However, this past month life has taken me away from Ivar and Goran’s story. This isn’t just a function of having a new baby to take care of. I’ve been itching to put time into some of my other writing projects that call to me, as well as other hobbies. Previously, Iron & Ash took up a lot of my free time, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it does starve me of time to put into other things.

That said, this isn’t the end of Iron & Ash. I’m taking a break, going on a short hiatus. I plan to be back in a few months, after things settle down again, and after I get to focus on some of my other projects. I still have a lot of interest in this project. Ivar and Goran mean a lot to me (as well as some of their friends and enemies, some of whom you haven’t met yet). And I want to finish their story.

Ivar,

I hope my letter finds you besotted and with a fine lady on your lap. I ride on an important errand, and I am headed for a place no less than Castle Aspen. I have few days to spare free of travel, but Cannaghdown lies between here and there. My hope is to join you soon for some ribald tales and carousing of the sort that Cannaghdown is known for (ha!). I have news, and a few stories I think you will enjoy, having recently become engaged to a woman whose beauty outshines that of even the Band aflame with starfire. And my amour grows even sweeter when I find myself daydreaming of her ample assets, and you can take that as you will. I know that this announcement is a surprise, and I know you long for more details, but you will have to suffer in ignorance for a while longer. I will tell all when I appear—at the Shrine, of course.

Ah. A few days of rest with good friends and good drink will be welcome.

Regards,
Badger

It will be good to see Badger. He will be a sympathetic ear. But his engagement news reminds me of just how much I miss Fina. And being kept from Fina fills me with an anger that builds with each day. Idiotic ideas of “propriety” and the tradition-bound cretins who hold them are the force keeping us apart, and I cannot help but feel that the world would be a better place if purged of both. I may never again be able to spend time casually with her without looking fearfully over my shoulder. And these people are the reason.

My impending trial does not make this easier, even if the only punishment is a fine. The public shaming and further demonstration that our love is forbidden may be too much.

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.

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.

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.

I took a ball of the cured meat and slapped it onto the anvil.

“I hope you plan to clean that up,” said Goran.

I looked up at him, but I was in the thrall of multiple intertwining rituals. I re-focused on my work. I opened a vial of conjurer’s oil and poured it onto the anvil.

“Fire to the fire breather,
Flame to that which does not burn,
Alight, imbue, and heat in turn”

And I slammed my striker onto the anvil, sparking the oil, and setting the anvil ablaze. I reached into the flame, knowing that the coating on my hands and arms protected me.

Goran grunted and moved to pull me away. I raised my hand in warning, and quickly returned to the ritual. I cupped my hands on the meat, flames curling about me. With a quick movement I drew upon the anvil, fingers moving out in opposite directions, then circling around to form two halves of a circle. The oil followed my fingers and the fire followed it, creating a flickering circle bisected by a line, a rune of redoubling.

I stepped back and plunged my arms into a basin of water. Despite the protective spell, they still stung as if held too close to a campfire. I washed the sweat and soot from my brow and then turned back to the anvil.

We watched the fire slowly consume the ball of dragon meat. Goran spoke first. “So, what now? Is that it?”

“Get your hammer,” I said.

And as the flames flickered down to nothing, the anvil began to glow red. I watched, and the glow grew brighter and brighter, until looking at it was like looking into the heart of the forge.