Nthazes is too busy on guard duty for me to see him, and so I’ve no choice but to ponder Jaemes’ final theory by myself. With my eyes shut tight and my runic ears off, I lie back in my blankets and go over the lines. They appear in the blackness as solid as when they existed in physical form, yet any truth in them is like the shifting smoke the furnace turned them into, all but impossible to grasp.
It’s tempting to accept his theory as the whole, undisputed truth, and begin working out a way to take out the twins, but he doesn’t want that. He admitted he may be wrong—something he’s never done, at least not to me. He needs me to think through the clues myself.
Runes of warping to take the blood from the victim to beneath the twins’ chambers. There are whispered rumors that such runes exist, however, apart from the runes of light, there are no exotic scripts in use down here. Even Galar’s experimental crafts, intriguing though they were, were written in the same small selection of scripts every other dwarf of the fort utilizes.
I can’t see how he’d have gained access to a script with such rare runes as those of warping, and genius though he is, it’s impossible to construct a poem about something you don’t have the words for. Well, not impossible, if you’re a Runethane or first degree and up, maybe, but certainly beyond even Galar’s abilities.
As for the hole in the logic about Fjalar, I can think of only one reason that he would’ve taken such a risk on the expedition: that they are using the blood to heal themselves somehow, and Galar was there to keep anyone potentially nosy distracted. Or Galar killed to heal his brother, or maybe Galar didn't see, or just turned a blind eye.
Yes, there are problems with Jaemes’ idea. I wish I could see through the murkiness and into the truth beyond, yet my mind isn’t sharp enough. I need more evidence, more clues, before I can come to a definitive conclusion and be ready to spring on the murderer—or murderers.
I also need to keep in mind the possibility that he's completely wrong, and the killer is someone else. Who has a motive? The Runethane, so he could gain an excuse to do all he has? That seems rather far fetched. One of the commanders, perhaps—or maybe Belthur, seeking to spread discord in the fort which he can use to overthrow the Runethane.
The letter fades from my mind’s eye as I grow sleepy, then eventually I drift off. When I wake, it’s time to go back down to the forges. After a quick breakfast of fried mushrooms I hurry down with a group of senior runeknights.
They’re carrying a large roll of steel cable—a truly massive roll, all five have to carry it together with two hands each. Upon each thread are minute runes in a script I’m not familiar with, but I assume they’re poems for tensile strength and preservation against the elements. Parts of it are discolored with a strange purple rust; I assume the runeknights are taking it down to clean it off. I hope they do a good job of it.
Once we arrive in the forges I grab my stone tablets and bag of runes and head down to a pit for one last session. I lay out everything on the anvil. My dictionary is nearly done now, and it looks far too sparse to impress anyone. The runic dictionaries available in the Association of Steel were thick, heavy volumes with tiny writing and copious amounts of detail about each and every rune. Mine is crude, the stone slabs it’s written upon thick, the runes themselves overly large as if written for the half-blind, and the definitions plus information about the runic flow and resonances lacking in detail.
But my time is running out. I do not want to force Hraroth to come down here a third time, and so I race toward the finish, seal the last runes onto the slabs with some quizik, scratch in the final definitions, and am finally done.
Ten tablets lie completed upon my anvil—an auspicious number. I step back from them and collapse onto the steps, exhausted. This session has pushed me hard: my hands are redly blistered and my head aches. I need to get up now and have a message sent to the Runethane, but I can’t; I dread it too much.
I don’t know how long I sit in my stupor before I hear a voice from the top of the pit:
“Zathar. Is it ready yet? Runethane Yurok grows impatient.”
I force myself to stand and look up at Hraroth. “It’s ready,” I tell him.
“Fully ready?”
“Yes. I finished it just now.”
“Then you will now present it to the Runethane.”
----------------------------------------
Hraroth gathers ten senior runeknights and each one picks up one tablet of my dictionary. They handle them solemnly, as if they’re not just physically heavy but also spiritually so. Dwarves worship no gods, but runes are close enough.
Up through the fort we journey, Hraroth and I in the lead. His mace is truly blinding from up close, so my eyes are shut. The slow, steady march of the dictionary-bearers lends the texture of the walls, ceiling and floor an ominous quality, or maybe it’s my own mind that adds that. Along the familiar path we travel until a smooth rectangle, divided most subtly down the center, marks the entrance to the Runethane’s hall.
I sense Hraroth step back.
“You are to enter first, Zathar.”
“Is this the usual ritual when runes new to the fort are presented?”
“No, but these are runes of light. I’ve never witnessed such being presented to the fort, and neither has the Runethane. You are to go first because it seems proper.”
I nod. “Very well.”
Forward I walk. The chamberlain swings open the gates as soon as I arrive before them, and he swings them open fully, not just a crack like he has on every other occasion until now. I step in and notice something odd about the air—it feels strangely empty. I open my eyes and am shocked to see that the hall is brightly lit. At the back, in place of iron braziers spewing artificial darkness, an array of weapons of light hang from the wall. Those on the left are small and relatively crude—though still works of beauty—and progress in splendor along to the rightmost one, which I can see is nearly as great a craft as the Runethane’s current weapon. Their rays stretch across the stone tiles, not quite to the runic doors but far enough to make the hall feel spacious and welcoming. It’s not cold in here anymore either, just the same warmish temperature as the rest of the fort.
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“Come forth!” Runethane Yurok booms, standing up from his throne and beckoning me with his right hand. “Let us see the runes of light you have brought us.”
I stop to bow, then stride forward as if I’m striding into battle, leaving all my fear and worry behind to concentrate solely on the moment at hand, the blows to be struck and countered, the strategy of my survival. Whatever questions he asks, I must answer them perfectly.
His armored figure grows larger in my vision until I’m right before the steps leading up to his throne. He’s looking down at me with a smile on his face—I’ve never seen him smile until now. I don’t think he’s smiled since the killings began.
“Well?” he says. “I am eager to see your craft. Present it to me.”
I turn to the ten runeknights behind me and nod to them, unsure of what order I’m meant to give, or if indeed I’m meant to give any order at all. Luckily, Hraroth seems to have already told them what to do, and they walk up past me to lay the ten tablets at the Runethane’s feet.
They depart the hall. Only me, Hraroth, the Runethane are present now. I swallow as the Runethane reads over the runes. The light of the weapons behind makes them glint brilliantly, so that each individual stroke is clear to see. Any imperfections will be obvious to him.
“Interesting,” he says, stroking his white beard. “Most interesting.”
“I hope they are to your liking,” I say.
“They seem like they have potential. Though I must say, there is a kind of incompleteness to the scripts. Are you sure you remembered everything?”
I shake my head. “Alas, I did not. I read the dictionary of them over ten years ago, and I know you understand that this is a long time. I was only a tenth degree at the time as well, so my memories are somewhat confused in places as well. I didn't want to present anything imperfect to you, so here are only those I remember perfectly.”
His smile fades somewhat. “I see.”
“I hope they will still provide a valuable addition to the lexicons. And in time I may be able to remember more. However, I understood that you wanted them completed quickly.”
He nods. “I suppose I did say that.”
“Do you think you will be able to put them to good use?” I say hopefully.
A panicked thought arises—what if the runes I create are usable only by me? It’s an incredibly irrational idea, but then again, so is the entire concept of writing new runes.
“I think so,” he muses. “Some of them have obvious poetical uses, others not so much, but I’m sure someone clever will unlock a way to use those ones in time.”
I bow deeply. “I’m honored to hear this.”
“It will take some unlocking though, and plenty of experimentation. Your knowledge of the runic flow of these runes seems somewhat lacking.” He frowns at my mace of light, which is covered by a gauze thin enough that the runes can be read when they reach full brightness. “Though, your application of the runes implies that you know more than you’ve written down.”
He’s come to what I’ve been fearing. I must answer this veiled accusation carefully.
“I have written down all I can. However, I’ve often found, and this is something other dwarves feel as well, I think, that runes cannot be understood only consciously. When I enrune my crafts I don’t go just by logic, but by emotion and feeling also. And it’s hard to write feeling into something like a dictionary.”
“But here you have written down the connotations as well as the denotations, have you not? For example this one, yalthaz-nalok, means, according to you, sunlight-on-green, but you also write that it gives a sense of warmth, relaxation, and security with no enemies around.”
“Yes, but a few words next to the rune can’t explain how they feel to shape in my hand, or fit into the perfect composition. Yalthaz-nalok means more than I can express in words. Its true connotations are on a deeper level than I can write down. Maybe an expert like yourself has grown past this stage, but for me and others of my level, writing runes is more of an art than something that can be explained logically.”
He folds his arms. “I see. You can give no better explanation of yalthaz-nalok, then? Despite the fact it is the crucial piece of vocabulary in several stanzas?”
I feel cold sweat form on my brow. “None better than I’ve written down. When composing, I didn't think through everything logically, I went by feel. If something felt off, only then did I make a close examination and run through the exact runic flow.”
“This is your usual method of composition?”
“Yes,” I say nervously. “I thought everyone did it like this.”
I really did think that! Is everything I do with runes strange in some form? No, surely not—going by feeling over logic is something senior runeknights in Thanerzak’s realm advised.
“I prefer a more logical approach myself,” says the Runethane.
“I can also see the value in doing such! When I am more experienced with them, I’m sure I’ll be able to put how I feel into logical explanations to go beside the simple denotations and connotations that are written here. Until then, I’m afraid that this is the best I can do.”
“I see.”
“I don’t think it can be helped,” says Hraroth. “Runic dictionaries are invariably written by experts of at least third degree, and by dwarves who make hunting for lost scripts their profession. This is about what we can expect from a fifth degree.”
The Runethane strokes his beard while he runs his eyes slowly over the tablets back and forth, back and forth. Finally he nods and looks at me.
“Yes, I think what your commander says is right. This is a good effort for a fifth degree. I am grateful for it.”
“Thank you!” I say, the words half a sigh of relief.
“Good. Be assured that these tablets will be placed in my personal stores, safely and securely. Your efforts will be preserved, and treasured according to their great value.”
“Thank you.”
“After the expedition, we will take a closer look at them and begin experimenting with how to use them best—although I intend to eradicate the darkness, it’s possible that we’ll only be able to cripple it, and in such a case the runes of light will still be needed.”
The possibility that we’ll be wiped out hasn’t occurred to him, then.
“For now, your presentation is finished,” he says. “I will have you brought here if I need any further clarifications, although I don’t think there’ll be time for that before the expedition.”
“I am dismissed, then?”
“Yes. Unless there is anything else you wish to add.”
“There is one thing,” I say, in as deferential a tone as I can manage. “If it would be acceptable for you to at least hear one small request I have.”
“Go on.”
“It is to do with my friend, Jaemes—”
He raises a hand to stop me. “Ah, yes. I had a feeling you were going to bring this up.”
Any trace of a smile is now completely gone; his mouth is now a grim line.