The Demon Cycle Series Books 1 and 2: The Painted Man, The Desert Spear. Peter V. Brett
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and revealing all the failings of their bodies to her without a thought.
But for all that, she was still an outsider. The women talked as if she were invisible, blabbing every secret in the village as freely as if she were no more than a pillow in the night.
‘And so you are,’ Bruna said, when Leesha dared to complain. ‘It’s not for you to judge their lives, only their health. When you put on that pocketed apron, you swear to hold your peace no matter what you hear. An Herb Gatherer needs trust to do her work, and trust must be earned. No secret should ever pass your lips, unless keeping it prevents you healing another.’
So Leesha held her tongue, and the women had come to trust her. Once the women were hers, the men soon followed, often with their women prodding at their back. But the apron kept them away, all the same. Leesha knew what almost every man in the village looked like unclothed, but had never been intimate with one; and though the women might sing her praises and send her gifts, there was not a one she could tell her own secrets to.
Yet despite all, Leesha had been far happier in the last seven years than she had been in the thirteen before. Bruna’s world was much wider than the one she had been groomed for by her mother. There was grief, when she was forced to close someone’s eyes, but there was also the joy of pulling a child from its mother and sparking its first cries with a firm swat.
Soon, her apprenticeship would be over, and Bruna would retire for good. To hear her speak it, she would not live long after that. The thought terrified Leesha in more ways than one.
Bruna was her shield and her spear, her impenetrable ward against the town. What would she do without that ward? Leesha did not have it in her to dominate as Bruna had, barking orders and striking fools. And without Bruna, who would she have that spoke to her as a person and not an Herb Gatherer? Who would weather her tears and witness her doubt? For doubt was a breach of trust as well. People depended on confidence from their Herb Gatherer.
In her most private thoughts, there was even more. Cutter’s Hollow seemed small to her now. The doors unlocked by Bruna’s lessons were not easily closed; a constant reminder not of what she knew, but of how much she did not. Without Bruna, that journey would end.
She entered the house, seeing Bruna at the table. ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect you up so early; I would have made tea before going into the garden.’ She set her basket down and looked to the fire, seeing the steaming kettle near to the boil.
‘I’m old,’ Bruna grumbled, ‘but not so blind and crippled I can’t make my own tea.’
‘Of course not,’ Leesha said, kissing the old woman’s cheek, ‘you’re fit enough to swing an axe alongside the cutters.’ She laughed at Bruna’s grimace and fetched the meal for porridge.
The years together had not softened Bruna’s tone, but Leesha seldom noticed it now, hearing only the affection behind the old woman’s grumbling, and responding in kind.
‘You were out gathering early today,’ Bruna noted as they ate. ‘You can still smell the demon stink in the air.’
‘Only you could be surrounded with fresh flowers and complain of the stink,’ Leesha replied. Indeed, she kept blooms throughout the hut, filling the air with sweetness.
‘Don’t change the subject,’ Bruna said.
‘A Messenger came last night,’ Leesha said. ‘I heard the horn.’
‘Not a moment before sundown, too,’ Bruna grunted. ‘Reckless.’ She spat on the floor.
‘Bruna!’ Leesha scolded. ‘What have I told you about spitting inside the house?’
The crone looked at her, rheumy eyes narrowing. ‘You told me this is my ripping home, and I can spit where I please,’ she said.
Leesha frowned. ‘I was sure I said something else,’ she mused.
‘Not if you’re smarter than your bosom makes people think,’ Bruna said, sipping her tea.
Leesha let her jaw drop in mock indignation, but she was used to far worse from the old woman. Bruna did and said as she pleased, and no one could tell her differently.
‘So it’s the Messenger that has you up and about so early,’ Bruna said. ‘Hoping it’s the handsome one? What’s his name? The one that makes puppy eyes at you?’
Leesha smiled wryly. ‘More like wolf eyes,’ she said.
‘That can be good too!’ the old woman cackled, slapping Leesha’s knee. Leesha shook her head and rose to clear the table.
‘What’s his name?’ Bruna pressed.
‘It’s not like that,’ Leesha said.
‘I’m too old for this dance, girl,’ Bruna said. ‘Name.’
‘Marick,’ Leesha said, rolling her eyes.
‘Shall I brew a pot of pomm tea for young Marick’s visit?’ Bruna asked.
‘Is that all anyone thinks about?’ Leesha asked. ‘I like talking to him. That’s all.’
‘I’m not so blind I can’t see that boy has more on his mind than talk,’ Bruna said.
‘Oh?’ Leesha asked, crossing her arms. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
Bruna snorted. ‘Not a one,’ she said, not even turning Leesha’s way. ‘I’ve been around long enough to know that trick,’ she said, ‘just as I know Maverick the Messenger hasn’t made eye contact with you once in all your talks.’
‘His name is Marick,’ Leesha said again, ‘and he does, too.’
‘Only if he doesn’t have a clear view of your neckline,’ the crone said.
‘You’re impossible,’ Leesha huffed.
‘No cause for shame,’ Bruna said. ‘If I had paps like yours, I’d flaunt them too.’
‘I do not flaunt!’ Leesha shouted, but Bruna only cackled again.
A horn sounded, not far off.
‘That will be young master Marick,’ Bruna advised. ‘You’d best hurry and primp.’
‘It’s not like that!’ Leesha said again, but Bruna dismissed her with a wave.
‘I’ll put that tea on, just in case,’ she said. Leesha threw a rag at the old woman and stuck out her tongue, moving towards the door.
Outside on the porch, she smiled in spite of herself as she waited for the Messenger. Bruna pushed her to find a man nearly as much as her mother did, but the crone did it out of love. She wanted only for Leesha to be happy, and Leesha loved her dearly for it. But despite the old woman’s teasing, Leesha was more interested in the letters Marick carried than his wolf eyes.
Ever since she was young, she had loved Messenger days. Cutter’s Hollow was a little place, but it was on the road between three major cities and a dozen hamlets, and between the Hollow’s timber and Erny’s paper, it was a strong part of the region’s economy.
Messengers visited the Hollow at least twice a month, and while most mail was left with Smitt, they delivered to Erny and Bruna personally, frequently waiting for replies. Bruna corresponded with Gatherers in Forts Rizon and Angiers, Lakton, and several hamlets. As the crone’s eyesight failed, the task of reading the letters and penning Bruna’s replies fell to Leesha.
Even from afar, Bruna commanded respect. Indeed, most of the Herb Gatherers in the area had been students of hers at one time or another. Her advice was frequently sought to cure ailments beyond others’ experience, and offers to send her apprentices came with every Messenger. No one wished for her knowledge to pass from the world.
‘I’m too old to break in another novice!’ Bruna would grouse,