“Of course.”
Nina took a leap, a leap that might end with her body broken from the fall. Or her vision might take flight. “But what of his children?” she murmured, and, arms full of ribbons and ash, she hurried back to Hanne and the prince.
A horn sounded: the call to the hunt. Rasmus rose, pulling on his gloves. “You’ll have no time to make me a token,” he said. “The riders are ready.”
“Then we can only wish you good fortune,” said Nina as she and Hanne both curtsied.
Rasmus and Joran headed out of the tent, and Nina and Hanne followed to see them off. But before they’d reached the group of riders, the queen’s voice rang out. “I would have you with me to watch the hunt, Rasmus.”
She stood at the dais that had been erected for that purpose. Her younger son was there, along with her ladies-in-waiting.
A hush fell in the camp. Someone snickered. Brum and Redvin were with the riders. Nina could see the contempt on both of their faces.
“Yes,” tittered someone under her breath. “Go sit with the children and the women.”
Did the queen understand the insult she was dealing her son? No, thought Nina guiltily, she’s too afraid for him. Probably because Nina had reminded her of her son’s mortality.
Rasmus stood rooted to the spot, unable to deny the queen but knowing the blow his reputation would take.
“Your safety is our highest priority,” said Brum, a smile playing over his lips.
Rasmus was trapped. He executed a short, sharp bow. “Of course. I’ll join you momentarily, Mother.”
He strode to one of the smaller tents with Joran in tow. Hesitantly, Hanne and Nina followed.
The tent was full of saddles and crops and other tack, the smell of leather sweet in the air. Rasmus stood with his back to them.
“It seems I had no reason to put my riding clothes on today,” he said without looking at them. “I could have worn silk and lace like the ladies.”
“We could return to the palace,” suggested Hanne.
“No, we could not. My mother has requested my presence and she will have it. Besides, I can’t be seen running off. Do you still think I will be the one to choose Fjerda’s path?”
“It’s only love that makes her act so,” said Hanne. “She’s afraid—”
“Hanne feels sorry for me.” Prince Rasmus turned. “You do too, don’t you, Mila? But Joran doesn’t. Joran doesn’t feel anything. Let’s test it. Come here, Joran.”
“Is anyone hungry?” Hanne said nervously. “Perhaps we could call for food.”
“I could eat,” Nina said.
Joran didn’t look nervous as he approached the prince. If there was any expression on his studiously blank face, it was resignation. Whatever this is, it’s happened before, Nina realized.
“Do you feel anything, Joran?” asked the prince.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Like what?”
“Pride,” said Joran. “Regret.”
“Pain?”
“Of course.”
“But you don’t show it.”
Before the guard could answer, the prince lifted a crop and smacked Joran hard across the face, the sound like a branch snapping on a cold morning.
Shock reverberated through Nina as if the blow had struck her own cheek.
Hanne lunged forward. “Your Highness!”
But the prince ignored her. His gaze was fixed on Joran as if the young guard was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. He hauled back the crop.
“Don’t!” cried Nina.
The prince struck Joran again.
Joran didn’t flinch, but Nina could see two angry red welts on the guard’s cheek.
“Does it hurt?” the prince asked. His voice was eager, like someone watching a friend swallow a spoonful of custard and asking, Is it good?
Joran held the prince’s gaze. “It does.”
The prince held out the crop. “Hit me, Joran.”
Joran did nothing. He wouldn’t fight back, wouldn’t stop the prince, because it was his sacred duty to serve Rasmus, because to strike a prince was a death sentence. Rasmus had been snide, petulant, even spiteful—but this was something deep and ugly. It was Fjerda’s poison in his veins.
The crop made a whoosh as it cut through the air again, then smacked against Joran’s cheek.
“Go get your father,” Nina whispered to Hanne. “Hurry.”
Hanne bolted from the tent, but Rasmus didn’t seem to notice.
“Hit me,” the prince demanded. He giggled, a bright, happy sound. “He wants to, my god how he wants to. Now Joran feels something. He feels rage. Don’t you, Joran?”
“No, Your Highness.”
But there was anger in Joran’s eyes; shame too. Prince Rasmus had made the exchange. He’d traded his humiliation for Joran’s. The guard’s cheek was bleeding.
Was this who the crown prince really was? She had thought he was a sickly boy with a good heart. Curse all the Saints, maybe she’d wanted to believe he was like Matthias. Another boy brutalized by Fjerda’s traditions and Brum’s hate. But Matthias had never been cruel. Nothing had been able to corrupt the honor in his mighty heart.
“Brum is coming,” Nina said, her voice low. She couldn’t afford to compromise her cover, but she couldn’t let this go on. “You will not want him to find you with a crop in your hand.”
Rasmus’ glance was speculative, as if he was wondering what might happen if Brum confronted him. Joran was Brum’s drüskelle. But Rasmus was a prince.
Then it was as if a spell had broken. He shrugged and tossed the crop aside. “I’m going to join my mother. Clean yourself up,” he told Joran.
He strode past Nina as if nothing had happened. “Tell Hanne I expect to see her at the ball later.”
“Joran,” Nina began when the prince had gone.
He had taken out a handkerchief and pressed it to his cheek. “Don’t let Commander Brum see me this way,” he said.
“But—”
“It will only make trouble for the commander. For everyone. I’ll be fine. Please.”
He remained composed, a soldier, but his blue eyes were pleading.
“All right,” she said.
She turned her back on him and left the tent, scanning the crowd. She caught sight of Hanne speaking to Brum.
Nina hurried to her side and heard Brum say, “You must tell me what has upset you. I’m needed at—”
“Papa, please, if you would just come with me.”
“It’s fine,” said Nina, smiling. “All is well.” Both Hanne and Brum looked baffled. “I … I was feeling poorly, but now I’m right as rain.”
“Is that all?” asked Brum.
“Yes, and I…” This wasn’t the approach she’d intended to make, but there was nothing to do but forge ahead. “I had hoped you might bring your wolves out for the hunt?”
“The isenulf? They’re not made for such silly pursuits. Perhaps if we were hunting fox.”
The man really couldn’t resist a jab at the Ravkan king.
“Oh, Papa,” said Hanne. “Mila is so disappointed, and it’s so much colder out here than we expected. Can’t you have one of your soldiers take us back to the kennels?”