My fears prove unfounded: the moment I put the runic ears to my natural ones, I am bathed in sound—multi-layered sound of nearly twice as much complexity as I could hear with my last pair. For a few seconds I am disorientated; the forging pit spins around me. I remember to close my eyes. I take a few deep breaths.
The way the air twists and vibrates around me resolves into shapes. I can hear the forms of the maces hanging from the ceiling as the clang of hammers rebounds from them. Each clang is different—I can tell that the dwarf in the forging pit to the left of me is hammering steel, and the one to the right is crafting out of titanium. It’s like the sounds have color to them that I could only vaguely sense before, but is now as clear to me as the difference between orange and green.
I test the ears how I tested my first pair. I spin around and check if I can tell where the anvil is. I can. I stretch my hand out to different objects to test if they are really where they sound to be. They are. What’s more, I can make out detail on them—rather fine detail. I can, with much concentration, read the runes on Heartseeker. This is impressive because runes, once grafted, are joined to metal extremely smoothly.
Feeling relieved and very pleased with myself, I walk up out of the forging pit and listen around. I can tell where each pit is just as clearly as I can with my eyes, and I can even tell which have their furnaces turned up to high and which to low—the hotter the air the faster it is rising and this alters the pitch of the hammers' clangs.
Yet there is something off about all this. The transfer of sound to ears seems smoother than with my last pair—no, that’s not it.
The transfer of sound to my mind feels smoother, which is odd because I’m reusing the sound-induction garnets from my last pair. In theory, although I’m hearing the sound in greater detail, it shouldn’t be getting into my ears and from there, mind, any easier.
I return to the forging pit and take my ears off. I examine the runes carefully and immediately see the reason for this effect.
My chest clenches.
It wasn’t just that one line I inadvertently altered. In most of the lines are runes I have never seen before—and though some are just slight variations on the familiar, others are so far removed from what I’m used to they look like part of a different script.
They have not been changed at random. It seems that I chose very particular ones to alter, so that the subtext of the interlinked poems is not how the changing flows of air make music, but instead is about what lies beneath the music. That notes have a depth of spirit to them is what I have written.
Written without even knowing I was doing it.
I place the runic ears face down and stagger back, sit down heavily on the steps. My breathing is fast and ragged. My minds whirls—I can’t process the shock. Never until now have I truly believed myself capable of creating new runes—the very concept is absurd—yet here they are.
No longer can I brush off the truth, pretend Wharoth was wrong and he mistook some minor misalignments for runes truly original. No longer can I pretend that the runes jauseth and hyeoli on my boots are exactly as written in the runic dictionaries. They are new runes; all my crafts are covered in new runes; I can no longer deny this.
I try to calm myself. Surely this is a good thing, after all. My runic ears are more effective than they would be otherwise.
But effectiveness is not the issue. What terrifies me is how I’ve written these runes unconsciously—despite the fact that while I was writing them, my entire attention was on making each one as neat and as accurate as I could.
How could I not notice changing them? Were they somehow changed after I shaped them, in the grafting process? Is some strange entity hovering over my shoulder, twisting the runes when heat is applied? Such an idea seems absurd.
The whole situation is absurd. Runes are discovered, not created—not anymore.
----------------------------------------
I put my concerns about runes to the back of my mind. The killer is the bigger worry here. Only once he’s dealt with can I devote attention to other mysteries.
Nthazes managed to persuade Belthur’s group to cover for us while we sneak off. So right now we are doing just that: sneaking up the corridors away from the bright light of Belthur’s and his friends’ maces, into darkness no one has entered since the double murder of Danak and Yalthaz. We walk very slowly so that our footsteps make no noise.
“This is unnerving,” I mutter. “If the killer does turn out to be some kind of shadow, this is where it’d lurk.”
“We’ve already dismissed that theory,” Jaemes whispers. “There’s no need to bother frightening yourself. There’s no one here.”
“And if there is, they’re just another rule-breaker,” Nthazes whispers. “No one to worry about.”
“Of course. Nothing to worry about.”
Nthazes mace is wrapped in several layers of cloth so that its brightness is nearly totally dimmed, and Jaemes does not carry his lantern. We do not want any hint of our presence to show when we cross corridors that lead to inhabited areas of the fort. The merest flash could set off suspicion and send a troop of anxious runeknights chasing after us.
It’s fortunate, then, that my runic ears are working as intended. I can hear the murmur of distant footsteps, sense the rough texture of the walls, understand how the slow flow of stagnant air is being disrupted by our passage. Occasionally I catch what seems like a word, a vibration undisrupted through its long travels to end up caught in my ears.
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Worrying: if my imperfect runic ears can detect very faded voices from very far away, who’s to say we won’t be heard? Who’s to say our hushed conversations in the meal hall haven’t been heard already? I get the feeling I’ve been too incautious recently.
I raise this concern to Nthazes.
“If you can hear words, it’s because they were spoken somewhere the air was very still. And even with runic ears it’s hard to eavesdrop in the crowded meal hall. Trust me, everyone tries. And if they did hear, they’ll have heard plenty of other similar conversations. There’s no need to worry.”
“Still, I think all our discussions should be done far from anyone else now. Even the more innocuous seeming ones.”
Nthazes nods. “Very well.”
Before long we make it to Jaemes’ quarters. The door creaks as he opens it. We creep in and he shuts it behind us. He sits on the bed; we remain standing so that we’re all eye-level with each other. Nthazes takes a layer of blanket off his mace so we have at least a little illumination.
“So,” I say. “Let’s begin.”
“Let’s,” says Jaemes.
“Do you need to hear about the killing on the expedition again? Or should we get straight into possible explanations?”
“I think we should hear it once more,” says Nthazes. “Just in case there’s any details Jaemes and I have forgotten.”
“All right then.”
I tell them once more about what happened on the top level, as well as about Fjalar’s behavior on the journey up: making foolish jokes, totally ignoring the sincerity and danger of the situation. I also make sure to emphasize how somber Galar became when he was standing over his injured twin.
“And you’re sure those were his exact words?” Jaemes asks.
“Yes. He said: ‘He’s my brother, even if we don’t always get along. It’s my duty to help him.’”
Jaemes nods thoughtfully. “I see.”
“I simply can’t wrap my head around those two,” I confess. “They seemed to hate each other when they were working together, hate each other even more when they were split up—barely talking to each other—and now this sudden protectiveness.”
“Families are like that. They fight about trivial things, but when life and death are on the line they tend to stick together.”
“It’s not just how they behave toward each other, though. Take their smithing. Their equipment is just good enough, but I’ve seen their experiments. Surely they have the knowledge to create something better. Why won’t they do that and sit the exam for sixth?”
“Exam?” Nthazes looks confused for a moment. “Oh. We don’t have them down here.”
I try to recall: yes, I think he’s told me that before. “Then why don’t they do whatever you have in place of them?”
“I’m not sure. I can guess, though. To move up a degree you present a piece of equipment to the Runethane, the chamberlain, or another first degree. They judge what degree it’s worth and you’re moved up. But I think the twins are too proud to present something they regard as dull. They see themselves as pioneers. Galar’s weapon of light is to be a trident, you said, right? They see making anything ordinary as beneath them.”
“That’s stupid. If they had better equipment they could win more honor, gain access to better materials.”
“I agree. It’s conjecture, though. I’ve never had much to do with them.”
“Have they...” Jaemes scratches his head. “I want to ask if they’ve been down here long. How old they are... What degree were you when they first came to the fort?”
“They were here when I came.”
“Really?” I say in surprise. “They seem younger than you, somehow.”
“Age doesn’t always lead to wisdom,” Jaemes says wryly. “Just look at me, spending my time down here when, really, I could leave at any time.”
“Wisdom isn’t the issue here. Come to think of it, them being seventh for so long is downright disturbing. They must both have well-crafted amulets of unaging. That proves they could be far above seventh if they wanted to be.”
“With advancement comes responsibility,” says Nthazes. “Somehow I don’t think either of them want much of that. They want to play.”
“Why kill, then?” says Jaemes. “Assuming for the moment one or both of them are killers. Why would they want to plunge the fort into chaos?”
We all think deeply for a few minutes.
“Perhaps they’re just bored with the status quo,” I suggest. “Need some excitement.”
Nthazes shakes his head. “That’s not a good enough motive.”
“Cruelty can be a motive.”
“They’re not that cruel though. Childish yes, but I’ve never known either to actively hurt someone—excluding each other, that is.”
“The weapon has to be key,” Jaemes says. “One forged something terrible and is putting it to the test.”
“Surely one test would be sufficient,” I point out. “And I’m beginning to think it wasn’t a weapon they killed with. Fjalar had nothing on him when we stripped off his armor. And Galar would’ve been noticed if he’d turned around to stab Utlock. The wounded were never left alone.”
“We should ascribe nothing to unknown forces. That’s a mistake for the Runethane to make. Best to assume it was a weapon.”
“The darkness is an unknown force. Maybe the rumors are more accurate than we care to think. Maybe it has taken one of them over, gifted them with its abilities.”
“The killer kills in a different way to the darkness,” Nthazes says. “Jaemes pointed that out to the Runethane before, I do believe. The darkness never leaves a wound. Nor does it drain blood—just life.”
“There’s no runes that kill like that either. Not that I know of.”
“Nor me. But a wound does suggest a weapon. By the shape of their wounds, a thin dagger seems likely.”
“If only we could find it. We need evidence. Information. Anything.”
“I could search the infirmary,” Jaemes suggests. “I’ve already been down several times to put my knowledge of your physiology to good use. I can make sure Fjalar really does have nothing on him.”
“Sounds risky,” I say. “If he really might be the killer.”
“Risks are inevitable, as you’ve already told me.”
“True. Then I’ll risk talking to Galar again. He still owes me his life, after all, and maybe Fjalar’s too.”
“I’ll keep communicating with Belthur,” says Nthazes. “Him or one of his friends are sure to pick up on something eventually. Even if it’s just new rumors.”
“If you’re sure we can trust them,” Jaemes says.
“We can. I know Belthur; he’s an honest dwarf, and he’s already doing us a favor.”
“Anything else?” I ask. “Jaemes, no theories?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
We agree to meet again once we’ve completed our tasks, and return to the inhabited parts of the fort.
I can’t help but feel disappointed. I’d expected Jaemes or Nthazes to have come up with some ideas about how the killer struck: about how Galar killed without any of the other guards noticing, or how Fjalar might have concealed some devious weapon. Then again, I shouldn’t be too harsh on them: I haven’t come up with any solutions either.
I’ll just have to see what Galar has to say. And this time my questioning will be very subtle indeed. If all goes to plan, he won’t even realize he’s being questioned.