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 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.

held her hand in mine as we walked to my father’s tree. The day was pleasant, the sun strong and the wind warm with golden pollen. She unbound her braid, and her hair laughed about her face. The walk passed faster than it ever had with Kean.

When we reached the end of our walk, I drank the manna, and rested my head on her lap. My vision faded and I found myself before my father’s yew tree, its fruit blazing like a host of fiery eyes.

“My son! You have returned! And so soon!” It had been over four months, hardly a short time, but I only nodded.

“I have a problem, Father, and you are the most knowledgeable wizard I know.” Not necessarily true, but I had my own reasons for not approaching Kean or Dalbach.

He stroked his beard. He said, “No need for flattery. But you are correct.”

I told him of the test of magic. He snorted. “Why do you care what a blacksmith believes?”

“Well, he’s my friend.”

“Not much of one. If I tried to convince every idiot I knew, then I’d have accomplished nothing. And the same will happen to you.”

Sensing it a waste of time to argue with him, I nodded.

“And he can’t be that close of a ‘friend’ if you’ve been traveling for such a short while … unless?” He cocked one bushy eyebrow and scowled.

y preparations are complete. However, difficulties have plagued me as of late. In order to keep from being shamed again in front of Goran, I have been testing these new rituals prior to approaching him. The resultant failures sit coldly pensive on my workbench, as if they wonder why I lack the skill to transform them. After three failures, I can waste no more valuable time and reagents.

After that last failure, I grew angry and smashed an iron file against the table. I broke a flask, and further enraged, I cursed and hurled the tool against the wall. I fumed, shaking my head and pounding my fist against the table. So little was working as it should.

It was at this inopportune moment that Fina knocked on my door. I stifled another curse and picked up the file, noting the large chip in the wall.

“Come in, come in,” I said.

“What is going on in here?” said Fina.