“A deal’s a deal.”
“Speaking of…” I cleared my throat. “What are you going to do about all your missing ale?”
Sighing, he leaned against the wall behind him, resting his head between two old shields etched with symbols of the gods. “Good question. Any idea who might have taken it?”
“Honestly? No,” I said. “I’ve been coming here for six years, and nothing has ever gone missing. It’s just not something that happens in Riverwold— or anywhere else on Hearthaven. These Isles are special. Everyone who ends up here wants safety and peace. For the most part, anyway.”
“Barrels don’t grow legs and wander off,” said Ragnar.
“No, they don’t,” I admitted. “But anyone who lives here values the festival more than a few barrels of bitter ale. No offense, of course.”
“None taken.” His frown deepened. “So it’s got to be one of the other merchants. Do any other taverns come here?”
I gave him a frank look. “I’m the only tavernusually. That’s why I brought so many kegs. Not to toot my own horn, but my brew is one of people’s favorite things about Yule. Every year, I bring more just to be sure I’ll have enough for that final night, when everyone is out celebrating until dawn.”
“And my wagon is in your usual spot,” he said.
“Near the stage and the performer tents and all the best cooks and bakers that attend.” I shrugged, taking another sip of my wine. “It’s all right, though. I’ll manage. St. Olaf Row’s not so bad, even if it is hidden away in the back.”
“Everything is starting to make a whole lot of wicked sense.” He finished off his pie and stood. “You coming?”
I frowned up at him, enjoying the heat of the hearth and warming wine on my tongue. A fuzzy, happy cocoon had surrounded me, massaging away the tension that had knotted my shoulders the past couple of days. Trudging around in cold forests and spying on naked men in wagons—this man before me, I couldn’t forget—was not what Yule was about. It was this. Enjoying the hearty food and drink. Sharing stories about life with strangers and newfound friends. Settling onto the bench at the coziest inn in all the Isles and not moving until it was time to stumble up the stairs and into bed.
“I’d rather stay here to be honest,” I told him. “I’m sure Nilsa has a bard lined up for the evening, and there’ll be plenty more pie where that came from.”
Ragnar ran a hand through his wavy hair and sighed. “I’d like nothing more than to sit here with you for the rest of the evening and learn the words to all the bard’s songs, but I need to look into something first. Unfortunately, I have a feeling you’re going to want to see it, too.”
I lowered my goblet to the table. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“I hope for both our sakes I’m wrong.”
Something in the tone of his voice cut through the haze. Without another word, I rose and followed him out the door, leaving a collection of coins on the table for Nilsa. A pink hue stretched across the distant horizon where the land met the sea. Even up here on the rolling hillside, the rushing sound of waves reached my ears. The call of seagulls answered. By the time we’d reached the meadow, the sun had bid its goodnight.
The festival grounds had come alive in our absence. On the northern side of the meadow, new arrivals—attendees rather than merchants—had erected their tents, where they’d camp until the day after Yule. The beginnings of bonfires flickered in the growing dark, and elves and dwarves bustled past carrying flat stones to situate around them. A line had already formed to Karl’s smoked meat cart, where plates puffed steam into the chilly air.
Ragnar went right past all of it, then kept on going when we reached his wagon. A few pixies drifted around it, looking disappointed. I recognized one of their faces. She was a regular who came nearly every year.
When she spotted me, her face brightened. “Lilia! Where’s the Traveling Tavern?”
“Where’s your ale?” her friend added.
“I’ll be back in a moment to explain,” I called back, hurrying to match Ragnar’s hasty stride. But the pixies did not wait beside his cold, dark wagon. They took to the path, trailing a few steps behind us. As we carried on, others spotted our small crowd and fell into line, whispering excitedly that something fun must be going on.
“Are you following Lilia to her tavern?” came a man’s whispered voice.
“Who’s that with her? Is he going to put on some kind of performance for her grand opening?” someone else asked.
“He’s not a performer,” a third voice said. My footsteps slowed. I knew that voice. I cast a glance over my shoulder. Steffon, the organizer of the whole shebang and the Defender of Riverwold, had joined the procession.
I caught the edge of Ragnar’s shirt, nearly breaking out into a jog to keep up with him. In a harsh whisper, I said, “We have an audience.”
“So I’ve noticed,” he replied dryly, not bothering to keep his voice down. “And if I’m right about this, there’ll be no way to hide it. Word will get around soon enough.”
“What is it, Ragnar? What are we checking on?”
But I knew. We were heading in the direction of St. Olaf Row.
Ragnar’s wagon was perched inmyusual spot. And with how he’d reacted earlier in the inn, he clearly suspected they’d been trying to take my kegs instead of his.
