THE QUEEN OF THE OWLS

There once was a king with four daughters, each resourceful and clever and ambitious, and their father was as fond and proud of them as if they had been sons. Over the years, suitors came before the court to plead their case to wed the four princesses, and the king, trusting his daughters’ wisdom, allowed each to choose the suitor she liked best. In time, the eldest princess gave her hand to the bold King of the Falcons, the second eldest chose the shrewd King of the Eagles, and the third eldest married the daring King of the Ravens. The king, proud of their choices, waited for the youngest princess to select her spouse, but year after year passed, and no suitor won her favor.

At last, the youngest princess came to the king and said, “Father, I am lonely here without my sisters. Let me go out into the world and visit them, and perhaps I shall find a suitor on my travels that pleases me better than those who have yet come before me.”

The king gave his consent, and the princess made ready and set out toward the lands ruled by the King of the Falcons.

On the way, she came across a vast open field where the grass was trampled and stained with blood. The broken bodies of soldiers littered the field, their armor crushed, their weapons lying beside them where they had fallen. The bold-hearted princess was alarmed but not frightened, and when she saw a cluster of white tents pitched at the northern end of the field, she made for it, holding her knife close.

As she approached, the flap of the largest white tent opened, and out stepped a beautiful queen in silver armor, a saber at her side. Pure white wings stretched from her shoulders, finer and more lovely than the drab black and brown feathers that had adorned the wings of the elder sisters’ suitors.

“Who are you?” asked the princess.

The queen smiled and stepped forward, her bare saber catching the sunlight. “I am the Queen of the Owls,” she said. “My army and I are resting here after defending our land from a band of rebels, who broke their word to their queen and betrayed us. We have reinstated order and shall depart for home tomorrow. And you? Are you here by your own will, or does someone compel you to seek me out?”

“I am royal in my own right,” she replied, “and no one but my own heart compels me to you.”

The response pleased the Queen of the Owls, who invited the princess into her tent. They lay together that night with great tenderness, and in the morning they were married there on the field of battle, the grass still discolored with the blood of those who had defied their queen.

Soon, the Queen of the Owls brought the princess back to her palace, and they lived together peacefully and happily for many months. But as the seasons turned, discontent broke out in the east of the kingdom, and the Queen of the Owls prepared to depart and make war again. The day her army was to set out, she took the princess into her arms and bid her farewell.

“I will return as fast as I am able,” she said, “but while I am gone, this palace is yours as much as it is mine. Rule in my place, and tend to the kingdom’s affairs as you see fit. Only do not open the locked birch cabinet in my private rooms, for it is essential that you never see what lies inside.”

The princess agreed and kissed the Queen of the Owls, who departed that evening at the head of a glorious army, her saber flashing in the setting sun.

For some weeks, the princess did as she was told. Still, thoughts of the locked birch cabinet never left her. Each time she passed it, her curiosity grew, until one day she took the Queen of the Owls’ great chatelaine and fitted the key into the lock.

Within, she found herself face-to-face with an impossibly old man, dressed in rags and bound hand, foot, neck, and waist by twelve strong golden chains. The man’s skin was taut and dry as a drumhead, and the princess could see the angles of his bones beneath.

“Take pity on me, sister, and give me a drink,” said the man.

The princess’s heart ached in sympathy for the old man, and she swiftly returned with a wooden cup, which she held to his mouth.

He swallowed its contents without pausing for breath and begged again with his tight cracked lips, “Take pity on me, sister, and give me a drink.”

She did as she was told, and once again the old man drained the cup and begged for another. After he had drunk a third time, he flexed his arms and legs, and the strong golden chains shattered into uncountable pieces. The princess drew back, but the old man had already caught her wrist with his strong, ancient hand.

“My thanks, sister,” he said, “for your foolishness and curiosity have unleashed Koshchei the Deathless, as your wife knew you would, and now you will never see her or your sisters again.”

And he soared through the window in a terrible whirlwind, holding tight to the princess’s wrist, and carried her off to his palace, where she still sits today, imprisoned in a tower, waiting for the moment when she might seize some advantage and escape. And as she sits alone, she asks herself why—not why the Queen of the Owls had set her such a test, but why she was cruel enough to condemn her with a kiss.