It’s raining buckets this morning. Last night the wind picked up, and I was awoken by the sound of thunder on the river, and the rain came on, hard and steady. It’s so bad that we haven’t left the inn. The instructors have been going out into the wild weather and coming back. The boat can’t leave until it lets up a bit, so we’re stuck here, at least until this afternoon. The captain, a stout man by the name of Pitt, with a big cap and long black beard, came in at breakfast and begged the mages to do something about the storm, but they claimed no skill with weather. We’re just going to have to wait it out.
I’m sharing a room with Gloria, but we’ve barely said anything to each other. She went back to the book after dinner, and wouldn’t show it to me. Is it a grimoire? A book of magic? It is old, and leather-bound. Last night after we turned in, I couldn’t sleep. I thought she was awake too, but she didn’t say a word when I whispered. Then I heard the rasp of pages turning, slowly and carefully. I wonder how she can read in the dark? In the night, I tried to see if she had a light, something small and hidden, and I concentrated, hard. For a second, it almost seemed like the book glowed green. It didn’t illuminate anything, but it was almost like I was seeing it with my minds eyes. The pendant that Tarry gave me does the same thing. Yesterday when I had the chance, when I was alone, I took it out and looked at it. After minute, it seemed to sparkle blue, but it wasn’t a reflection. It wasn’t coming from the candle or the fire. Tarry was right. It is magic. Maybe it will protect me.
Dad’s been busy this morning. In spite of the weather, he is going to get as quick a start as he can on the rest of his journey. He is headed next to Tungal Hill, one of the tiny fortress kingdoms north of the city. He will be spending a few weeks with Lydia and the baby, and picking up some copper to take back to the smiths in Lysander, I think. He’s been trying to resupply his cart for the journey, a good couple of days yet through who knows what terrain. I’m a bit worried for him. The roads are dangerous, and the northern kingdoms are often too busy fighting one another to give much thought to the safety of the highways, or even to the wall on the Hydraal border, the last defense. It is dangerous to go alone. Even grandfather, the great Orc Hunter, by his well-earned reputation, almost never travelled by himself. He told me that even the most innocent-looking copse of trees could house bandits, or worse. I remember clearly his example, the march from Ironcliff to the forest with Rose and Glory. Since we’re stuck here until the storm lets up, and there is nothing left for me to do for Father but wish him a safe trip when he goes, I may as well recount the tale.
