Chapter 20

It was not that old Aaron felt any particular tenderness toward the Witcher; the truth was, he had already come to see Lannor as the village’s main pillar of income.

To be blunt, he had never shown this much concern for his own son.

The young man’s method of binding his own interests to those of the village had worked exceedingly well.

Back inside, old Aaron’s wife had already finished up at the hearth.

She was the sort of village crone one saw everywhere, broad of frame, her face as weather-beaten as her husband’s, her hair bound tight and practical beneath a headscarf.

When she first saw a Witcher in her home the night before, she had been badly startled. From time to time she had tugged old Aaron aside, whispering in low tones.

Her eyes kept darting toward Lannor.

In truth, those whispers were as clear as speech beside the ear to a Witcher.

Lannor listened for a while, then stopped.

At most, she was an old woman misled by rumor.

The worst malice she could muster was fretting over the extra portion she would have to cook.

Breakfast was simply last night’s supper, reheated.

A pot of fish offal stew, ladled out into one bowl per person.

Grains, onions, and all manner of gathered berries and raspberries had been thrown in.

The richly pigmented berries, quick to bleed into water, had turned the broth into a strange, murky violet-black.

Lannor had long since learned not to expect anything fine in such conditions, so he accepted it without hesitation.

The young man showed no restraint at all. He dipped the wooden ladle into the pot, swept it twice, and filled his bowl to the brim.

Old Aaron and his wife stared at the bowl, then at him.

They seemed unable to grasp how someone could be so unceremonious.

“You just scooped twice ... and took all the berries?”