But if I tried to stop him, he’d think I stole his ale.
I frowned and jogged after him. Ragnar’s story made little sense. Who would have taken his kegs? Was he even telling the truth? And if he wasn’t, what was his goal here?
Whatever it was, it felt like it was aimed right at me.
It didn’t take long for me to catch up to him. His strides were long yet unhurried, almost like he’d expected me to follow.
“Fancy seeing you here again,” he murmured, casually tucking his hands into his trouser pockets.
“You keep saying that.”
“You keep showing up in surprising places.”
“I don’t think you’ve been surprised even once.”
He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound, like the bass of a melodious song. It was a nicer sound than I wanted to admit. Shame nothing else about him matched it.
“So what’s the excuse?” he asked.
“Excuse for what?”
“Well, you clearly haven’t eaten much today. Nor have you changed into fresh clothes. One might think you’d rather fill your belly with Nilsa’s stew rather than follow a man around you hate.”
“I don’t hate you,” I said quietly.
A muscle in his jaw ticked as he continued to stride purposely down the road. “I’d understand if you do. Hel, I’d probably hate me if I were you.”
“Hatred is a very strong emotion. I’m not certain I hate anyone.” I pursed my lips. “Well, that’s not entirely true. I hated that ice giant conquerer, Isveig. But most people aren’t that cruel, and thankfully, he’s off the throne.” I cast him a sideways glance. “As annoying as you are, you don’t strike me as the kind of man who’d try to wipe out a race.”
“No, I’m not,” he said quietly. “I fought against Isveig.”
“What?” I stumbled a few steps, then had to hurry to catch up. “When?”
“I fought in the Elven Resistance until Isveig’s ice giants beat them back and invaded their lands,” he said, his voice so low I could scarcely make out his words. “But if there’s one thing you need to know about me, it’s that I don’t quit, even when most people would. My brother and I joined a group of rebels who were hiding out in Isveig’s stolen city. We sneaked into his palace once, thinking we’d catch him by surprise. But he somehow found out about us, and knew we were coming. He injured me and my brother.” Ragnar rubbed the back of his neck. “Nearly killed us both.”
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. And as he rubbed his neck again, it was as if I was seeing him for the first time. A pale scar cut across his left shoulder. It matched the one I’d seen on his chest. His powerful arms were the cut of someone who wielded a sword—successfully. This man was a warrior. It explained a lot.
“Don’t be sorry,” he countered in a gruff voice. “I’m glad I fought that bastard. My only regret is that I failed. Things were never the same after that.My brotherwas never the same. For reasons I’ll never understand, he then joined a group who sometimes worked directly for Isveig, and he lost himself in it, lost who he once was.”
Questions threatened to spill from my lips, but I swallowed them down. This was clearly difficult for him to talk about, and if he wanted to share more, he would. The haunted look in his eye…I knew it well. I’d worn it once myself, and I never liked it when people pried.
Silence wrapped around us, but it didn’t feel awkward this time. We continued down the path toward the festival grounds, the sun beaming down from a cloudless sky. The ground was soft beneath my boots, churned up from the influx of wagon wheels. Several merchants who had claimed spots nearest to town had opened their stalls to patrons. We passed a cart full of freshly baked apple pies, then another with ribbons in every color imaginable. By Yule, most of those ribbons would be braided into hair or wound around wrists and arms.
Ragnar ignored them all, even when a pixie danced toward us on fluttering wings, hoping to catch our eye.
“Not a fan of apple pie?” I asked, finally breaking the silence.
“I’d love to have a pie. But I’d prefer to have my ale.”
I sighed. “Your ale isn’t in the woods, Ragnar.”
“Well, it’s not in my wagon, so it has to be somewhere. Unless you think kegs can gopoof, never to be seen again.”
“Let me see it, then.”
He stopped and swung toward me. “See what?”
“Your empty wagon.” I gestured toward said wagon, visible down the path bisecting the southern side of the meadow. It squatted luxuriously beneath the weeping willow, right where mine should be. He hadn’t even bothered to unpack anything yet. What a waste of a good booth.
