Page 80 of Rule of Wolves

“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.