he castle is in uproar.  A rumor came yesterday that the Duke was killed by arrowshot on the beaches of Fogreach.  Today, a merchant swore that the armies have not yet given battle, but the elven raiders captured several ships in the harbor of Irongate under cover of darkness.  He says further that the king has refused to defend the Free Towns, claiming illness.

Such is the news in summer.  We in the heart of the country, a long way from the dangers of the coastal raids, must fret and imagine the worst while our brothers and fathers, friends and husbands, risk their lives in service to their lord and king.  (The Lady Dalla would remind me to think as well of the wives and daughters who are carried away in swift ships, to end their lives in slavery.)

I try to pay little mind to these rumors, for the news often changes with each passing day.

Today something more shocking has happened.

he Castellan came to tell me that I will work at the mines.  At the end of summer, he will send me to Fogreach to hire another two or three smith to repair the equipment.  We will live at the mines for some time, perhaps until winter.

I do not think that I will enjoy returning to the mines.  When I last was there, I was nearly buried in a rockfall.  But more than that, my home is here in Cannaghdown.

I spoke of this to Lady Dalla today, who has been very kind to me since my master died.

y master’s body has been given to the fire, and his spirit given to the heavens, two days now, and that time has weighed heavily on me.

I gave no instructions to the forge boy, but this morning he nervously started the fires before disappearing completely.

Two weeks ago Karl demanded of me five hundred long arrowheads, or bodkins, in time for the Moot.  Today Karl came to berate me, for he has seen me do no smithcraft in several days.  He was angry and insisted I perform my duty for the Duke.  I grew wrathful with him, for I am a freeman and no castle slave who owes labor.  When I grasped one of the large hammers, he blanched and turned to leave without his usual swagger.

Then Lady Dalla was there, and she made me put the hammer down.  The spell which overcame me passed, and I was ashamed.

var has given me the task of copying letters from Dalla’s book.  Though I am skilled with pen and brush, I have never learned the delicate task of the scribe.

According to the poets, books are filled with lurid colors and fantastic images.  Dracoras and hargasts should lurk behind gold-trimmed letters.  But in the words of this book there are no leaping dogs, with lolling tongues of vermillion—no eyes of lapis wink coyly under a lover’s wimple.  The letters are plain, even to my eye, and the paper, lined and pricked, reflects only the flickering light of my candle.

But for all that this book be plain, to me it is an inscrutable mystery still.  I have copied the first page several times, as Ivar instructed me.

I can make no sense of what I have copied.  Ivar tells me this means “Listen!” and that means “spirits”, but this tells me nothing of the words on the rest of the page. 

Like the poets, I would call on the spirits, if I thought they would offer me the knowledge of letters.  But wisdom is not gleaned from spirits.  If instead it is bound to the page by a scribe’s dip-pen, then I fear I will never learn the spell that will open this knowledge to me.