At the first grey crack of dawn on Day Ninety-Three, Davren untied the tarred hemp twine of his frayed bull-hide portfolio across the long frame stand table in Alderfast’s communal sorting shed. The shed was a cavernous, unheated structure built against the eastern limestone outcrop, its open western face fronting the stepped terraces. Inside, the air smelled of wet slate, cold iron ore, and the bitter tannin of dried willow bark.
Adra Pike sat squarely at the head of the frame stand bench. She had already been working for an hour, sharpening a curved willow grafting knife with a small oilstone, the rhythmic, metal scrape of blade against hone setting the pace for the morning. She wore her work-stained wool apron over a patched quilted tunic, her iron pruning hook laid flat on the table within easy reach. Beside her sat Yseld Arken, her scarred hands wrapped around a clay mug of boiled pine tea. Meanwhile, Paxa Sel and Fellis Dain took their places along the side bench, their measuring tongs, tally slates, and rule sticks laid out with razor-sharp neatness.
Davren had insisted on this arrangement before a single sheet was unfolded. He had walked down from the tool house at daybreak. He leaned with measured confidence on his newly adjusted iron brace, and personally asked Adra to preside over the review. He wanted the valley’s head grower present to challenge every contour, every water estimate. Every distance note he had recorded, specifically demanding that she cut him off…
