Chapter 24: The Fen and the Ridge

The Fen's barn had a roof again by the first frost.

We held the feast in the old hall that night, with the doors propped open and the fire built up, and both packs came.

The Ridge's elders sat on the Fen's benches.

The Fen's eleven old wolves sat on the Ridge's cushions.

Corwin had sent them north in four carts, and the old wolves claimed they were too soft.

The elder with the heavy jaw was passing the salt to the ferryman.

Neither of them said a word to the other, but the salt got there.

On the wall above the hearth hung a page in a plain black frame.

Corwin and I had written it out from memory the night we came home.

We wrote it line for line, in two hands, with the sentences split between us.

The original had burned.

I did not mind anymore.

Everyone who read the copy on that wall knew who had signed it, and who had not.

Hetta sat at the head of the table in my father's chair, with a plate stacked high and a blanket she did not need.

"Quiet," she said, and rapped a spoon on a mug.

The hall went quiet, mostly out of fear.

"I have an announcement."

"You always do," said the ferryman.

"I have served this house for forty years, and nobody has ever given me a speech."

She stood, wobbling, and put her free hand on the table.

"So I will give one to myself."

A few people groaned.

"Doran Stradling owed me four decades of wages," she said.

"I am told the Ridge now owes the Fen a great deal of money."

"I would like my wages out of it."

Corwin did not even hesitate.

"Done."

"With interest."

"Done."

"And the boy's to bring me my tea himself every morning until I die, and not that blue-ribboned poison."

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