I kneel at the base of the steps and wait, heart pounding. The two generals step forward to stand either side of me, tall spears radiating sharp power. At her word, they will impale me without hesitation or question. I saw that in their eyes as I walked down the steps just now—they are devoted to her, likely have been for centuries.

  What factors is she weighing, up there on her throne? The likelihood I will betray again? The value the Runeking will place on my knowledge? Or simply the seriousness of my crime of allying with Vanerak's betrayers, and of slaying two first degrees?

  “Come up once more,” she orders, after some amount of time has passed—maybe half an hour, maybe half a day. It is hard to tell in the darkness.

  “Yes, honored Runethane.”

  I rise stiffly and begin to walk back up the white jade stairs. As I ascend, I can feel the gaze of the two generals boring into me. From above I can see the gaze of Runethane Ytith, and it is just as sharp as her guards' two spears are. Much blood has been reflected in my eyes, yet more has been reflected in hers.

  I reach the top and she speaks:

  “It would be unjust to imprison you," she says. "Runethane Vanerak has indeed broken our Runeking's laws. And whatever powers you hold are your own. You have a right to use them as you see fit, for your own ends. I will not interfere with that."

  I breath a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

  “Your news will put me in good standing with our Runeking too, when we finally manage to get his attention. I am grateful for the knowledge.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  “I will reward you well. Do not think that I am ungrateful to those who show honesty. Firstly, you shall be given resources to repair your sorry armor. Then I shall write you a writ allowing you to commandeer any caravan you see fit, though for the sole purpose of traveling down to Runethane Halmak's realm. He is another jumped up runeknight I do not like, but that is no concern of mine for the time being.”

  “You have met him, then?” I ask.

  “On several occasions when he was a member of the Thanic Guard. He is magnanimous to his lessers, jealous of his betters, and a bitter rival to his equals. Be careful around him.”

  “I will, honored Runethane.”

  “Your friend will get the troll's weight in silver, as I promised. That is also a reward for slaying it—for a short while its ilk may think twice before attacking a caravan.”

  “I fear it will be a very short while.”

  “That cannot be helped either. My final reward for you will be this: a large purse of gold. Though, it will be no ordinary gold, but that which is mined from directly below this cavern. It is different in character to the usual sort. You may come to understand this, if you choose to forge with it.”

  I bow low. “I will forge with it. I would not insult you by trading it for lesser metals.”

  “All metals have their own beauty, Zathar Runeforger. It is a waste to craft exclusively of tungsten, as Runethane Thanerzak did, or of bronze, as Runethane Halmak does.”

  “I humbly accept this advice.”

  She leans forward. “Something in your tone suggests that you do not quite accept it fully. Is tungsten so appealing to you?”

  “It is not that. Honored Runethane, you speak of beauty. Yet we destroy these metals, don't we? Is that to bring forth greater beauty?”

  “You struggle with the truth.”

  “Are there runeknights who don't, at first?”

  “Very few.”

  “I am not one of them.”

  “That is a good sign. It shows you are not as callous and cold as many assume. In answer to your question, yes. For beauty to come into being, other beauty must be destroyed. For a statue to be carved, a natural work of stone must be devastated. Same to make the tiles for a mosaic. That is the ugly truth. But us runeknights have no choice but to accept it. If we could not, we would soon be overrun by humans, trolls, dragons and worse.”

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  “Nazak said the same.”

  “Runethane Vanerak's general whom you slew? He was correct.”

  “In that. Not in much else.”

  “Quite.” Her eyes wander sideways abruptly. Her gold-encased fingers twitch. “We have talked enough. The forge is calling me, and the call of true metal should not and cannot be resisted. My generals will see to your rewards. Go with them, now.”

  “Yes, honored Runethane.”

  I stand up, turn. When I glance back, at the bottom of the stairs, she has already left her throne. I hear the click of a door shutting somewhere. Then, when we are on our way up through the staircase that seems suspended in void, the sound of hammer on anvil seems to thrum through me. A minute later, it comes again.

  It is not really sound, but something else, something deeper, and it brings giddiness like that one feels when one stands upon a precipice.

  My rewards are given quickly and efficiently. Within a day—they measure time in days in the city of Jade and Copper by means of cog-powered timers—I am given my writ, signed in blood by both generals. Apparently it is not their blood, however. Several spies have been caught in recent months.

  After a good night's sleep under soft sheets, I am shown to a forge. It is a simple affair, yet equipped sufficiently for my needs, with a complex furnace, and a rack hung with many hammers and other tools. It has heat-rods for welding, enruned to be able to reach the temperatures I require without melting. I am also given a sheet of tungsten for patching up where any fragments are missing.

  I pick up one of the heat-rods. The runes are thick, and shaped only adequately. I see inaccuracies, and rhymes that don't quite match with the theme. My armor will be insulted to be touched by such a craft.

  So I make one myself using some of the tungsten sheet. I cut a small section away with a diamond-saw. The tool is nowhere near as sharp and well-made as that Vanerak gave me, but it fulfills its function. I heat the section, place it on its edge, and strike precisely to fold it. The clink of metal on metal is musical, made more so by the surroundings, or rather the lack of them: for once I can forge with no observers.

  I turn the metal, hammer down its length again, repeat over and over until I have a rod. It is not yet perfectly circular in section and I scowl: I have no runic ears anymore, and must rely on sight and touch alone. I heat, hammer again. White sparks burn my uncovered upper arms, yet the pain is nothing.

  After a full day in the forge, the shape is as even as it'll ever be. I'm rather dissatisfied, and consider asking for gems so I can make some runic ears, but decide against it. I don't want to push the limits of the Runethane's hospitality too far.

  Now for the runes: I ask a guard outside if I might be given some gold wire and some incandesite. The next day, I'm given a very small amount of both. It's enough, though.

  The poem I create is simple, just a few lines, and rather elegant. It praises magma and how all stone and metal must succumb to its great temperatures, to be melted and later reborn.

  After grafting it, I hold the rod up to the light streaming through the windows. I nod. Despite its imperfections, this craft is a fine one and my armor will not balk at its touch.

  I spend the next day—it feels so strange to measure time this way, now—welding the cuts and broken runes shut. I am careful, and work as slowly as I can, moving the heat-rod a mere millimeter a minute, yet a scar is still a scar and armor is not flesh. My plates will never be fully healed.

  Nevertheless, when I equip my newly repaired armor, I can instantly tell that it has regained most of its strength. I walk with the inexorable power of a magma-flow, and my gauntleted hands move like striking salamanders. Life-Ripper whips from angle to angle. I smile grimly, remembering my duels against Nazak and Vanerak.

  Armor repaired, it's now time for me to leave. As an extra gift, I'm given a small pack of amenities: a jade-handled razor, soap that smells like the lamps of the city, a soft towel, soft clothes, a flask of pungent spirits and, as Runethane Ytith promised, a heavy purse of gold. This latter I open: the gold is shaped into discs like coins, yet the discs are unmarked. Each is very yellow—more yellow than regular gold. They almost glow.

  I exit the palace for the trade district and ask around for Volka—but she is already busying herself with guild business, I hear from another caravaner. Probably she'd rather forget me and all the associated memories. But she's been given her silver, apparently, and a portion of it placated her guild's human client.

  And then, the next day, I am off. I find a large caravan heading in the general direction of the fort, show my writ, and their fourth degree captain is glad to make space for me, calling it an honor to have such a powerful runeknight grace them with his presence.

  I take one last look back at the beauty of the city of Jade and Copper, then we're through the gates and on the road away. We turn, go down, begin to slowly spiral.

  Unease, suppressed for the past few days by the distractions of forging and the luxuries of the palace, rears its head once more. Did Hayhek and the others even make it out of Vanerak's realm? Did they reach the fort? Does the fort even still exist—how has Runethane Halmak changed it? I recall Runethane Ytith's warning that he is a terrible rival to his equals, and I have already once equaled a Runethane.

  And what of the fates of Nthazes, and the human Jaemes?

  I suppose I will find out soon enough. In the meantime, I grasp the rails around the caravan rooftop and stare out at the road ahead. Much strife lies before me, I am sure. Yet at the same time, I am free to go where I please, forge as I please, and talk to whom I please.

  Free!

  My unease diminishes and a smile crosses my face.

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