“No,” Rosheen tossed back, aware of her pouting lip.

“We will be in Hog’s Wallow soon,” Padric said, popping a hazelnut into his mouth. “Fafnir said they have good ale there.”

“Bwlech!” Rosheen mimed a gag. Padric sat back against a large fallen tree limb, chewing absently. Rosheen let the silence go on as long as she was able. “They usually drink mead.”

“Who?” he asked, barely coming out of his trance.

“Dwarves.” She made a face that suggested she found the word more disgusting then the prospect of drinking ale.

Padric shrugged. “Fafnir is well-traveled. This is not the first time he has traded in Airlann, I know. And by what I could gather, he has been all across the Tin Isles. Albain. Sasana. Maybe even beyond to Outborders.”

Rosheen scoffed hard through her nose. Tin Isles. Metal-minded dwarves. She looked at Padric and saw he was casually tossing hazelnut shells into the fire, deep in his own head. Again. Probably thinking of dark, dangerous places, wishing he was traveling through them. Or wondering if he has the courage to do so? Rosheen had feared Padric would turn back and go home during their first night in the wild, but he surprised her with his determination to rejoin the dwarf. His long, inward silences were still prevalent, but they seemed more contemplative and purposeful. He was thinking through to solutions instead of swimming through the murkiness of self-doubt and private fears. He was even asking for her help in good faith, which was a rare and treasured pleasure. She knew he was annoyed when she flew around the bend in the trail and joined him that first night. He wanted to do this alone, as if that gave the endeavor more importance. Still, he did not run her off or make much of a fuss at all. He simply fixed her with his hard eyes for a long moment, then nodded his head toward the trail and pressed on. Maybe he was truly growing wiser, as humans seemed to do so suddenly in their short lives.

“What will you do if you do not find him in Hog’s Wallow?” she asked. In truth, she did not much care, but she wanted something to talk about. The night was too young for silence.

Padric stood and placed more twigs in the fire. He has no answer. “There is a human warlord from Sasana. Kederic Winetongue, they call him. He resides close to the village and has men in need of steel weapons. Fafnir will likely go there next.”

“And if he is not there?”

“Someone will have seen him.”

“And if they have not?”

“Rosheen!” Padric’s voice snapped against the trees.

Too far. She went back to playing with her braids.