nights from several of the Duke’s holdings gather in the Castle each year for the traditional Hunt.  I wonder if it it is good sport, giving chase to a creature which no longer troubles the farms and towns of the region.  Indeed, the last time a dragon was even caught was during the years I apprenticed in Fogreach.

Breck and I were watching two of the knights demonstrating their swordsmanship in the upper ward.  The Duke and a few others watched approvingly nearby.  Some of the men-at-arms, servants, and even a little rabble of castle boys eyed the fighters from a more respectful distance.

I watched the watchers and saw something that puzzled me.  It seemed each saw a different fight.

The Duke named out loud some of the knights’ strokes and praised their technique.

One of the ladies, of gray hair that matched the locks of the older knight, was tense and cringed.  I think it must be that she sees her husband, of long life and love, playing with heavy and sharp weapons.

Another lady, much younger, had gleaming eyes and an open mouth.  No doubt she saw only manful deeds and prowess by the younger knight with the long hair.

The servants and castle boys were even more admiring than she, and they must only have seen the glory of battle—if glory there truly be.

Perhaps Breck was right when he scoffed, quietly so only I could hear, “Giving battle isn’t a show like this.”

I stood there with him only for a few minutes, admiring the long swords and well-wrought hauberks, before I hoisted my burden and said,  “I’ve got to find Ivar.”  Let him mumble and mutter over the twelve long hooks—I have seen now it makes no difference.

ina graciously accepted my apology, but my situation is more complicated for it. I now know that she confides in Lady Reiling, and that some of that knowledge passes on to Karl, captain of the guard. He seems an intelligent man, and discreet enough to keep our secret close, especially since I know his. But the strangest part is that by meeting him, I feel I have joined a ring of secret-sharers.

Fina confessed to me that a king had indeed visited her, King Theran of the southern realm of Kossaria. But all had not been as it appeared in my dream, at least not according to her telling of the story (and corroborated by Lady Reiling). She was brief, and left out many details, but she stressed that she was not intimate with him. And although I already doubted the vision, one moment captured me. As I stood there, holding her in my arms, drinking in her beauty, wanting everything I had thought I knew to be false, she said:

“Do you love me? Then have faith in me. Trust me, not a vision born of Kean’s poisons.”

My faith in the starscopes was shaken. However, though they may have been wrong (or perhaps just misleading) in this case, there was no reason to discount everything they had shown me. The problem was that so little of the vision made sense to me.

The morning after I had read the starscopes, despite my distress, I had sent a message to Dalbach to arrange a meeting at his first available convenience. Today I met with him to tell him what I had seen, and all that I did not understand. Perhaps he could make sense of it. And if the signs pointed to danger, his steady hand would be ready to guide the duke.

esterday was Coronation Day.  It is far from the largest feast of the year, but Cannaghdown was festive.  The Castellan hired minstrels for the day, and Cook ordered the cellarers to uncork four great tuns of beer in the Great Hall.  Some of the castle ladies hung streamers from the windows.

The Duke and some of his retinue had already left for Ruidhore to join the king.  Cannaghdown is but a minor castle (though it is the Duke’s ancestral home, it is not his largest and most wealthy domain), and the village is filled with tenant farmers who care not what wise or foolish man sits on the throne.

t is the season of new beginnings.  The air is scattered with rain and carries the scent of grasses, and the early flowers.  Coraff, my master, walks unassisted and can swing a hammer for several minutes before coughing.  I am not the only one who has noticed Coraff’s health and Kean’s empty chamber.

But Kean’s apartment will be empty no longer.  The Duke has raised Ivar to one of the lesser castle officials, what Ivar pompously calls “custodial thaumaturge”.  I watched the short ceremony in the Great Hall yesterday.  I could tell that Ivar was nervous, but he carried himself like a man.

Later that evening, Ivar came by the barracks, where I took my meal.  We were friendly, and it almost felt like old times.  He was almost giddy with delight.  Since childhood, he has desired to become a wizard, and I think he feels that he has succeeded.  But, though it is unkind of me, I wonder what dignity he can find in hexing mouse holes and in urging paving stones to stay put?