Page 15 of Enamored
Maxim
Rasmus made me stand outside his door one hour for each of the minutes I was late. By the time he issued his command to come into his study, four hours had elapsed.
The room was as dark and smoky as it had been before, the shutters always closed to keep out the light of day. Rasmus sat at his desk where I’d left him.
Did he ever sleep? If so, when?
I’d wondered the same thing as a boy and had never been able to discover anything about his personal habits. I’d concluded he had none.
He made me stand for five minutes before acknowledging my presence. “Well?”
“There is no excuse for tardiness. But I hope you will take consolation in knowing I was late because I encountered Princess Elinor, and I did as you requested. I interacted with her warmly.”
I stood next to his writing desk and felt a strange unraveling inside. I’d spent years with the help of my mentors along with my manservant, Dag, weaving strong threads through the fibers of my being and working out all the weak ones left behind from Rasmus stretching them thin.
Would I now be undone by a few simple confrontations with him?
I closed my eyes briefly. Exhaustion was weakening me. I had no doubt that was Rasmus’s intent—to lower my defenses even further, to make me susceptible to his manipulation, to stain me with his influence.
No, I couldn’t let that happen. I had to stay strong and prevent him from twisting and knotting everything inside me.
Rasmus flicked a glance my way, as though warning me not to resist his efforts. “I would hardly call your interaction in the stairwell with the princess a worthwhile effort. Surely you have more charm and wit than what you used?”
Did Rasmus have spies everywhere? How could I forget his intrusiveness and how he made it his goal to be all-knowing? At the very least, he was making sure I was aware he was keeping a close watch over my efforts to enamor Elinor.
“It was but a chance meeting. I shall do better next time.”
“You must. Your task is to keep her from gaining feelings for Torvald or any of the others.”
This, then, was his purpose for me and why he’d wanted me to return earlier in the week. So that he might have more time to prevent the princess from falling in love with one of the noblemen. But why? As one of the seven Royal Sages, he’d played a significant role in picking the men for the courtship. Why did he not want the princess to marry any of them? Surely he’d placed his favorite among the dozen, someone he would support, someone he wanted to be king.
Rasmus tapped the red cedar box that still sat on his writing table where he’d left it. “I trust after diligent studying, you are now able to read the engraving on the Sword of the Magi?”
“‘For a worthy King.’” The Christ child was indeed a worthy King. But I suspected the engraving held multiple meanings, as many symbols and prophecies did.
“I have studied the writings of the eastern magi extensively.” Rasmus nodded at several more scrolls on the floor beside his writing table. “Tell me any other details you know of the prophecy regarding the sword.”
I’d already quoted to Rasmus everything I knew about the Sword of the Magi, but I mentally flipped through the pages of my mind, searching for an obscure fact about the sword I hadn’t yet spoken. “The sword has only been used once by a Norvegian king, Stefan the Worthy.”
“Yes, King Ulrik’s great-great-grandfather, the first of the house of Oldenberg.”
I didn’t know Rasmus’s destination with the discussion, but he never spoke idly.
He shifted his ocular lens to the middle of the parchment on his desk, more of the ancient cuneiform writing that matched what was on the sword. Was he highlighting it and expecting me to read it? To prove I had indeed learned the entirety of the language and not just enough to read what was on the sword?
I centered on the writing and rapidly read the section under the ocular lens. “‘When the sword is secured, only the man worthy to be king will be able to pull it free.’”
Rasmus said nothing.
I studied the long cedar case on the writing table. Did the cryptic words mean the sword was somehow permanently affixed to the case and unable to be taken out except by a man worthy to be king?
“What makes a man worthy?” I asked, not caring any longer if I showed my ignorance.
“The sword decides upon the worthiest, breaking free for the man of its choosing.”
“And that’s what happened with King Stefan long ago?”
“When he touched the sword, it came loose in his grip. In doing so, no one could contest his right to the throne.”
