The Great Feast had begun. From the far end of the table, Malin Tamm watched her father, King Borys of Direwood, rip into a leg of roast pheasant. The juices dribbled down his chin and vanished into his beard. Servants scrambled up and down the table, working to keep plates full and goblets overflowing with the sweetest brandywine.
Raucous laughter drowned out all other sounds of feasting in the great hall. High color blossomed on the faces of the king, his advisors, and the myriad hunting companions populating the seats.
Malin had missed the joke. Her mother, Queen Elmyra, flushed, faintly embarrassed, and dabbed the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin.
“What time does the Hunt begin?” Malin was two months shy of her thirteenth year and eager to join the conversation amongst the king and his familiars.
To her right sat her grandfather, the Grand Duke Cyzar. His mouth twitched in a sympathetic grin. If he was taken aback by her boldness, so much the better. She loved him dearly, but she shouldn’t need permission to speak if she had a question to ask.
“Well, sire, aren’t you going to answer the girl?” a nobleman challenged her father.
King Borys pounded the table with a fist, silencing their merriment. His crown threatened to slide over one ear. “No, I am not,” he said, adjusting his crown. “The Hunt is no place for a young lady’s presence. Quiet, Malin.”
Malin stared down at the half-finished food on her plate. After her father’s remonstrance, the overly salted pheasant with its thick, greasy gravy sat heavy in her stomach.
The king shook his head, glaring at her a moment longer, then lifted his hands to address his friends and companions. “What manner of wager shall we make this year?”
“I vote for the fattest boar to win it all!” said a sharp-nosed duke.
“Forget the boar,” an officer of the treasury countered, thrusting a spinning finger into the air. “Only the biggest game for our king!”
“Hear, hear!”
Shouts erupted around the table as guests proffered their opinions.
One voice rose above them all, and as the rest of the gathering caught on, the chant worked its way around the table. “The biggest game of all! The mighty Forest King!”
King Borys held up his hand and a hush descended over the room. “The largest buck this side of the Misty Peaks? The one with a rack the size of a tree?” He spread his arms wide.
“Aye!”
“That’s the one!”
“Why, even Zogorst the Magnificent, my second-great grandsire and the best archer Direwood has ever known, couldn’t fell the beast,” Borys said.
“Exactly, my lord! A fitting target for this year’s Hunt.”
Wagers flew back and forth along with repeated gulps of brandywine. A figure the size of a king’s ransom was decided upon.
Malin went rigid in her seat. Ordinarily she didn’t care what boar or elk the men decided to kill each year at the Hunt. She whittled away the hours they were gone from the castle reading books in the library with the Grand Duke until the celebratory feast afterward.
The Forest King was different.
He was a legend. The oldest, wisest deer in the Goldenvale Woods was not the quarry her father and his men should have chosen.
The Forest King was magical, older than Time itself. He was responsible for all the magic that existed in the woodland. Without him, the trees would wither and die, the streambeds would dry up and turn to dust, and the flowers and birds would perish. Goldenvale would be no more.
She snuck her grandfather a worried glance.
He glowered down at his plate, arms crossed over his chest, his ruffled eyebrows drawn together. The Grand Duke was a quiet, peaceable man, unlike his son. Borys had inherited all of his father’s intelligence and sharp wit, but none of his gentleness, compassion, and discernment.
“Grandfather,” Malin whispered. “They cannot kill the Forest King.”
“I know, my child.”
Coming from her grandfather, Malin didn’t mind the term of endearment. It spoke of his love for her as much as the warmth of his arms when he hugged her tight. The Grand Duke was a firm believer in the legends he had taught her. While the royal family laughed him off as a bit dotty, Malin loved him all the more for his conviction.
He was the best man she knew.
If he wasn’t prepared to dissent, she would. She pushed back her chair and threw her napkin over her plate. “You cannot hunt the Forest King,” she said. Her heart thrummed and warmth crept across her cheeks. As every eye drifted her way, a tingle spread through her fingertips. “Choose any other quarry, but not him, I beg you.”
Silence drifted through the hall for a moment before howls of laughter and loud guffaws split the air.
“The lass presumes to tell us what to hunt!”
“It’s just a deer, Malin! Same as any other!”
“Crazy as Cyzar, she is!”
“Just a child, believing in her grandfather’s fairy tales!”
Queen Elmyra gave her a withering look. In her mother’s mind, an advantageous marriage was the only way to gain the respect of her father’s court, but Malin cared more about wandering through Goldenvale than engaging the train of suitors that paraded through the palace each month.
Tears of desperation welled up in Malin’s eyes but she refused to cry in front of these men. Fists clenched, she buttoned up her pride and held her silence lest she break down. A moment later, she fled the feasting hall.
#
After a night of restless sleep, Malin awoke. Outside the lead-paned window, early morning fog drifted above the earth. She pushed herself up in bed and listened for the sound of servants in the hallway.
A hush lingered over the household.
With the sun not yet risen, the men had not assembled for the Hunt.
Malin scrambled out of bed, the wooden floor cold against her feet. If she hurried, she could make it to Goldenvale in time to warn the Forest King. He did not deserve to be hunted down by her father and his men, not when there was plenty of other game in the forest.
She threw off her nightgown and shimmied into a pair of warm trousers. Several more thick layers would stave off the cold. She quickly braided her hair, leaning against the bed as she stuffed one foot into a boot, then the other.
The sheets tore off the bed easily. Malin strung them together, pushing herself to work faster to tighten down the knots. At last she was ready to test the makeshift rope. She secured it to a bedpost and pulled on it using all her strength.
The knots held firm.
Malin lowered herself out the window, rappelling off the castle wall and holding onto the twisted sheets so tightly her fingers burned. Seven feet above ground, she ran out of rope. Heart pounding in her ears, she gritted her teeth and forced herself to take a deep breath.
She let go and landed with a thud in a thicket of pine needles. Her ankle twisted painfully beneath her. Malin yelped in pain. Covering her mouth, she winced and bit back tears. She hobbled to her feet and limped toward the treeline.
The fog was so thick, she couldn’t keep track of her surroundings, let alone spot the Forest King. She traveled deep into Goldenvale, favoring her sore ankle until the throbbing became unbearable.
Twenty minutes later, Malin collapsed onto a rock and used her cotton shirt to bind her ankle. When she glanced around, her heart fluttered. She couldn’t remember the direction she had come from. In the thick fog, all the trees appeared the same, towering oaks and maples, their leaves heavy with dew, the bark pungent with the smell of dampness and sap.
“Help!” she cried, unsure what she expected to happen. “I need to speak with the Forest King, before it’s too late.”
She’d believed her grandfather when he told her the stories were true. Yet where was the Forest King when she needed him most, and when he needed her?
Her warning could not wait.
Had she been foolish to believe he would approach her, King Borys’ daughter? Most humans had long ago ceased believing in the magic the Forest King bestowed on the woodlands.
“Please,” she whispered. Tears watered the fingers she held clenched in her lap. “It’s important. I don’t want him to die.”
The fog rippled around her. A warm, flower-laden breeze created a clearing among the trees and infused the space with a soft, ethereal light. Delicate blossoms unfurled along the branches and yellow butterflies silently winged among the flowers, sipping their nectar.
Bluebirds tweeted overhead, and hooves trod softly among the leaves.
Malin lifted her gaze. Before her stood the most magnificent deer she had ever seen. His towering rack of antlers grew like tree trunks out of his head and housed garlands of grapevines and fruits of every variety. The lush foliage provided shelter for birds to nest, and flowers for bees and butterflies to feed from.
Malin trembled, awed by his majesty. He was regal, and yet, as she stared into his eyes, she saw nothing but humility and love reflected there.
“Malin Tamm,” he said, though his velvet mouth never moved. “Why do you seek me?” His form of communication resonated deeper than words. When the Forest King spoke, she felt known, assured not only of his presence in the forest, but also his awareness of her.
The real her. The princess who believed in magic.
She didn’t need to name him; her heart was full of the knowledge of him already. A pale blue butterfly fluttered around her head and drifted to a gentle landing on her shoulder.
“I came to warn you,” she said. “The king of Direwood and his men have placed a wager on your head. It is the day of the Hunt.”
The birds ceased singing and the butterflies hesitated in their flight. The Forest King remained strong and majestic before her, utterly calm. Wasn’t he afraid? She would have expected him to gather the other creatures of the forest around him, the yearling fawns grazing by his side, the foxes and the wolves, and flee to safety.
He remained silent, though she grew aware of the attention he placed on her boot, the pain radiating from her joint through the bandage. “You are hurt,” he said. “Your ankle needs healing.”
“Never mind my ankle. My father and his men won’t rest until they find you. They will hunt you and kill you; I cannot bear to see that happen.”
“The hand of man will never be powerful enough to destroy the magic of my forest, Malin. You have no reason to be afraid.”
“But you’re wrong!” she cried. “They have arrows and razor-sharp wits. They hunt every year, and every year the wager gets higher. Their greed is monstrous, each fighting to outdo the other and win the prize. Please, we must flee deeper into the forest.”
“What do you think would happen then?” the Forest King said. “If man has decided to hunt me, there is no place safe for me to go. They will search the forest until they find me.”
“We could hide until the Hunt is over. There must be a cave, or a mountain pass they cannot cross.” Malin’s desperation reached a peak; she stood, her fingers woven together in a plea.
The Forest King lifted his head and emitted a long, low bellow: a cry that simultaneously wrenched her heart and sent a shiver along her spine. The fear within her was silenced. The Forest King was no dumb beast, to be ordered about by a young girl, even one as worried and heartsick as her.
“You mustn’t be afraid, dear one,” he said. “There is magic at work in Goldenvale deeper even than what you imagine.”
Malin hardly knew what he meant. What magic could be deeper than the kind the Forest King brought to the woods every season? The shimmering white snowflakes swirling in the winter winds, the flowers after the spring rains, the baby birds in their nests, the fruits weighing down the branches of the trees?
“I don’t want to go back to the castle,” she said. “I want to stay here with you.”
The Forest King bestowed on her a look of such kindness, Malin’s knees grew weak. “You are not meant to remain in the forest anymore than I am meant to bed down in a castle. Your place is with your kind.”
“But they don’t believe in magic.”
“Perhaps you can change that.”
“How? They think I’m crazy, Grandfather and me both.”
The Forest King moved forward and stopped next to her. His back reached her shoulders and she breathed in his faint musky odor, a strong, wild smell. Her nostrils flared, filling her with courage.
“Climb on,” he said, and Malin did. She dug into his sides with her knees in an effort to stay balanced in her seat, pitching forward against his neck as he leapt over fallen logs and across stone-filled creek beds.
Despite the raw ache in her ankle, her heart soared. Malin had never experienced such strength alongside such gentleness. The Forest King’s magic extended beyond the force of his muscular strides; it was a regenerative power, instilling in her a sense of her own worthiness, and her place with him in the forest.
The longer he ran, the more creatures joined his retinue. Soon they were surrounded by a multitude of other deer, as well as foxes, wolves, rabbits, squirrels, and birds, all content to accompany their King on his new mission: to deliver the princess safely back to the castle.
When they drew closer to the edge of the forest, arrows whizzed overhead. Malin clutched the base of the Forest King’s antlers and pushed her face against his head. “The hunters have spotted us. Please, we must turn back! If a stray arrow hits us in this fog, we will die.”
The Forest King ran on, heedless of her warning. Didn’t he understand her wish to be with him in Goldenvale, amidst the beauty and the perfection he created wherever he placed his foot, and not among the monsters who hunted him down like a wild animal, to be killed for nothing more than the prize of a paltry wager and his beautiful antlers?
Another arrow zinged past and, underneath her, the Forest King’s legs buckled. He skidded and fell onto his side, throwing Malin from her seat. Blood gushed from the middle of his chest, where one of her father’s red-fletched arrows had pierced.
Malin screamed.
Around them, the forest grew darker, the trees bowed over, the leaves crumpled and dried. Colorful butterflies floated to the ground, lifeless, and the blossoms lining the branches grew sickly, disintegrated, and disappeared.
The Forest King groaned, the most profound expression of sadness Malin had ever heard. The great rack of his antlers pitched to one side, the lush fruits and flowers clinging to the magnificent structure withering and turning an ashen gray as the Forest King’s breathing became more and more labored. Blood trickled from his mouth and formed a puddle at her feet.
“No,” she whimpered, fist pressed to her mouth.
The hunters emerged from the mists, her father at the head. At the sight of Malin, he gestured to his men to halt.
“Look at what you’ve done,” she cried. “Did you not see the beauty of the forest before you shot him? How could you?” The salt of her tears met her tongue and a sorrowful gasp heaved through her chest, robbing her of her next breath.
“Malin? Child, you should not have come,” King Borys said. “Let me put the creature out of his misery.” He drew his bow and took aim at the Forest King.
His hunting companions glared at her, their eyes stone cold in the chill morning air.
Malin pushed herself up to stand, clutching the arm she had fallen on. Though she could barely speak through the fresh spasms of pain racking her body, she inched forward, placing herself between the Forest King and her father.
Hot tears dried on her face, sticky with mud, but she drew herself up tall.
“I will not stand down,” she growled.
The creatures surrounding the Forest King shrank into the shadows of the trees, fearful of what the hunters would do next.
King Borys adjusted his aim. “Malin, move! That’s an order! You shall not disobey me!”
Malin thrust her hands out to either side. “I will not let you destroy the magic of the forest. You’ll have to take me first.”
As the Forest King’s breath weakened, the mists around them thickened, obscuring them from the hunters’ view. Malin clung to the courage she’d felt with the Forest King, galloping through the forest that had nurtured her since she was old enough to walk. Perhaps there was a shred of magic left that she could save. If it was there, it was worth dying for.
“This is the last time I will say it, daughter. Move!” Borys bellowed through the gathering mist.
Malin stood, defiant.
One of the hunters closest to her father tugged on his elbow and whispered in his ear. Her father scowled, tightening his grip on the bowstring.
“For the love of God, Borys,” the officer of the treasury said. “Shooting again isn’t worth it in these mists. Lower your weapon.”
This angered the king. “The beast is mine!” he roared, unleashing his arrow.
The arrow whistled through the air and hit Malin in the leg. With a gasp, she fell to the earth, clutching her thigh. Blood dripped through her fingers. A spasm of pain flashed through her body, darkening her vision.
Her father’s watery frown melted into dismay, then shock. He threw down his bow and ran to her, scuffing his knees in the dirt as he fell to her side. Gently, he cradled her head in his palm. Malin groaned, the king’s face a blur hovering before her.
Tears slid down his cheeks. “Malin, what were you thinking? Why didn’t you move? Do you honestly believe in magic? Or do you simply object to me killing the greatest buck in the forest?”
Malin drew a ragged breath. This moment, now, was her battlefield. “I believe,” she said. “I have always believed in the magic of Goldenvale.”
One by one, the forest creatures emerged from the trees.
Beneath her, the Forest King rustled. The blood soaking through her trousers might have been his as much as hers. Slowly, the Forest King balanced on his front knees. Neck lowered, he bit down on the shaft of the vile arrow embedded in his flesh and yanked it out.
At his touch, the arrow turned to golden dust and wafted to the ground.
A low murmur spread among the animals, rising to a crescendo of barks, yips, chirps, and other noises of creaturely excitement.
Still crouched on his knees, the great beast inched forward and in a similar manner, removed the arrow from Malin’s leg.
Malin examined her bloodied fingers, shimmering with gold when they should have been sticky and red.
“What…?” King Borys whispered, touching her leg where the wound he’d inflicted had healed. At a gasp from the hunters, he cast his glance toward them.
Faces white, mouths quivering, they stared past his shoulder. A deep tremor shook the ground, as of a great weight being lifted.
Malin and her father turned their gazes.
The Forest King stood, in all his glory, against the backdrop of Goldenvale, bathed in rich, golden light. The majesty of his glorious antlers had been restored in full, the lush grapevines bursting with new fruit. Butterflies flitted from branch to branch among forest trees coated more heavily in sweetly-scented flowers than they had been in any springtime Malin could remember.
The animals surrounded him, frolicking with joy at his resurrection.
“He is magic,” King Borys muttered.
“They’re true, then. The legends of old,” his men said, disbelief and awe writ large across their faces.
The Forest King inclined his head first toward Malin and her father, then toward the hunters, before turning back into the woods and disappearing into the light.
