It is Halax who is set to watch me as I begin work on the rubies. As always, his stare is unnerving. He is examining every strike of my chisel, the angles of my sawing, how I sand, how I polish. He sees the diagram I have made of the shape my rubies must become, and is comparing its every line to the garnet I am now cutting for my practice.

My first few attempts fail. I felt I had a small talent for gemcutting, before my confinement, but it seems to have atrophied in the darkness. The gems will not come into the shapes I need them to be. Am I missing out some crucial step of the process? I don't think so—Guthah, back then, said to chisel, cut, sand, and polish. These I am doing.

What does he think of me, now his beloved is gone? He will have guessed the reason for her death—he will not have bought the lie that she perished in the magma sea. Tenth degrees are not sent to the magma sea, in any case.

Cutting gems reminds me of him, of the fact that he is above me somewhere, probably hating me, certainly resenting my living while Pellas is dead.

This is the reason my work goes poorly. I am distracted.

After a long-hour, though, my distraction fades. Fear focuses me. Vanerak said he did not mind me working on the heat-mask instead of the weapon—but I could not tell the emotion behind his words. If there was impatience, it was hidden. There may well have been impatience. I cannot let myself lose focus—for Guthah's sake. He may hate me, but I still have a duty to make sure he does not meet the same fate as Pellas.

Or, as Vanerak promised me, an even worse fate.

My eyes start to see more, judge the angles better. My fingers become more steady and my hand becomes as used to the saw and polishing cloth as it is to the hammer. My mistakes become less and less severe, until they become invisible. Maybe a better runeknight could feel an off-angle on my final two garnets, but they meet my standard, even when I test the shape of their sound using my runic ears. In the blackness, their music is clear.

Two gems as perfect as I can tell in a row: now my practice is over and it is time to cut the rubies. I take one and hold it up to the daycrystals. The light that comes through is the color of blood. I smell blood too. The gem reminds me so strongly of the fights my ruby amulet has led me into that I am almost returned to the battlefield. I see Faltast's blood spill from Gutspiercer's buried point, down over his armor, and down into the snow.

Vanerak will be displeased if I ruin a gem as precious as this ruby. I focus, place it in the vise, strike with my chisel. A tiny dot of red flies into the recesses of the forge. It's smaller than I had aimed for. I knew ruby was a fair bit harder than garnet, but wasn't quite prepared for how much.

This turns out to make my task a little easier, for even if I misjudge a strike slightly, its effect is not as harsh as it would be on a softer stone. The ruby comes into rough shape. I ready my diamond blade and run it against the surface. It bites true toward the end of the stroke. I push lightly, draw back hard. Red dust creates a short-lived haze around the vise. I breath some in—I have heard that the dust of rubies makes your blood more vital.

I deepen my focus. There are only fifteen rubies in the storage chamber. If I ruin just four, I will have to beg for more, and Vanerak will judge my failure. I cannot let this happen. He might torture Guthah, might do anything. I draw the diamond saw back more slowly. I take account of each and every tooth as it bites the red.

After several minutes, a tiny sliver of the gem falls away. It is less than a millimeter across. I touch my finger to the newly-cut facet, and nod. It is flat. I place the saw against its edge, angle carefully, and draw slowly, with just enough pressure. The teeth bite in. I draw back, even more slowly, in tenth-millimeter increments, near the limit of my vision.

I put in a fraction too much strength and the facet is ruined. I yell a curse and only just restrain myself from dashing my saw against the floor.

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“You are cutting too hastily,” Halax remarks. “A tenth millimeter a minute is the fastest I would ever cut at. A tenth millimeter per short-hour is better.”

“The Runethane wants his runes,” I hiss through my teeth.

“The Runethane has more on his mind than simply your runes, Runeforger. He is fighting a war and running a realm, and he has his own crafts to work on also. He will accept your patience. When he cuts a gem, he spends an entire long-hour on each facet.”

I am so angry at my failure that I nearly spit back a violent retort, then I recall his strength as he held me against the wall while Pellas was maimed then killed.

“Yes, honored runeknight. You are correct that I was too hasty. I shall strive to have more patience on my next attempt.”

He nods solemnly. “That is good to hear. A true runeknight will spend as many hours as he has food and liquid to last for on his craft. The best will go beyond that, and craft even once they are beyond the brink of starving and thirsting. You have proved yourself to be one of these latter in your past forgings. You will be able to perfect the twelve gems you have set yourself. I am sure of this.”

“Your praise is most great, honored runeknight.”

And despite myself, I do feel somewhat encouraged and uplifted by his words. These feelings mix with the deep fear and hatred in my gut.

Whatever my emotions, his logic is sound. In the following session, I redouble the care I take when cutting the next ruby. It is excruciating at first; my fingers know they could move faster, yet I do not let them rush ahead. I restrain them. And, eventually, at some point in time that I do not notice, they stop attempting to speed the cutting. Time fades. What does it matter how much has elapsed, so long as the facet is flat?

My concentration holds until the last facet is done, then snaps. I place my saw on the anvil and stagger back a few steps. I look up at Halax in panic:

“How long have I been here? How long?”

“On this gem? Or on this particular session?”

“The gem.”

“Including your breaks, approximately two long-hours.”

“Not so long.”

“Not so short, either. Your perspective has improved. You have become more worthy of your rank as a fourth degree runeknight. True patience is what will bring you to third degree and beyond.”

“Thank you, honored runeknight Halax.”

“You are most welcome, Runeforger.”

I only barely remember taking breaks. How long did they last? They seem to be but a few moments in my memory. For several hundred long-hours I lived in the fort against the deep darkness, yet I never truly understood their perception of time. I feel that I have just taken one step closer to an understanding—and a step closer to understanding the most senior runeknights also.

Time in the forge is not the same as time outside of it. How might the most accomplished dwarves perceive it? I was offended at Runeking Ulrike's dismissal of my runes as unimportant—but my talk with him was but a minuscule gap in his great forging. It is a wonder he paid any attention to me at all.

I listen to the ruby and its brief song is pure, though a little muffled by the saw-marks cleft into it. Now to sand, and I do this with as much care as I put into cutting its facets. To ruin the gem by over-roughening an edge would not be acceptable. Speed is irrelevant to this task, anyway. I am not striking with a hammer, where massive force born from acceleration is needed. Friction is what I am using, and it can be applied relatively slowly.

Once this stage is complete, I equip my runic ears and listen to the gem once more. The muffling is nearly gone. Now to polish—again with slow care. I chime at intervals, and each time the sound of the tap is closer to perfection, yet has not quite reached it.

How long until I stop? I do not know. Time vanishes from the forge. There is only the sound of faint scratching, and the occasional tap-chime that is not perfect.

My patience is limitless—but the quality of my polishing cloth is not. It can only make the ruby so smooth.

“Honored runeknight Halax, is there no cloth with a finer grain? If there is, I must have it.”

He shakes his head sadly. “There is not, runeforger. The cloth you hold is of the same quality mine own is. And the ruby you hold has facets as smooth as those of the ones on my heat-mask.”

“That cannot be true.”

“It is, Runeforger. Though, the facets are less even, and the cut of the gem less complex. Still, in one aspect of the process you have equaled me, a first degree.”

I shake my head. “Yet it could be smoother.”

“Yes. But I am not privy to the secret of how to accomplish that. Maybe even our Runethane does not know—though our Runeking does. It is said that he grew his crystal Eyes, and that they are thus flawless both inside and upon their surfaces.”

“I have heard that too.”

“Yet even he works eternally to improve. There is always imperfection in our crafts. If there ever ceases to be flaws, then we are Runegods.”

“Yes, honored runeknight Halax.”

“You have spent nearly five long-hours on this single ruby, if you desire to know the time. You have eleven more rubies to shape now.”

“I will get started.”

But first, I will have a break. My belly and throat cannot ignore the passage of time, even if my mind can, and my fingers are trembling.