“Sit down, Second Runeforger,” says the master mason. “I do not plan to harm you, despite the intensity of my dislike for you runeknights and your runes. Throwing the realm into turmoil would benefit no one.”

I sit down slowly, still scowling—in part to hide my sudden anxiety.

“If you dislike runes so much, then why are you asking about them?”

“Like I said—they may be what is behind the black rock's invulnerability.”

“If that was the only reason, you would have asked our Runethane to be allowed a meeting with me. But you are going behind his back—risking death. You are after more.”

“You are sharper than they say. But what exactly I am after, you do not need to know.”

“Very well. I suppose it does not matter to me.”

“No. It does not.”

I get the feeling that he just lied to me, but can do nothing about it. He was not lying when he said that he could do me great harm; maybe his boast about being able to collapse this cliff into the sea is exaggeration, however he is right that Vanerak's realm is swarming with masons. I'm sure a falling rock or collapsing floor can easily be arranged, if my answers do not satisfy him.

“So, what do you want to know? Let's end this quickly.”

“It will take as long as it takes. Your guards will not complain if our conversation lasts a long time.”

“Are they dead?”

“Of course not. How could dead runeknights have let me in?”

“You forced your way in.”

“Let us return to the topic at hand, namely your runes. I will start with a simple question: how do you shape them?”

I hesitate. If I tell him, and Vanerak later discovers that I have revealed my secrets, Guthah will be maimed. Vanerak will not care that I was under duress. But if I refuse to tell this strange old master mason—I was a fool to consider him harmless for his age—maybe he will harm Guthah. Doubtless he knows who the dwarves who came down here with me are, for it was never a secret. And he will have heard about Pellas' death and my subsequent isolation too.

It seems I have no good options. I decide I must answer, but try to couch things in as vague terms as possible:

“I just see them, and pull them through me.”

“See them? On the anvil? And pull them through how?”

“Not on the anvil.” I remember that he knows nothing of my trances, nothing of forging even. Maybe he is not even aware of the concept of grafting. “I see them in my mind and pull them through my soul, my center, whatever part of me leaves.”

“Leaves? What do you mean? Explain more clearly, runeforger. We have plenty of time for detail—as I said before, your guards have kindly allotted me a long time to talk with you.”

The power and aggression in his voice does not sound like it should come from such frailty. It frightens me a little.

“When I wish to create new runes, some part of me travels down to the magma sea. It's from there that I draw the power.”

“The power of magma?” he sneers. “The power of molten stone?”

“Yes.”

“I always suspected so. You see the rune then, or imagine it, and pull that power into it—the power of molten stone is given meaning. Am I correct?”

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“Yes.”

“You do not sing the runes into being?”

This question catches me off guard. “Sing?”

“Yes, sing.”

“No. Miners sing as they work; runeknights do not.”

The master mason's wrinkled features twist into a scowl. “Runeknights do not sing. Indeed—it is below you to do such a thing. It's what miners do, those lowly miners—ravagers of rock.”

“We are in agreement there.”

“Hah!” His scowl deepens. Then something catches his rheumy eyes; he suddenly turns his head. “What is that?”

He is looking at my bookshelf. “They are books,” I say. “Bound stacks of paper with many runes.”

“Paper? Not all of them. What is that one?”

He stands up and strides over. I hurry to follow him, but despite the frailty of his body, he is too fast. Some inner anger compels him, and before I can reach to stop him, he grabs the stoneleaf book from my shelf. He holds it up, not seeming to feel its weight, and flicks through the pages slowly, almost caressing them with hands that are well-used to touching stone.

“Stoneleaf,” he says, his voice almost a sigh, as if he is reminiscing about some lost love. “Stoneleaf!”

“I don't know what's in that book,” I say. “I can't read any of it.”

The master mason shakes his head mournfully, then his scowl returns. “Tell me, runeforger. How strong could armor of stoneleaf be, do you think? Imagine fabric like these pages, but twice as supple and four times as tough, wrapped around every part of a warrior. How strong would that be?”

“Very strong, master mason,” I say, though in truth I only say it to avoid his anger. I do not see how stone could ever defeat metal.

“You are wrong. It would not be strong at all.”

His hand clutches around the hammer at his belt and he draws it. I back away.

“Put that down!” I say. “If you were to kill me, Vanerak would know. He sees everything. He would destroy all you love.”

“All I love? All I love?”

With each word, the master mason's voice grows louder and higher, more hysteric. Crimson threads become vivid in his eyes. His limbs start to tremble.

“All I love is stone!” he spits, and he clutches the stoneleaf book to his chest. “Stone! That is what I live for, runeforger. What would you know of that? You who destroy it to gain your metal!”

“It is the miners who destroy it,” I say. “Runeknights create. We are closer to your kind.”

“They destroy because you order it. Those ravagers of stone were born from your greed and that alone. They hack it to pieces so you can fill your stores with metals.”

“There is no other way. We need the metal—need to forge, so we can protect. Put the hammer down, master mason! Calm down!”

“Protect? You protect nothing—you destroy, melt, beat. You are the same as the miners you despise so. And the higher you rise, the more alike to them you become!”

He is insane. That is the only explanation I can think of for his words. His hammer-hand rises, as if preparing to strike of its own volition. I back away further. His eyes are fixed on me though, and he follows each of my steps with one of his own.

“Calm down,” I say. “You must calm down. If Vanerak learns you are here—”

“Then he will suspect we are colluding,” the master mason says. “You wish to save your own skin. Ah, the courage of the runeknights!”

I reach back far and grab my razor. I hold it in front of him. “Get back!”

“Runeknights!” he spits. “Murderers of stone!”

He raises the hammer up further, tenses to strike. How long has it been since I fought with no armor? Will I be able to step in and stop his blow? Perhaps he will be too quick. His anger has burned away all traces of his frailty. His back has straightened, his eyes have become sharp. The bones supporting his frame have lost their weakness and exude stone-like strength through his flesh.

Then, like water suddenly drained from a smashed vessel, all that strength vanishes. His back bends, his eyes dull like fog on glass, and his hand drops. He tightens his hold on the stoneleaf book, hugs it tightly to his chest, and his arm shivers at the effort.

“I will leave now,” he says, voice a strained rattle. “You have given me the answer I need. I know your power now—know the runeknights' power. And I have an extra gift on top of this.”

I step forward, razor ready to cut. “Give it back!” I shout. “When Vanerak sees it is missing—”

“You will tell him you know nothing about it. Your guards know nothing also. They will be too afraid to tell their commander how they slept on duty. Leave me be, runeforger. Harm me and we will fall upon you like a crush of boulders.”

I tense myself, and stop my will to step forward and slice him down, resist the urge to spill his ruby-crimson blood across the floor.

“Get out then,” I say. “And do not return. Vanerak will not let you get away with this a second time. He sees everything—you have been lucky, and you do not know what he is capable of.”

“Oh, I know perfectly well. Goodbye, Second Runeforger. Our Runethane thinks you will be the one to bring about a new age—he is wrong. It is the masons who will do this. You will see, in time.”

He turns and hobbles out the door, shuts it, then locks it. I collapse onto my bed, breathing heavily. About an hour later, four guards dash through, bleary-eyed and stumbling like drunks. They see I am well, and fear leaves their faces. The master mason was correct: they will not tell anyone what has happened, for terror of a dreadful punishment.