o not think a smith spends all his time hammering metal upon the anvil.

I had to ask Ivar what kind of knives he required.  He told me only that they were required for some ceremony and that they needed to have sharp cutting edges.  When I pressed him further, I learned that he cared not whether the blade was straight or curved, whether there was a guard, nor did he even need a handle.

The first step in knife-making is to notch a flat piece of iron with a fuller.  From the notches, the smith draws out the tang.  (I decided to punch holes in the tang anyways, in case Ivar later wished to add a handle.)  Then he bends the end that will become the blade and hammers the inside edge until it is straight again.   This is the back or spine of the knife, and the other edge is now curved.  The smith must work quickly so as not to heat the metal more times than necessary and to keep the metal free of scale from the forge.

Next the knife is ground with the wheel to the proper shape.  This is what takes time.

To harden the metal, the the knife is returned to the fire, heated, and quenched in brine.  Finally, the smith must polish and temper the knife so it keeps a sharp edge.  I prefer to heat the knife directly over the forge fire, but the smith may also place the back of the knife on a heated block and draw the colors up into the knife, until the tang is blue and the edge is the color of straw.

I sharpened the knives carefully, as Ivar had been very particular that the knives be equally sharp.  This was all done perhaps two weeks ago.  He did not come by to pick them up, until today.

He swept in—always he sweeps, now—and asked to see the knives.  I was making nails, but I put that aside.  Ivar seemed pleased, but he asked me several times if the knives were equally sharp.  He promised to explain soon.

esterday I walked to the village to visit my older brother, Ghell.  The sun was weak, but it was not very cold.  His boys, my nephews, were waiting in the lane and ran to meet me.  They have grown strong enough to help their mother in our family’s fields, and I can no longer carry one in each arm like I used to.  I herded them to the house.  Ghell’s daughter had enough courage to hand me a warmed wheaten cake before she ran to behind her mother’s legs.  (Ghell had another son four years ago, but he died after the birth.)

I am the second of four brothers.  The next is Garrett.  It is the custom here for sons to share similar names, but I think our mother finally objected when she bore her fourth son, Errin.  Garrett and Errin both are employed by a large merchant house in the Free Towns, and we see them rarely.

It is the curse of younger sons to be forced from home to find a trade.  If Garrett, Errin, or I had stayed to work in the mill or on our father’s fields, we would forever live at the charity of our father, and one day our brother Ghell.  Could I bring a wife into Ghell’s home, and would she share the hearth with his wife?  Should we divide the profits from milling into fourths, so that none of the sons may earn enough to keep a family?  Or should we shave our heads and worship some local spirit, and hope that pilgrims’ kindness may keep us warm through the wet and dismal winters?

I am luckier than Garrett or Errin.  Bound first to Coraff, later I also apprenticed in Fogreach, and now have returned to Cannaghdown to work again with Coraff.  The watchful care of others’ fortunes can surely not compare to the satisfaction of good labor at the forge.

For the evening meal, Ghell, his family, and I joined our mother and father.  I wish our younger brothers could be here as well.

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.

ews of Fina’s visit to Ivar’s tower has already spread about the castle.  Ivar’s estimation will surely rise in the eyes of many men, especially the men-at-arms who watch Fina from the corners of their eyes.

Coraff was sitting on a wooden stump outside the forge, when he jerked his head upwards.  I followed his gaze and saw Fina, followed by two of her servants, walking along the wall towards Kean’s tower—Ivar’s tower.

This was not remarkable.  No doubt they needed Ivar for various charms and paints.

A few minutes later Coraff caught my eye.  Both of the girls were back on the wall, flirting with one of the men-at-arms.  I looked back at Coraff, who shrugged.  We need few words to understand each other.

Fina was alone in Ivar’s tower.