Chapter 4: Ribs

Joren came back from the practice yard walking too straight.

Hakon noticed it the moment he came through the door of the suite.

He had a tray of cold meat and cheese from the refectory balanced on one hand.

Joren set his sword rack in the corner, moving only from the elbows, and went toward the bathroom without a word.

"What's wrong with your side?" Hakon said.

"Nothing," Joren said.

"You're holding your arm in."

"I'm tired," Joren said.

"Hallgren."

"Eat your dinner, Your Highness."

Hakon put the tray down on the window seat and followed him.

The bathroom had a stone tub the size of a rowing boat and a mirror with a crack across one corner.

Joren stood in front of it with his coat open and his shirt half off.

The whole left side of his ribs had gone purple.

He met Hakon's eyes in the mirror.

"It's nothing," he said again.

"Who did it?"

"A sworn guard of House Wexel. He was good, and I was careless."

"Wexel," Hakon said. "The Duke's man, in the yard where my guard trains."

"It was a sparring bout," Joren said.

"Which cracked your rib."

"It's not cracked. Only bruised," Joren said.

"Take your shirt off."

"Highness..."

"Your Highness," Hakon said. "You can say it mockingly if you like. Take it off, and sit on the edge of the tub."

Joren did not move.

Hakon pushed up his own sleeves.

"You carried my clothes through the Rimewood this morning," Hakon said.

"You stood behind me through three lectures and never said a word about this."

"I'm the Crown Prince. I want to look at what has been done to my guard."

Joren's mouth twitched.

He took off the shirt.

It hurt him; Hakon saw the muscles flinch along his back.

He sat on the stone rim.

Hakon knelt in front of him with the tin of salve from the cupboard, a clean cloth and a basin of warm water.

He wrung out the cloth and laid it against the bruise, and Joren hissed.

"Easy," Joren said.

"It's warm. Hold still."

"It's not the warmth."

"Then what?" Hakon said.

"Your hands," Joren said.

Hakon's hands stopped.

He realized what he was doing, and where his fingers lay.

The broad flat of Joren's ribs was under his palm, and under that, the slow thud of a heart.

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