Ravenheart by David Gemmell

rose on trembling legs and followed her into the kitchen. It seemed like a palace to the twelve-year-old. He sat down at the pine table and stared at the golden sheen on the wood. Aunt Maev placed a deep bowl of beef gravy soup and a hunk of bread before him.
    “Do not chew on the bread,” she said. “Your teeth are already loose, and we don’t want them falling out. Just dip it into the soup.”
    “She won’t die, will she?” whispered Banny.
    “Not if I have a say in it,” said Aunt Maev. “Now eat your soup, Banny. Take it slow.”
    It was almost a week since Banny had eaten solid food, and that had been a gnarled root his mother had dug from the edge of the forest. It had been bitter and had made him nauseous. His stomach was still queasy, and when he gazed down at the soup, he felt suddenly sick and dizzy.
    “Be strong now,” said Aunt Maev, moving swiftly alongside him. She tore off a small hunk of bread and dipped it in the warm soup. “Here. Just hold it in your mouth and let the juices run.” Banny opened his mouth, allowing her to feed him like a babe. The juices of the meat flowed on his tongue, awakening his hunger. His stomach cramped, and he almost choked on the bread. Carefully he chewed the morsel, then swallowed it. It tasted divine.
    “That’s good, Banny,” whispered Aunt Maev. “Take a little more now.”
    Banny sat very still, staring down at the soup bowl. It was white-glazed, but only on the inside; the outside was the golden brown of lowland clay. It was a pretty bowl. His mind swam, and he felt himself falling. He did not care. Maev’s arms held him close, and when he opened his eyes, he found to his surprise that he was still sitting at the table. It seemed to Banny that he had fallen from the world, spinning down and down into a blessed darkness where there was no hunger, no pain, no fear. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I have fleas.”
    Maev said nothing, but she dipped more bread into the now-cold soup and lifted it to his lips. Banny ate until both the soup and the bread were gone. “I think we’ll forget about the bath for now,” said Maev. “Let’s get you to bed.”
    Banny’s legs were unsteady, but Maev helped him up the stairs to a small room. The window shutters were closed, but thin lines of golden light could be seen between the slats. They shone on a patchwork blanket that covered the single bed of pine that nestled against the far wall. Maev drew back the coverlet and the two thick blankets beneath. “Let’s get youout of these clothes,” she said. She took hold of the torn and filthy shirt he was wearing. Banny raised his arms, and she lifted it clear. His ragged trews were held up by a length of string. He fumbled with the knot. Maev gently moved his hands aside and swiftly undid it. Banny stepped out of the garment, too weary to feel shame at being naked before a woman.
    He sat down on the white undersheet and became aware of the ingrained dirt on his arms and hands and the red flea bites on his belly and thighs. “I should bathe,” he said.
    “Later, Banny. Lay your head upon the pillow, there’s a good boy.”
    He had no strength to refuse. The pillow yielded beneath him, soft and inviting, and he felt the blankets and a soft oversheet being drawn up around his thin shoulders.
    Once more the world spun away, and Banny’s mind cried out in the joy of it.
    The apothecary Ramus was a small man. Round-shouldered and stooping, he rarely looked into the eyes of his customers. He would nod continuously as he listened to their requests and, when they had finished, mutter, “Good, yes, very good,” as if complimenting them. His movements were quick and sure, his judgment of weight uncanny. He would tip powder or shredded leaf into small bags of muslin and rarely weigh them. Occasionally a new customer would ask to see the item weighed on his small brass scales. He would nod and smile and say, “Good, yes, very good.” The scales would then show the