If I do not attach the rubies correctly, my craft will be ruined and Vanerak will be enraged. If I do not attach them fast enough, when Vanerak arrives he will have me dragged from it as soon as I complete it, and another dwarf will be maimed in my stead.

A small and exact circle must be melted into the center of the tip of the first rod. I hurry to grab a heating rod that can accomplish this—I rattle through the contents of the drawer. One looks small enough, nearly a spike rather than a rod—but I don't have time to measure it. I have no way of knowing how close Vanerak is. He could be in his forge—which I suspect lies beyond the circular door on the way to this one. He could be in his palace, also not too far from here.

I heat the spike to beyond white heat; I feel that it is glowing in a color invisible to dwarven eyes. Carefully I aim. My hand is trembling, and with it the tip trembles over the slight indentation at the top of the tungsten rod. I must melt with exact precision, for the runes on the metal are platinum grafted with incandesite. If I touch to the wrong place the reagent could catch light and blast apart.

I tense my muscles in an attempt to stop the trembling, but it only increases. I try to relax totally, but this does nothing to stop the trembling either. I adjust the healing chains wrapped around my chest, and I try to press the ruby deeper into my skin, but I am not a troll. No amount of magic is going to bring me back to health in a matter of minutes.

So I focus on the rhythm of my trembling. I try to understand it, predict it. The tip of the heating spike is moving back and forth like a pendulum, a slightly irregular one, but if I time it right—I lance down—I jab in the exact center. White blooms in the tungsten. I take up the gem—I must time this as well—it shivers back and forth like it is afraid to be dipped into the molten pool, like it is wriggling—I push it in.

It's in correctly. I exhale slowly. Eleven more to go and no time to pause. Once more I heat the spike in the magma furnace from white to beyond white. I hover it over the next rod, strike. White blooms correctly. I take up the next ruby, read the runes to make sure it's the right one—they are not what I planned to create—and push it in. My timing is correct again.

I reheat the spike again and again. Ruby after ruby I slot in. The task gets easier as my fever slowly abates. Vanerak does not seem to be coming as quickly as I feared. Perhaps he is deep in the magma seas. Perhaps a demon will find its way past his mirror-mask and devour him from within.

Yet I have no such luck. I am only on the tenth ruby when the door to the forge opens and he walks in, his mirror-mask reflecting the forge darkly.

I push in the ruby then turn to him.

“Greetings, my Runethane.”

“Greetings, Zathar Runeforger. I am told that your craft is nearly complete, and that it is most unique.”

“It is nearly complete, yes, my Runethane.”

“And is it indeed unique?”

“It may be. I have not had the time to read the poem yet.”

“Do you mean to say that your power has twisted what was on those”—he points to the papers with the original version of my poem on them—“beyond recognition?”

“Indeed yes, my Runethane.”

“He has created something most fascinating,” Halax says. He came down at some point during my gem-setting, and now steps to stand beside me. “The runic flow should spiral inwards, but he has made it so that it spirals outwards also in a perfect balance of tension. I am most curious to see the effect that this will have.”

“If the runic flows are as you researched, then it should not work at all,” says Vanerak. “Or is the principal behind your calculations more flexible than you thought?”

“Perhaps so. We will see, my Runethane.”

“We shall. Step forward, miner,” orders Vanerak.

From behind him steps a young miner. His beard is short, only barely reaching the center of his chest, and it is dark gray with rock-dust. His pallor is nearly blue, as if he is so afraid that he can hardly breath. He is wearing a foilsuit.

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“He will equip your craft,” says Vanerak. “To test. Unless you have included runes of self-reference, there should be no problem with this.”

“No, my Runethane,” I say, feeling very sick. "There should be no problem."

“Good. Now finish your craft, and we will see how well it works.”

Very carefully, I set in the final two rubies. As the setting of the last cools, a glow of power intensifies around the heat mask, especially from its unruned underside, the focus of the runic power. When the miner equips it, all that power will blast straight into his eyes, then past his eyes into his very mind.

“It is done, my Runethane,” I say.

“Good. Now, we shall see if your craft is usable or not. Though even if it is not, I see that you have remade and created several runes. That is a success in itself.”

“Thank you, my Runethane.”

“Take up your craft and press it over the miner's eyes. If he feels no pain in them, and can see the shape of the magma in the forge, then your craft is safe to use.”

My muscles are locked still. I look at the miner and he looks as if he is about to vomit. Can I really do this to another dwarf? Vanerak is asking me to burn his eyes out! When I made the air cable, I made the choice to sacrifice a dwarf I did not know instead of risking harm to Guthah. Can I do the same now, when the dwarf to suffer stands right in front of me?

I pick up the heat-mask. It is warm with power. I look into it and read the runes. The poem tells of what it is supposed to: heat becomes light, light becomes heat, heat becomes shapes and solid forms, and all this is repeated in many different phrasings. The runic flow is tense, though, far too tense: it is akin to a river trying to go both backwards and forwards simultaneously.

“What are you waiting for, Zathar Runeforger?” says Vanerak. “You know better than to test my patience.”

I take two quick steps forward to the miner. He makes to back away, but Vanerak extends his arm and the miner stumbles into it like it's an iron bar. He staggers a step forward, and I push the heat-mask over his eyes. Vanerak grabs him by the back of the head to stop him turning away.

My stomach roils. I nearly gag. I am assisting in torture. An image of Pellas' final moment flashes before me, except this time it is not from my perspective, of one being held, but is from the perspective of one of the guards restraining Pellas as Helzar jabs her spear into her guts.

But the miner shows no signs of agony. He is tensed, but is saying nothing.

“Do you feel any pain in your eyes?” Vanerak asks after a dozen slow seconds.

“...no, my Runethane.”

“Can you sense the heat of the magma forge?”

“...I think so, my Runethane.”

“Elaborate. Can you or can you not see it?”

“...I ...I can, my Runethane. I can see... sense something.”

“Describe it to us.”

“A shape like a circle. It's changing slightly, like it's flowing.”

“And can you sense anything around this circle?”

“No, my Runethane. Everything is blackness, or... I can't...”

“You cannot what, miner?”

“I cannot describe what it is I can't sense, my Runethane. I apologize most profusely.”

He is shaking in terror. Vanerak holds his head in place for a few more long seconds, then lets go. I withdraw the mask. The miner blinks a few times as vision returns to him.

“Are you all right?” I ask. “Can you see?”

“...yes,” he says. “I think so.”

He looks around strangely. There is an odd look on his face. He looks up at the daycrystals, and a look of alarm comes onto his face.

“What is it, miner?” asks Halax. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” the miner says quickly. “Nothing at all, honored runeknight!”

But I am sure there is something the matter with him. His vision has changed in some way. I see what is about to happen—sometimes the boiling inside the eyes is slow rather than immediate. Vanerak will have me put the heat-mask on him again, and then I will be forced to watch as the miner starts to squirm, and then he will scream, and steam will flow out from the mask, foul steam, and—

I will not allow this to happen. I will test the heat-mask myself. If I am injured by it, there will be no need to injure the miner further. Before Vanerak or Halax can stop me, I quickly push it over my eyes and turn to the magma furnace.

For a moment I see only dark tungsten, then warmth flows into my eyes and my vision vanishes. Heat-sense replaces it, much the same as when I equipped Halax's heat-mask. The shape of the magma is clear to me while everything else is void. I walk forward, pace around the furnace.

“It works well for me also,” I say hurriedly. “Though I am sorry to say it seems to have no hidden powers, honored runeknight Halax. Maybe the hope you placed in me was in vain.”

“Not at all,” he says. “That your first heat-mask works at all is an impressive achievement on its own. And, we have new runes with which to further expand our forgings.”

“I thank you for the praise, honored runeknight.”

I continue to pace around the forge, waiting for the pain to begin. I've had my mask on for about the same time as the miner did, now. Any moment now and the pain will start. I stop and focus on the ring of magma in the forge.

“What are you doing, Zathar Runeforger?” Vanerak asks coldly.

“I am testing their acuity, my Runethane. Everything is a little blurry, compared to when I sensed using honored runeknight Halax's heat-mask.”

“How blurry?” asks Halax.

“Just a little, honored runeknight. I think this is usable, however.”

Any moment now! Any moment now and the pain will come!

“I was wondering,” I say, “if you have ever tried to forge with a heat-mask equipped?”

“I did, once. But I found that my vision is more than adequate.”

“I see, I see. Or rather, I sense.”

I laugh nervously. Any moment now, and the pain must come!