The third degree guard commander, who introduces himself as Uralak, explains their signaling system to me as he and nine others escort us to Runethane Ytith's palace.

  Though all must sign on paper when they pass a checkpoint, travelers that are particularly unusual or powerful have their signatures transferred to a similar device to the dark tablet Volka was given. We, on account of my obvious skill, and the fact that we had troll heads mounted on our front carriage, were marked. Since we posed no obvious threat, however, we were not detained. They had no grounds to detain us. Even before wartime, laws still hold, and the flow of commerce must be protected. It would not do for every senior runeknight with an unusually decorated carriage to be halted.

  Then, at the last checkpoint we passed—or so Uralak conjectures—my description was sent in detail up to the central guardhouse, and I was mortally dangerous. Soon after that, the information made its way to Runethane Ytith, who ordered that she wanted to meet with me: the famous traitor who went missing after the dragonhunt and who has now returned in second degree quality equipment.

  “I apologize for the confusion," says Uralak. "As I said before, these crafts were designed recently. Many are still not used to their workings, and each is unique in some fashion.”

  “And I suppose you do not particularly like to use them either.”

  “It makes some of us uncomfortable, yes. But our gate is enruned too, is it not? By the Runethane herself no less. And we use it for security just as we use the tablets—which are in any case very similar to those used for examinations anyway.”

  “That is true.”

  Around us tower the city's famed buildings of jade. Volka—supervising the carriages and their boar now, for it is only me that the Runethane wishes to meet—was right about building standards being kept high. Each is a work of mason's art, all high arches and fluted, delicate pillars. Carvings of dwarves and beasts leap from the walls of even the smallest dwellings, each so life-like they would make the master mason weep. The road itself is jade too, and each brick is engraved. Some depict forging or doing battle, but most show the activities of ordinary dwarves—farming, smoothing stones, working ore crushers, buying and selling, eating, drinking, laughing. Only mining is not shown.

  Great glass lanterns hanging from the cavern ceiling light the city. Inside each burns smokey orange fire, but the enruned glass turns the firelight white and blasts it out with redoubled force. Smaller lanterns of the same kind are set in front of most buildings. They exude rich perfumes.

  Crowds throng on the streets. Some are runeknights, but most are not. The commoners wear well-made clothes sewn with many designs, each unique, apart from those worn by the poorest—miners and other badly paid workers—who wear dirty smocks. But even the worst off seem cheerful. How could one not, living in such a city? And probably they are not particularly concerned about a conflict fifty to a hundred years away.

  We turn down a thoroughfare busy with boar, dwarf, and, shockingly, some horse-drawn, human driven carts. These don't take my attention for long, however, for at the end of this road stands the Runethane's tall palace. It is the most stunningly beautiful building in a city made entirely of beauty, though it is not quite as dominating as I expected. I expect that much of it is underneath the city.

  We reach its outer boundary and pass through gates of white jade carved to look like the skeletons of elves, and two first degree elites come forth. They inform Uralak that they will escort me from here.

  “Goodbye, Zathar,” the guard commander says. “It's been an honor.”

  “You are welcome. Though I do not know why you seem so impressed with me.”

  “You can't guess?” He looks confused. “News came that the black dragon was slain, as well as a rumor that the traitor was one of those who had a hand in doing the deed. I assumed, from the fact you are clad in tungsten, that you have returned from slaying it.”

  I shake my head. “It was Xomhyrk Dragonslayer who did the deed, not I. And my armor I crafted to battle demons.”

  “Demons?”

  “Of the magma seas.”

  “I see. So it is true then, that Runethane Vanerak also had a hand in slaying it.”

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  I scowl. “He did not. He is a murderer—your Runethane will know the truth soon enough. And I hope she proclaims it to all of your realm.”

  Uralak looks solemn. “By the coldness in your eyes, I can see that you've suffered, honored runeknight. I've heard bad rumors about Runethane Vanerak as well as good ones.”

  “Come along now,” says one of the first degrees. “Our Runethane is eager to meet you. Back to your post, Uralak.”

  “Yes, general.” He bows to me again. “Goodbye. I hope to meet again.”

  “Goodbye,” I say. “It's been an honor.”

  And, strangely enough, though we've only been together an hour, it has. For a third degree to talk to me with such respect, even admiration—though misplaced admiration—has indeed been an honor.

  The first degrees, Generals Hukaryat and Bthalek, lead me into the palace. It is as finely built within as without, lit by smaller and more delicate lamps of the same type as those that light the city. They illuminate engravings of runeknights dueling salamanders, bears, trolls, and each other. The hallways are spacious, and several of the staircases we descend are not set into tunnels, but instead go through the empty air of large caverns. The steps glow softly, but the distant cavern walls are totally unlit, which gives the impression that we are descending through boundless void.

  Partway down the longest yet of these, I suddenly recall the battle against the deep darkness. Black and light alternated in those deeps too, from which so many good dwarves did not return.

  Half an hour later, and we are still walking down this staircase. My unease grows.

  “How deep, exactly, does the Runethane's throne room lie?” I ask.

  “Deep indeed,” answers General Hukaryat. “Where no commoners may look upon her while she works.”

  “This staircase—a defensive measure?”

  “Of course,” says General Bthalek. “I designed it myself some two centuries ago. The floor is—ah, but I ought not to say. You are not of our realm, after all.”

  “And he is the traitor of Hazhakmar,” adds Hukaryat. “Pardoned though he may have been.”

  The two first degrees unnerve me nearly as much as the void-suspended stairs do. Their armor radiates the power I now recognize as that of true metal, as do their long spears. I don't think I would stand a chance against them even if my own armor was repaired. I may have fought a battered Vanerak to a standstill, but I believe these two working as one would outclass him. The gap between first degree and Runethane, I am beginning to understand, is not always so wide.

  Xomhyrk was as powerful as a Runethane, after all, even though he did not have the title. And, technically speaking, Runethanes are also first degrees. Vanerak declared me one also, though maybe that was just to reassure his army that they really did need my power for the battle against the demons.

  I wonder at how first degrees rank each other. There must be some system, surely, or how would the Runeking know who to give the title too, and also where to arrange his Runethanes and their honor guards in battle?

  After some unmeasured amount of time later, we reach the floor of the cavern. The first degrees lead me along an unseen path. No lamps light our way, and the dark feels almost like a physical force, pressuring me from all sides. Though it is runic power, and not at all like the deep darkness, it still frightens me. What beasts might lurk down here? Most runeknights can survive a high fall. There must be something set up down here to finish the ill-fated invasions of any who plummet from the staircase.

  The footsteps of Hukaryat, in front, stop abruptly. There is a grinding noise he opens some door, then his clanking steps restart. I follow him in. Bthalek closes the door behind us, then lights a lamp in the wall. More spark to life along the smooth and undecorated tunnel before us. It curves gently. At its end, a good half hour's walk later, we come to a door of enruned copper. Hukaryat opens it and waves me through into Runethane Ytith's throne room.

  “Walk ahead of us,” he orders. “She wishes to see you clearly.”

  I walk with wide eyes. Her darkly cavernous throne room is also her storeroom, and it is far richer than even mine was. Shelves bent under the weight of rare and common metals extend like ribs outward from a central path. Rubies, diamonds, emeralds and sapphires glitter as I pass them. Reagents exude raw power. Coils of golden wire are as common as wool in a clothing shop. Some ingots closer to the throne are of metals I've never seen the like of before: they glow with green or purplish light and a kind of power that makes me feel vaguely sick.

  And, at the end of this path, upon a tall dias, sits the Runethane's stone throne, and upon it sits the Runethane herself, clad in golden armor studded with thousands of diamonds, each enruned. She beckons me up the steep steps. My legs feel heavy as I climb them.

  When I reach the top, I go to one knee and bow my head.

  “Greetings, my Runethane,” I say.

  At the sound of my own words, memories of Vanerak's cruelty flood my mind. I force them away. Volka said this Runethane was fair. I must believe her.

  “Greetings, Zathar,” says Runethane Ytith, in a voice almost as cold as Vanerak's, though it is not the cold of steel, but of gold and silver. “Look up at me.”

  I do so. She lifts her visor and allows me to look upon her face, and it is a work of art to surpass all but the greatest crafts. If it were not for her eyes, she would be more beautiful than any grandly carved palace of jade, yet those eyes transform her face terribly. She has the same timeless eyes that all senior runeknights do: eyes that have spent centuries staring into the furnace, and that have witnessed the deaths of hundreds of friends and enemies—it takes all my strength of will to meet her gaze.

  “I have much to ask such an interesting runeknight,” she says.

  “And I have much to tell, my Runethane,” I answer, carefully. “Be assured that I will answer honestly.”

  “You shall. That is without question. Now, to begin: what brings you here, with the heads of three trolls so gruesomely and inelegantly mounted on your leading carriage?”

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