There, upon the darkened steel platform, the Grand Librarian—which is his proper and secret title—tells me what he knows of history.

He moves backwards, from the endings of the stories to the beginnings. And the very beginning is of how Runeking Ulrike, then a powerful Runethane wielding a curved sword of grown diamond, challenged the reigning Runeking's rule and war-conduct, and dueled him in the forge for one hundred long-hours straight. His masterpiece was a crown embedded with an eye that could see every rune, every small movement, behind and around and above and below.

"That's your Runeking's true strength," says the librarian. "It's not just his many eyes, but the central one, too."

"Are you allowed to tell me this?"

"I am allowed to tell you whatever I want. Most of the other Runethanes know, anyway, or else have figured it out for themselves."

He continues backward, telling me of Runeking Yullel's disastrous defeats in his battles with the newly risen Uthrarzak—the great champion who had united the broken and decadent realms of the north into a tide of southward-sweeping steel.

"Unity has always been Runeking Uthrarzak's byword," says the librarian. "Unity and discipline, and discipline through unity."

I ask after the broken realms and how they came to be broken. The librarian tells me that trolls and elemental beasts were their outward undoing, but their true failure was that of greed. They became too rich, and gold became their lives even more than it is ours. Trade was valued over strength. They began to sell weapons to each other, something taboo since the first hours of the runeknights.

"They still do, up there. I went to place called Heldfast Hill..."

The librarian knows something of their history, too. They were the only settlement to manage to resist Uthrarzak's unifications. He spent many thousands of lives attempting to conquer them and gain access to their gem-mines, but to no avail.

"Runeking Uthrarzak's realms have mostly been mined out," the librarian tells me. "That's the real reason for his wars. In the previous rulers' thirst for gold, they began to value miners highly. They dug out all the good veins—they make do with scraps now, and poor, dangerous digging places."

"With scraps? They recycle their crafts?"

"It's frowned upon here, but in the north they have done such for a long time—though they do not speak very openly of this. They have alchemists to extract the reagents. There are a few tomes on the processes they use on the seventh floor. Salterite has more potential than you know."

"However horrid it may be to use it."

"Each realm has its own moral standards, Zathar. And they change over time. Healing chains were considered far to gross and dangerous to use up until around the time Runeking Ulrike took over."

"I suppose we got better at making them."

"I would not say that. No." He shakes his head. "The answer lies further back. As do all answers."

He continues his reversed tale. I learn—in detail for the first time—of the wars the humans made on our mountain settlements. Our armor was no defense against the lightning and water that their wizards wielded. Some dwarves, to the south—those cultures now ruled by the Twin Runekings—abandoned their armor. The humans burned them with sunlight, and so they wrapped themselves in chains to toughen their flesh and skin.

"And they still hold sway over the southern deserts," says the librarian. "Although the humans don't think much of that place, anyway. They can change the weather, but not the sand."

"Their chains—they are akin to healing ones, yes?"

"They are similar. But there are adverse effects. To tell you in detail of them would be getting ahead of things, though."

I continue to listen. No doubt my guards have started to wonder how long I am going to take, but I am not about to interrupt the librarian. He speaks with an enthusiasm that belies his solemn and dangerous appearance. It's very clear that he does not often get a chance to share this knowledge.

He talks of the last great war of humans and dwarves against the elves, that tall and emaciated race that once dominated the forests of the world. Our foes commanded the beasts of the wild, and they twisted trees into monsters that crushed and strangled with root and branch. Their warriors—few in number but great in age-honed skill—wielded blades of amber, but these proved poor tools when it came to cutting dwarvish armor.

Such blades cut through the hordes of humans with ease, though, and it was here that our enmity with our allies began. They wished for us to make armor and weapons for them, but we refused—a warrior must make his own equipment. That has always been our belief. Yet in the final wars and battles, it was human magic, just growing to its apex of power, that proved decisive.

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"They dried the forests through constant sunlight and then set them alight with blue-sky thunder. Infernos turned the elves and their works to ash—and the flames killed many a dwarf, too. We did not like this. In the south-east, in the jungles, dwarves even allied with the elves against the humans." He lowers his voice. "It's rumored, in certain texts, that the dwarves there contain more than a bit of elven blood in their veins."

My stomach roils at the thought. "How disgusting."

"Indeed, that is the reaction of most who hear of this. During the reign of the fourth Runeking of Allabrast, expeditions were talked about, to learn the full truth about those dwarves. But the plans never went anywhere. The jungles have regrown from their roots, and no one wishes to risk poisoned needle-spears. Nor the wildlife—white jellies, slinkers—red jellies."

"Red jellies? I know about white ones, but I have never heard of other colors."

"I know but a little. When a white jelly overwhelms its opponents in their games, and gains access to certain resources, they form. There is a book on jellies on the ninth floor, though it's a rather slim volume. I wanted copies of the rest, but the dwarf I sent out never returned. Either he was slain by the dwarves there or else joined them."

The Grand Librarian has implied several times that he has his own guild. Seekers of lost history and concealed geography, who tend to keep out of the way of things.

I ask about the jellies, and he tells me a bit about their strange and incomprehensible societies. Then, we return to the main thread of the tale. He talks of the defeat of the trolls and other rulers of the underground—but his words grow vague. No longer are there names, nor even guesses at dates. History is faded here.

The trolls were but beasts, bred from poor stock of a race called the pale ones, about whom almost nothing is known. Some say the troglodytes descend from them, but the theories conflict. Nothing is certain.

As for the other rulers of the underground—nothing is certain here, either. Some scrolls say they had two legs, others four. Some say their wielded weapons of diamond, others that they slung spheres of lead. When they lived and when they died in unclear also. One historian wrote that they perished to the last long before us dwarves gained power. One wrote that they never lived at all, and the crystal spheres whose creation has been attributed to them were in fact devices of pale or elvish origin. Another says the first runeforgers—he claims to be sure there were multiple—wiped them out.

"Of the tomes I have about them, all are halfway to dust now. Paper disintegrates and ink fades, Runethane. This is inevitable. And yes, one can write on tablets of stone, but they are inconvenient, and erode anyway, and are prone to shattering. As for metal, it rusts. Even the threads of stoneleaf begin to come apart after a while." His voice becomes grave and solemn. "No knowledge is eternal. Even that scratched onto diamond eventually fades away."

"But not in this library," I say. "Not on the tenth floor. Your shelves are enruned to preserve everything." I frown. "With a poem of time?"

"That is secret."

I bow. "I apologize for asking. And I apologize for pressing the matter, but is there no more certain information about the beasts? Or a name?"

"One historian, tentatively, called them salamantaurs. Four-legged lizards."

"A strange name. They were scaled, I suppose, but didn't have much else in common with salamanders. As for their powers—if other spheres have been uncovered, were they not examined thoroughly?"

"One report, by an ancient and expert gemcutter, is quoted in one text. It says that the one he got his hands on was neither glass, nor amber, nor diamond. It was crystal he had never seen before. And about halfway through his writings, it is said that he perished. Magic is not something to be prodded at."

I recall the blue sphere in the second city, and how it blasted itself apart. "In mine also."

"Indeed. You have more experience with magic than most dwarves." A hungry look comes across his lined face. "I have told you much so far, and I have more to say. Yet I think I will wait until you have given some of your half of our bargain, if that is no issue."

"Very well." I nod. "Where shall I begin?"

"Wherever you think best. From the middle or end, it does not matter. I will hear of the whole of your powers in any case. You must tell me, should you wish to hear more of my knowledge."

So, as I usually do when told to give account of my powers, I start from the beginning—that fateful day in the mine when I stole the incandesite and ended up falling into Hazhakmar chasm. Of my creation of the rune for halat, come here, which was not quite halat.

Unlike most listeners, he asks no questions. He listens intently, eyes focused on my face, and all the while, his helmet is glowing with soft power. I think this is being recorded somewhere. Perhaps a machine far below is inscribing my words onto the nigh-unbreakable surface of a diamond. Yes, surely something like this is occurring.

His expression becomes especially intense when I speak of my first vision of the sphere—of me suddenly finding myself inside of it, with the three shadows, and of it cracking open from above. Still, though, he asks no questions.

After I get to the end of the trial, he tells me to stop.

"You've upheld your bargain sufficiently for now," he says. "I will continue with my half. You want to know of the First Runeforger, I suppose."

His eyes glint.

"Yes," I whisper. My heart is thudding hard again. "Anything you know."

But he begins this tale not from the start, nor from the end, but from the end of another tale, a little past it. A tale regarding Runegods.

"Not many who know this like to speak of it," he says. "They do not want to be reminded of how weak they are in the face of the divine and the immortal."

"What are they?" I ask quietly. "Really, what are Runegods? I have read of a few, and I have encountered the work of one—or maybe two. Yet I don't truly know what they are. No one seems to. The commoners believe they're just more powerful Runekings, and that maybe we're plotting against them, or them against us, but now I have lived a long time, and fought many battles, and never seen any sign of them. Nor heard any kind of reliable information about them."

The librarian nods. "There are only a few, and they keep to themselves."

"A creation of theirs guarded the First Runeforger's palace, though, deep in the magma. Many creations—they made the demons. At least, I presume it was the work of a Runegod."

He frowns. "That is odd. Very odd. You will have to tell me more of this. But first, to answer your question about what exactly they are—well, no one knows what they are, but they themselves. I know what they are not, though. Let me tell you that. I think it will be most enlightening for you, considering a certain part of your tale. A part you almost brushed over."

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