alla said to me some days ago, “Wisdom is understanding the weight of your actions.”  We were speaking of Hector and Arras, a poem in which a foolish lord slays great monsters.  “Do you understand what you have wrought with your hands?”  I did not realize at first that she meant, literally, the tools that I have wrought.

Much of my smith-work is the crafting of weapons and armor for the Duke.  I have not the valor to wield my swords in battle, but with them, how many men have been slain?

It is comforting to me that most of the battles are fought against elves.  And even Breck, whose skull is missing a handsbreadth of bone, admits that the pitched and glorious fights of song are rare.  But even if my blades have only slit the throats of brigands and the lordless, have my hands made widows and orphans?

Other tools I make as well.  I have sharpened three plows in the last week alone, and re-shod a spade.  From such instruments spring life and sustenance.

And what of the hooks I made for the recent Hunt?  Two knights must catch the beast by its reeking nostrils so that the worm can neither breathe nor make fire.  So held, the poor creature dies of a spear thrust into its eye or throat.  What pain it must suffer, yet in past times, they say, dragons laid waste to entire cities and counties.

The Lady Dalla is disquieting to me, and when she speaks to me, my thoughts fill with confusion.

I would put this out of mind, if it weren’t also for the news from the Free Towns.  The King has refused to send more men to protect the towns and farms during the summer campaigns.  The elven raids have grown worse each summer for the last several years, as it is clear that the king cannot repel the invaders.  Now the Free Towns are arming themselves, which is expressly forbidden by charter.

I can only hope that these rumors are not true, for it is very worrisome.

nights from several of the Duke’s holdings gather in the Castle each year for the traditional Hunt.  I wonder if it it is good sport, giving chase to a creature which no longer troubles the farms and towns of the region.  Indeed, the last time a dragon was even caught was during the years I apprenticed in Fogreach.

Breck and I were watching two of the knights demonstrating their swordsmanship in the upper ward.  The Duke and a few others watched approvingly nearby.  Some of the men-at-arms, servants, and even a little rabble of castle boys eyed the fighters from a more respectful distance.

I watched the watchers and saw something that puzzled me.  It seemed each saw a different fight.

The Duke named out loud some of the knights’ strokes and praised their technique.

One of the ladies, of gray hair that matched the locks of the older knight, was tense and cringed.  I think it must be that she sees her husband, of long life and love, playing with heavy and sharp weapons.

Another lady, much younger, had gleaming eyes and an open mouth.  No doubt she saw only manful deeds and prowess by the younger knight with the long hair.

The servants and castle boys were even more admiring than she, and they must only have seen the glory of battle—if glory there truly be.

Perhaps Breck was right when he scoffed, quietly so only I could hear, “Giving battle isn’t a show like this.”

I stood there with him only for a few minutes, admiring the long swords and well-wrought hauberks, before I hoisted my burden and said,  “I’ve got to find Ivar.”  Let him mumble and mutter over the twelve long hooks—I have seen now it makes no difference.

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.

took my meal in the barracks, as usual.  Ivar was with us as well, even though he now usually eats in the Hall with the more important of the castle servants.

The men, not for the first time, spoke of the Lady Dalla.  “Kalla says Old Baldy gave a pretty speech at the shrine,” said one, laughing disrespectfully.  He was speaking of the village altar, not the alehouse—which is where I prefer to worship the spirits.