He moves next to me and runs his fingers over the discolored stone. Then he turns to me, eyes a dull glimmer in the dark room.

"This-" He licks his lips, his fair faced marred by distress. "This was systematic. This is the Hall of Law - a place of the human government. Why would they do this?"

I laugh bitterly.

"You, a slave imprisoned by the humans in a ghetto without hope, wonder at the cruelty of human policy?"

"But," he protests weakly, "They're not an evil race."

"Aren't they?" I ask. From where I'm standing it sure seems like it. But if Elftown has taught me anything, it's that evil is not a racial characteristic. Maybe for some individuals it's inherent, but not for whole peoples. It's a matter of environment, of culture. How else can I explain the evil that is done every day, sometimes desperately but all too often gratuitously, by my fellow elves here in Elftown? By me?

Enturi frowns. "Why not use their own criminals, then? Instead of marking them nameless and throwing them in here with us? Do they value their lowest murderers and scum, which they hold undeserving of even a name, higher than elven life?"

"Who knows?" I mutter.

Then the truth hits me.

It's not because they think we are worthless. It's because we are magical. Blood has power, it is said. Elven blood, infused with inherent magic, must be a particularly potent component to use in occult divination. Magic must be like archery: better materials make for better results. Elves prefer the wood of the yew tree for our bows. Humans prefer the blood of the elves for their spells.

"The rune is etched into the wall. How will you destroy it?" Enturi asks.

"I don't know," I reply. "I will burn the blood. That will cause an explosion. Maybe it will be enough to crack the stone and ruin the carving. If not, then I'll have to figure something else out."

"An explosion? Won't that alert the wall guards?"

"If it's loud enough."

"You didn't bring a flame."

"No. We'll have to come back for that, if you're willing."

For some reason, the implied question makes him angry.

"I said I'd help out, didn't I?"

"Yes. Yes, you did." I turn away from the rune, from the blood-soaked altar. "Would you mind finding the wards? It might be useful to determine whether they can be shut off or dispelled." The sorcerer nods and begins moving along the walls, gesturing with his hands, occasionally talking softly to himself. It seems to be a slow process.

I wander to the back of the room. The chamber we are in is as long as the side of the building through which we entered. Which means that the doorway in the back of the room leads to the inside of the wall around Elftown. Or maybe through the wall. Could it be a way out?

Maybe the humans had another way into Elftown; a gate or tunnel leading directly into their Hall of Law.

I shake my head. If there had been such a gate, it would have been closed long ago, during or just after the rebellion. Still, I'm curious.

The doorway cuts through the wall like the passageway Raichon's apprentice and the scuttler-animated dead had made, with the exception that here the the stones had not been simply removed, creating an uneven entrance, but actually carved or cut away to make a rectangular, door-shaped aperture. The remains of iron hinges rust on the wall.

I peer into the tunnel. It is completely dark and even my elven eyes cannot penetrate the blackness. I should have brought a lamp. I step forward into the nothingness tentatively, hand held out before me. After a couple steps, I can feel the space open up around me. I cough and the sound echoes on every side. The air is cold and dry and the room smells of old death.

"Oh, come on," I whisper. "More?"