The Call of the Crown (Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

that she had much time for talking, but still, it would be nice if they allowed a friend to come and say hello, occasionally.
    Brea perc hed on the only chair set at an ancient stone table. The table was a good fifty paces up the shallow slope from where the cave’s entrance cut a wide gash in the Bren Ridge. Behind the table was Brea’s shelf, where she kept some of her larger items, mostly mixing bowls and pans. To her right, there was a natural alcove where she could take a nap in a narrow cot. As well as her bed, the curtained off niche was where the rarer herbs were kept, out of the way of clumsy feet. As usual, the tabletop was full of her stuff: books, scales, tools; useful items she had gathered over the past five years. And then there were those things that came as part of the job, like the Lier’sinn—a large silver bowl used for seeing far-off places. As strange as it had once seemed, they were all familiar to her now. Indeed, she loved her work, most days. Still, a day at the lake would have been nice.
    Brea had spent the last few minutes chopping up herbs and roots. As well as her normal clutter, small piles of green, yellow, and purple peppered the tabletop. Nothing too out of the ordinary, just a touch of ousblud, a few sprigs of kharoe, and some chopped kalli root—all gathered from the woods around the Bren’alor valley.
    She worked quickly. Once the cutting and chopping was finished, she had began weighing portions on a small brass scale, delicately pinching off a little, or maybe adding a tiny smidgen. She was very fussy about her tonics, and this had to be right. Once satisfied, she would pour the measure into a large mortar standing on a plinth of its own beside the table.
    The mixture was almost ready, just one final ingredient. Brea hated this part. Leaning back against the battered chair, she sighed before reaching for the knife. After wiping it with a clean cloth, she slowly ran the blade through the candle flame and placed it in a half-full bowl of lemon water. While that soak ed, she checked her palms. It was a futile exercise, she always cut her left hand, but the act of prodding and poking took her mind off the knife for a while.
    After a moment’s pause—a long moment—she took up the knife with her right hand and ran it over her left palm. The cold, clean blade sliced into her flesh. Brea flinched and sucked in a hissing breath through her gritted teeth. Her shoulders folded up to her ears. Why is the sting always such a surprise? Surely, there must be a better way than this. She pulled the blade all the way across before relaxing her shoulders and looking at the cut. Quickly, she put down the knife and clenched her fist above the mortar.
    There she waited, watching the blood drip into the bowl, clenching her fis t, tight then loose, to coax blood from the wound. It was a slow job at times. After a while, she began to pack away her equipment with her free hand: closing the books, arranging the bowls, and pushing them all neatly into a line across the back of the table. Might as well do something useful , she thought. A minute passed—another look in the bowl. That should be enough .
    Brea took a clean piece of cloth, and after dipping it in the lemon water, used it to bandage her cut palm. That stung nearly as badly as the knife, but she had to try keeping the wound clean, the cave was hardly sanitary.
    Once set, she took up the pestle and began to grind her blood into the ingredients. The stone pestle clattered a round the mortar as she pounded down around the inside, making sure to include the whole measure of elements into the mixture. It didn’t look to be a very appetising recipe. Brea cringed at the odour and blinked at the vapours that brought tears to her eyes and a bitter taste of rusty metal to her tongue.
    After two minutes, the mixture turned to a smooth, thin paste. Brea shouted loudly towards the back of the cave, “Come on! It’s ready.” She wiped down the pestle and