t seems that just thinking of Badger the other day was enough to summon him, or at least a letter from him. This morning, a messenger from town slid the letter under my door. He was away before I could thank him for the delivery. The letter read as follows:

oran was not as impressed as I thought he would be, which is too bad. Still, I feel I have proved something, if only to myself. I have to give up on him, however. He is too enamored with his own beliefs to give much thought to changing them.

My workshop is a mess. Two of the spells I cast on the anvil came from the book I received some months ago from Badger, and I cannot help but notice that in general, they are more potent than the rituals found in my own books. This book, which I have taken to calling the Book of Order (due to a page of theoretical text it contains detailing the ordering of all worldly things), is a worn relic that contains many spells that I have not been able to decipher. The charm of redoubling and the heat spell are two of a minority that are written in languages I know. I have been experimenting with the others, and my messy workshop is a testament to much exciting work.

In my experimentation I have ferreted out the meanings in three more paragraphs. As each day passes I become more acquainted with the strange little book. And as each day brings my closer to my trial, I return time and again to the spells I do know, including the Cant of Persuasion, as possible answers to some of my nagging problems of late.

he castle has come back to life.  The Duke is mending well.  The days are long, bright, with a dry wind from the north.

Ivar keeps sauntering by my forge, hands stuck in his robe, whistling.  Sometimes he is insufferable.

Last week he showed me one of his magical stunts again.  I tried to humor him, for he is very sensitive to such things.  He poured a clear oil onto one of the smaller anvils, and set the oil on fire.  When the anvil was heated, he wanted me to be impressed.

In fairness to Ivar, the metal could never have become so hot from such small flames.  But I have never doubted Ivar’s arcane powers, though I am at a loss to explain it.  It means so much to him, you see.

I was reminded of the time when Temilla laid some spells on the millrace.  “Like for like,” she told me—I was a boy, then—and swirled soap into the water.   “For quickness, to draw the water faster.”  The wheel turned faster, a little, but not so fast as after I spent two days mucking out the weeds.

Am I a sorcerous smith, and have I need of a flaming anvil?  I can heat a block of iron in the forge fire, and lay a polished blade against it, to draw the temper up into the edge.

Though I do confess to a slight itching in my hackles, when I see Ivar practicing his art.  This time did not frighten me so much as the feast at which he called forth flame in his bare hands.

But Ivar is pleased, and I am glad that he is so.

he anvil was a cool presence beneath my hand. I uttered a few quick words, and sprinkled a pinch of salt upon its surface, and the iron in it bound tightly to a charm of seasoning. It was an inconsequential enchantment, but it would serve to prime the metal as my father had instructed me.

I reached into a basket I had brought, and found the thick mixture of cured dragon meat. I had set it next to the forge to warm, and now I kneaded it. With greasy hands, I returned to the anvil, and traced the intricate symbols that would focus the energies of the first spell I intended to cast. For long minutes I did this, and as my hands cooled against the the dark metal, the grease coating them began to congeal. I sang the rhyme of the spell, and sat back to concentrate and recall the next enchantment.

A few deep breaths, and I began again. “Avenal, Avenal, Parsela, Flam,” were words of protection, and I repeated them like a prayer. I scooped handfuls of white powdered saleratus and spread it upon my arms. That done, I returned my hands to the basket.

Goran stood by, motionless. With his frown and crossed arms, he was the embodiment of disbelief.