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.

n the past week, I have three regular visitors to my workshop. Temilla and Dalla are two, and they seem as little more than apparitions to me. They come and go as they please, and although they speak comforting words, those words do not touch me. They seem distant, not in demeanor, for they are both very kind, but in how I see them. Temilla brought me a tea to help with my recent sloth, and at least the taste of the bitter drink brings me closer to the present.

I sleep later now. I think that my sleep is troubled, but I remember very little when I wake, so I cannot be sure.

I chanced upon Fina two days ago. She glanced around nervously, but as we were in a quiet western hall of the castle, on a morning in which few were about, she walked with me for a while. She reassured me that she was feeling well, cured by Dalbach of any enchantment. She questioned me about my own health. When I showed her some of the scabbed-over wounds, she gasped. I told her not to worry, that I had ministered to them properly, and they would soon be just a bad memory. It took valuable minutes for me to convince her to stop fussing over me (although I enjoyed the attention), but finally we talked of other things. We gossiped about Sir Gavann, and worried over the Duke’s fate, and what would happen if he could not return to arbitrate Gavann’s claim. Too soon, we had to part. But in out last moments alone, she stroked my cheek and kissed my forehead, and I was cheered.

I still miss her such that it pains me. However, talking to her has helped me regain some of my vigor. My imprisonment has affected me more than I’d like to admit, I think. I’d even forgotten the magical surprise that I had planned for Goran. It’s time I returned to that.

ast night I dreamed of chains and darkness and snarling rats, so all is not completely well. However, morning came and banished those evil memories, at least for a while. To wake up to sunlight is a gift that I will not take for granted for some time. A new robe, and a warm bed; these are good things as well.

People eye me warily. Some ward themselves when I enter a room. Their crude gestures hold little real power, but they still inflict me with shame. To avoid them, I have buried myself in my work, which is thankfully still mine to do. It helps. But it also heightens a sense of separateness, of being alone. I remind myself that Goran is my friend, and the spirit in the dungeon. And Fina….

There creeps a true worry. I have not seen Fina since my release. Goran says she has recovered, but warns me not go to her. It is good advice… but not what I need right now. I dare not blatantly disregard it…. However, I find myself occasionally wandering halls that are out of my way, hoping to chance upon her.

The halls are often empty, as many have gone to war, including Karl and my brother. Surely, she has not gone as well. Where could she be?