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.