Prit knew the smell of a master getting ready to die.
Stone cores did not sweat like stable-horses or tremble like wet hounds, so a steward who only watched the surface of the masonry usually missed the sign until the first hairline crack snapped across the central facet. Over eighty-two years of keeping slates for six different dungeons across the Realm of Orren, however, Prit had learned to listen with the soles of his flat bone feet and the dry ivory hinges of his jaw.
Right before a core gave up its living spark, the hum in the floor mortar always went neat.
Living stones were untidy things. Even a strict water-weight core like his first master, The Well of Measure, or a quiet child-shelter like his fourth master, Luma (The Fold of Small Hands), had a constant, uneven flutter in its foundation seam—a dozen small, unfinished thoughts tugging at the lime at once: that west gutter is dripping, the third stair needs a wedge, I wonder if the baker’s boy brought the salt-crust loaf today, mind the frost on the upper sill.
When the hum smoothed out into a single, flat, harmonious chord, it meant the master had stopped thinking about tomorrow’s gutter and started composing its epitaph.
