“Enke Jandersdat,” the gardener said when he caught sight of her. “I have that distillation of roses you asked for.”

“How kind you are!” Nina exclaimed, taking the tiny bottle from him, along with a second, smaller vial tucked behind it. She slid both into her pocket.

The gardener smiled and returned to trimming the hedges, a tattoo of a thorn-wood tree barely visible on his left wrist, a secret emblem of Sankt Feliks.

A groom was waiting outside the ringwall with two horses. Nina and Hanne were both uncomfortable riding sidesaddle, but Hanne was too good an athlete to be thwarted. Besides, they weren’t really meant to ride, just journey out to the royal camp to join Prince Rasmus and Joran in the tents erected for the hunt.

The main tent was as big as a cathedral, draped with silks and heated by coals placed in silver braziers hung from tripods. Food and drink had been laid out on long tables at one side, and on the other, noblemen chatted in comfortable chairs heaped with skins and blankets.

The prince was dressed to ride in breeches and boots, his blue velvet coat lined with fur.

“You’ll join the hunt today, Your Majesty?” Hanne asked as they sat on low benches near the smoldering coals.

“I will,” said Rasmus eagerly. “I’m not much of a shot, but I’ll manage. This is the only event of Heartwood that everyone enjoys.”

“I doubt the stag is fond of it,” said Hanne.

“You don’t like seeing your men go off to slay wild beasts?”

“Not for sport.”

“We must take our enjoyment while we can. Soon we’ll be at war, and we’ll have nothing for entertainment but the killing of Ravkans.”

Hanne met Nina’s glance and asked, “Aren’t we still in talks with Ravka?”

“Your father isn’t much for talking. If he had his way, I think we’d be at war forever.”

“Surely not forever,” said Nina.

“What good is a military commander without a war to fight?”

Rasmus was no fool.

“But it’s not up to Jarl Brum to choose for Fjerda,” Nina said. “That is the role of the king. That choice is for you.”

Rasmus was quiet as he looked at the horses gathering beyond the entry of the tent.

“What would you choose?” Hanne asked softly.

The prince’s smile was more like a grimace. “Men like me aren’t suited to war.”

But that wasn’t entirely true. Not anymore. Rasmus would never be tall among Fjerdans, but now that he stood straight, he could look Hanne directly in the eye. He’d lost the grim pallor that had made him resemble a corpse left out in the cold, and he was sturdy if not strong.

“There is more to life than war,” offered Nina.

“Not in the Grimjer line. The Fjerdan throne belongs to those strong enough to seize it and keep it. And there’s no denying the Grisha are a menace and always will be until their kind are eradicated.”

“And what of the people who think the Grisha are Saints?” Joran asked, his face troubled. Nina was surprised. The bodyguard rarely joined their conversations.

Prince Rasmus waved his hand. “A passing fad. A few radicals.”

We’ll see about that. There was poison at the heart of Fjerda. Nina was going to change its chemistry.

She spotted Queen Agathe holding court at the far side of the tent. There was no way Nina would be allowed close enough to speak to her, but she didn’t think she would have to be the one to make the approach.

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.