10
The fire crackled merrily in the corner of the clearing.
Neil stood beside the barrel, doling out ale to anyone brave enough to withstand his withering glare. He hadn’t brought a pot of stew or a basket of bread from the cook tent. I suspected that was how you could tell what sort of a mood Neil was in. If he brought food, he was vaguely unhappy. If he didn’t bring food, he was miserable and wanted all of us to be miserable with him.
Of course, I had no way of proving I was right, since Neil glowered no matter the occasion.
Two fiddle players had brought their instruments to the clearing. They took turns playing and drinking, so a cheerful tune always filled the air.
Did they play the night they found out Roland had died?
Probably.
I watched the shadows shift as people drifted in
