Page 2 of Prince of the Northwest Forest
Everyone expects cute forest animals to be cuddly and adorable, like their cartoon depictions inSnow White. They aren’t. They’re a bunch of degenerates. At least, a lot of them are. And those ones all tend to confide in me.
“Well, you should be happy the way you are,” Roy says cheerfully. “You’d miss it if you couldn’t talk with everyone.”
I crouch to pat his head and scratch behind his ears. “I suppose. I’ll stop complaining.” I straighten up, and my hood slips forward again to cover most of my face, exactly how I like it. I don’t need to be reminded of how I failed—not that I can remember all the details. Still, I’m doubly aware of my defeat, since my parents now insist on security accompanying me, even within our territory.
While I didn’t ask for a play-by-play of Roy’s sexual conquests, it’s my own fault that I was available to lend an ear. Taking advantage of a rare cloudless day, I’d escaped the castle after an early dinner to go out hiking. Sometimes royal duty is just too oppressive.
Especially when there’s going to be a wedding in a few short weeks.
We continue along the unpaved trail beside the Dorricott River, the water silver in the evening sun. People gather on the bank to dip their feet in the cold eddies and lazy straightaways. A group of deer graze in a meadow on the other side. When I spy some wild mint growing, I pluck a leaf and pop it into my mouth. Yum.
Roy opens his mouth to say something … more sex, surely … but another subject—Orla, a young human girl about seven or eight years old—skips over to us from the inn, an earnest look on her face. Martin, my security Roosevelt elk, and Hazel raise their heads and straighten their postures. I almost kick them. “Sheesh, guys,” I mutter, “She’s just a kid. You know her. She’s no threat.”
“We can’t be too careful,” Hazel insists, but she and Martin relax when the girl follows royal protocol and bows.
Before I reply to Hazel, Orla says, “Hello, Prince Kalle!” She’s lost a few front teeth, so “Prince” comes out with a slight lisp, but she pronounces my name correctly:Call-Eh.
I nod at her.
She sets her hands on her knees and peers down at Roy. “And what a cute bunny you have with you!”
I can’t help it. I snort and do my best to make it sound like a chuckle. If people only knew what assholes some of these woodland creatures are …
Roy sits still, letting her admire him. His little pink nose twitches a few times, and he blinks, his black-tufted ears pricked up. His coat is soft and fluffy, currently a rusty brown with white undertones, and he even has a few brown freckles on his face.
Such an asshole.
And he’s not a bunny. “He’s a snowshoe hare,” I correct.
“Sorry, Your Highness.” Orla shifts her weight, her skirts brushing the tops of her boots.
“Did you have something to say?” I ask.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
I sweep a hand out. “You may proceed.”
“I was sent by my daddy.” One of my parents’ assistants. “The king and queen want you to return to the castle at once. They said it was, um, urgent.”
My stomach sinks. Why didn’t the birds already inform me? I press my fist to my mouth and listen intently. No woodpeckers or jays are talking about palace business. That’s strange.
Unless my parents told them to keep it quiet.
A wave of foreboding rolls over me. I lift my chin, shaking off the sensation. “I will do so immediately.”
I thank Orla and say goodbye to her and to Roy, and my guards and I take off at a quick pace.
We go around a bend in the river, and Huckleberry Castle comes into view, about a half mile away. The stone-and-wood edifice blends into the granite mountains that are the backdrop to our realm, the Northwest Forest. As we get closer, more details become apparent. Intricate carvings made by local craftspeople, most in a swirling leaf pattern, frame thedoorways. A hammer-and-shield design is carved into the heavy wooden doors.
Hulking American black bears guard the entrances, and I nod to acknowledge their presence as I rush through with Hazel and Martin.
Live evergreen trees stand inside the grand entry hall, their branches extending through the roof to the sky. Stained-glass windows let in filtered light in jewel tones. Our feet pass over perfectly cut, smooth river stones that pave the floor.
When I burst into the throne room, my parents are not on their redwood thrones. They’re pacing. Neither of my brothers is present, either, although the royal advisors, both human and animal, are gathered to the side by the heavy velvet tapestries.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, stiffening and going still. I narrow my eyes. Which again tugs at my scar.
Thinking about my scar makes me grind my teeth.
