Page 33

The road stretches ahead of us in an endless, winding path through gray fields, dying forest, gnarled trees, and brittle crops. I attempt to put space between Agnar and myself at every break, sitting to the side, keeping quiet, and searching for an excuse to wander off. Agnar sends one of the kids with the waterskin to squash my efforts, or the old man comes to ask about my wound. I seem to be healing fine, so long as I don’t try to lift my arm over my head.

Agnar rarely has to say a word directly to me. He’s wrapped everyone around his finger in a day, and they play babysitter for him.

I want to hit him.

We stop for the night in a tiny clearing under the thick branches of an ancient oak, and Agnar hands over the bag he carried for the old woman all day.

She beams up at him like he’s the sun peeking through a week of storm clouds and pats his arm with one wrinkled hand. “Such a kind boy. Your mother raised you well.”

“She tried. Not sure it took.” Agnar forms a chair with a hook for her bag. “My sister said I was a boar in a pottery barn, always breaking things.”

The grandmother chuckles. “Modesty. I like that in a young man.”

“But Agnar, if you break anything in the pottery shop, you can just fix it with your earth magic!” The little boy hops in place next to them.

Agnar rears back, gesturing at the child. “That’s what I kept telling her! But then she’d smack me with her broom.”

Everyone laughs, even the toddler tied to Mira’s back.

I barely contain my derisive snort.

Modesty. Right. The man who’s been regaling everyone with stories the whole day is so humble. And why is he being so nice to them when he’s been an absolute boar to me? His sister was right.

He catches my eye over the grandmother’s head and winks.

Absolutely infuriating.

This is the same man who broke someone’s neck with his bare hands. He threatened me, restrained me, demanded that I strip for him, and is forcing me to go gods know where.

I can’t reconcile his two sides into a coherent whole. Killer or protector, brutal or gentle, dark or light…which traits are the real Agnar? I shouldn’t be curious enough to find out. I should run far, far away, but instead, I want to peel back his layers until I discover the truth.

Mira’s toddler starts fussing, squirming in his confinement, stretching toward the ground with fat baby hands that open and close in a demanding fashion. “Down. Down.”

She sets him down with visible reluctance, keeping hold of one hand while he toddles on unsteady legs. Then he drops to his bottom with a small grunt and picks up a rock. He examines it with the intense focus only toddlers possess.

Mira looks exhausted, with bruised circles under her eyes and strands of dark hair escaping her braid. The pressure of keeping a child alive through this nightmare is carved into every line of her face.

Agnar appears beside her. “I can take him for a bit if you want.”

She hesitates, glances at her son, at Agnar, then back to her son.

“I’ve got a niece.” He crouches beside the toddler. “I’m excellent at rock appreciation. See this one? This is a very good rock. Top quality.”

The toddler peers up at him before offering the plain, round rock with one chubby hand.

Agnar accepts it with appropriate surprise and joy. “Yes. Very good indeed. This is the best rock I’ve seen all day.”

The child beams. Everyone loves Agnar.

I want to scream.

If I’m to use the refugees as a means to slip away, it would be best if I got them on my side first. Toward that end, I approach the grandmother as she rubs her feet through worn boots.

“How are you feeling?” The warmth I aim for as I crouch beside her sounds stilted to my own ears. “Your feet holding up?”

She blinks at me. “Fine, dear. Thank you for asking.”

Silence stretches.