She caught Hanne’s eye, and Hanne said, “Mila, will you fetch us some ribbons to braid and some ash? We will make you a token to wear on the hunt, Prince Rasmus. A Grimjer wolf for one who is made for war, but chooses not to wage it.”
“What an odd sentimental thing you are,” Rasmus said, but he made no protest.
Nina rose and crossed slowly to the table of ribbons and ash boughs, making sure Agathe saw her.
“I wish to make a token,” she heard the queen say, then, “No, I’ll select the materials myself.”
A moment later Queen Agathe was beside her.
“My son grows stronger every day,” she whispered.
“Such is the will of Djel,” said Nina. “For now.”
The queen’s hand stilled over a spool of red ribbon. “For now?”
“The Wellspring does not like this talk of war.”
“What do you mean? Djel is a warrior. Like the water, he conquers all in his path.”
“Have you said your prayers?”
“Every day!” the queen cried, her voice rising dangerously. She caught herself. “Every night,” she whispered. “I have worn my dresses bare, kneeling on the floor of the chapel.”
“You pray to Djel,” Nina said.
“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.