most minor of flaws begin to irritate me. Is there really no way to reach in and correct the structure? If a Runeking seeks a diamond for his crown, or even a Runethane for his armor, how does he select it? He would not accept any flaw. Would he pick through a thousand just to find the right one? Ten thousand?

Or would he grow it—create some kind of runic vise to crush stone so forcefully, and so exactly, that the perfect crystal is created?

Most dwarves avoid enruning their tools out of fear the runic power will have some detrimental effect on what they're creating. The power to create will sink into something that's meant to have only the power to destroy: that's the main fear. Yet, what if you designed a craft to imbue the power you need into your weapon?

I can't imagine how it would work. I can think of one similar example: I recall Runethane Thanerzak's forge and the key that when turned unleashed dragonfire. He had poured their power into his weapon, again and again over more than a century. It wasn't runic power, but it was power all the same. He made a forge for a weapon that unleashed devastation like dragonflame.

But down here I can do nothing so spectacular. I can only use Runethane Yurok's smoke, and though it's undoubtedly effective, I get the sense that his power came more from regular expertise and masses of true metal, rather than anything truly unique.

I weld in the gems, being very careful that my heating-rod is the same temperature each time, glowing the exact same orange hue. I place in the gems next, slowly, cautiously.

Finished. As far as I can see, all the alignments are exact, even when examined under a lens, but mightn't a more powerful lens be able to make out errors, places where the symmetry is broken?

I hold both ears out at arm's length. They are admirable—but I sense lost potential. Even if they are true titanium, there must be more to advancement in forging than better materials.

Still, I suppose they're good enough. They'll serve me well so long as my poems come through. I ready a spool of platinum wire, and quizik and hytrigite reagents.

Now to write. Before I set words to paper, however, I have a decision to make. Do I fall into my trance, and risk whatever's inside damaging these sensible, reliable crafts, or do I do everything manually?

I decide on the latter. These ears are not to be fancy, and I have all the vocabulary I need, both of light and of shadow.

I begin: it's inspired by the themes Nthazes uses, of sources and reflections and angles, and shadows in the depths being eliminated so that all around can be seen. It has two long stanzas: in the second light takes the place of shadow, so that the runes are reversed. They are perfect mirrors.

Or at least, this what I plan for. I'd forgotten how difficult it is to compose normally. I've gotten rusty at the runic flow calculations. Basic errors set me back several lines time and again. Shadow balances light, yes, negative to positive, division to multiplication, but not always in the most obvious ways. My papers fill with numbers and runes and diagrams of angles as I struggle to match rune-flow and air-flow.

Tightly blindfolded dwarves enter and exit, leaving food and ale with reverence. So deep am I in concentration that I barely remember to touch it. But no matter how much piles up, they still bring it in, eager to be in the presence of the Second Runeforger while he works. The fact that they are not allowed to watch does not seem to dissuade them at all.

I try my best to ignore them. Their expectations make me nervous.

After much struggle, the poem is done and it becomes time to twist and graft. I use a miniscule pair of pliers to shape the wire and soon find myself struggling. My fingertips ache. I break a few pieces—break my own runes. I do not notice that I'm biting my lip until I nearly bite right through it, only realizing when blood starts dripping onto the carefully laid platinum symbols.

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The wound heals quickly, or perhaps slowly—it is a shallow line by the time I'm done with the wire-shaping. Now for the reagent: I prepare the hytrigite, cut it carefully, then start to brush the quizik onto each rune.

I go nearly grain-by-grain. It's truly painstaking. I feel my patience beginning to fray. I am going to have to do this for every armor piece, too! How much time spent on this stretches before me? It's like a tunnel without end, without even the slightest hint of a dot of light to strive for.

But I don't stop. I can't stop. Pride prevents me—a first-degree runeknight does not cease his work because of something as base as impatience. I continue, and continue, and continue, until every rune is set and ready to be heated. Then, to heat—with great care I tap with my white-hot needle-rod. Gray and blue flash. I hear chatter at the entrance to the forge at one point, until Hayhek commands them to quiet their excitement.

The work ends. The ears are glowing with soft power. It's not like the outward, sharp power a weapon might have, nor the slow and solid power of armor. Instead it's something inward, like the steady drawing of breath.

Yet I am not quite finished. I still have to enrune the diamonds. I don't remember how I did this with my echo-eyes—I was in my trance. But after a little searching, I find some very sharp, extremely thin chisels. They're not as dusty as some of the other tools. These are what I must have used before.

My lack of memory scares me a little.

I scratch away. I'm not sure what material these things are made of—they are the color of bone, but smell of stone. In any case, they are effective in a slow kind of way. It takes a great many scratches along the same paths to get each line as deep as it must be.

Impatience returns. The endless road is stretching out before me again. Can I not sprint along it? But although it's a thin path, there are many pitfalls and jags. I cannot rush. I must go slow.

Gem by gem, the power deepens. I can almost hear it already: the subtle flow of air around the curves.

Done. I shut my eyes and hold the crafts against my head, just above my ears of flesh. At once I am overwhelmed by hundreds of overlapping sounds. I can hear slow crackling from the extinguished furnace, the creak of my own ribs as I breathe, a slight rumbling in the stone above, and the whispers of dwarves outside the door.

"...we've been waiting too long."

"We can't risk disturbing him."

"He's always focused, they say. He won't even notice. Why won't you let me enter?"

"You need to learn patience. That's why you're still eighth-degree."

"You're still just fifth!"

"You wouldn't use that tone if you knew what being fifth takes. Be silent and wait."

"He won't rid us of the darkness if he's starving."

"He won't if we disturb him either. After half an hour, if we still can't hear him at work, we'll enter."

I pull the ears away from my head. I vaguely recognize the older voice—Nogrud, I think, a spear-wielder I led on several expeditions, none eventful. The younger must be his son, or perhaps a nephew, to dare argue with him in such a familiar way.

"You can enter whenever you like," I call out. "Just so long as you stay blindfolded. And don't bother with the ale. I've still got two barrels left."

After crafting a thin band to attach the ears to, I pack away my echo-eyes with sad reverence and start work on the new helmet. In basic shape, it's nearly the same as the old one, though I make it a little thinner, and less extended around the neck.

The true titanium bends to my will without much trouble. It is not quite alive, I'm starting to realize. A hundred beats by a hundred, I slowly become able to predict its tricks. Perhaps this is because I can now hear its song each time I strike. It is a little like voices, but not quite.

If this true metal holds any intelligence, it's only of a very simple kind. The mundane mixed into it seems to be holding its life back, keeping it in the realm of simple materials. If there is soul to the stuff I'm working with, it's only half a soul. Or one tenth.

This is guesswork, naturally. I don't really know. It's not as if there are any books on the subject—if any exist, they are surely held in the lowest depths of the Allabrast libraries.

Once the helmet is forged, I start work on the boots and shinguards. I don't enrune anything just yet. A stack of sheets has been piling up steadily in one corner of the forge, filled densely with drafts and calculations, yet it's not quite done. It lacks that touch of greatness that the armor of a first-degree ought to have. I want anyone in my guild who reads it to be astounded by its masterfulness, and if I were to graft it in its current state, it would merely impress.

My work continues on and on, the titanium's half-song echoing around the forge. The heat of the furnace warms me through. I stop noticing the bitter scent of my leather mask. A bearable ache sets into my muscles. And my impatience does not return. For the while, I am at peace in this world of metal.

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