mountains, rivers, fertile plains, a wealth of precious minerals beneath the ground. In season the land produced barley, corn, and wheat. The orchards and vineyards flourished. The king was respected by his subjects; his soldiers ardently pledged their loyalty to him; his retainers and servants, down to the merest scullery maid in the royal kitchens, obeyed his every wish, often before the king himself was entirely aware of what he wished for.
But it was a king’s nature never to feel entirely satisfied, never to accept that he had a sufficiency of anything. Especially love.
And so the king summoned his three daughters into his presence and commanded them to tell him how much they loved him.
The king was resplendent in a scarlet tunic and silk hose of forest green, a cape lined with ermine over his broad shoulders, a sword in a jeweled scabbard buckled around his waist. On his plump white hands he wore rings set with diamonds and lapis lazuli and bloodred rubies. He regarded the three royal princesses, whose names were Branimira, Danjana, and Marica, and he said, “Tell me, each in your own way, how much you love me.”
The oldest daughter, Princess Branimira, curtsied and smiled her bewitching smile. Simply put, she loved the king more than gold, she said. More than all the gold in the kingdom.
The king beamed. To be loved more than gold meant something to him.
The second daughter, Princess Danjana, knelt before her father, her long chestnut-brown hair spilling over her shoulders, and said she loved him more than the sun and the earth and the stars. More than Heaven! More than God!
Really? said the king, with a wry smile. More than God?
Yes, Princess Danjana said. Yes, she did love him more than God. She loved him more than gold and more than the flowers she would pick on her wedding day for her bridal wreath: rosemary for remembrance, cowslip for grace, and violets for steadfastness.
Graciously, the king inclined his head. Her reply, he said, was poetic; it pleased him.
He beckoned to his youngest daughter. “What about you, my child? What do you say?”
A father should not have favorites among his children. A king learned impartiality, or he should learn it. But he was human, after all. He loved Marica not more than gold, since gold was essential to the administration and success of his kingdom, and he would be lost without it, but he loved her as much as gold. He had told her so, he was sure, on many occasions. Gently, he chided his youngest daughter to speak up. And yet she remained silent, her eyes downcast.
At last, her head meekly bowed, she spoke:
“I love you, sir, more than salt,” said Princess Marica.
“Salt!” repeated the king, his eyes narrowing. Her answer was like a knife thrust between his ribs, directly into his heart. His little Marica, his darling, his treasure, had betrayed him. He trembled with rage. His cooks, he said angrily, seasoned his soup with salt, and sometimes they used too heavy a hand and ruined his meal. Fishermen salted their catch to keep it fresh for the royal table. His groomsman put out salt for his horses and for the wild deer he hunted. Salt was everywhere; it was—it was as common as salt. It was nothing.
He swept his arm through the air. “Go,” he thundered at Marica. “Your sisters have answered as royal daughters ought to answer. But you! Ingrate! Traitor! Viper! I never want to see your face again.”
The Princess Branimira knelt before the king and begged him to forgive Marica. “She is young,” Branimira said. “She didn’t know what she was saying.” Princess Danjana wept. But the king was adamant. He forbade Marica to take anything with her. “Get out of my sight,” he thundered.
Marica curtsied to her father, the king. She looked up at him, her eyes swimming in tears. But she obeyed his command. Clad in only a simple gown and a plain wool cloak, with sandals on her bare feet, she walked to the castle’s outer doors. She walked across the drawbridge over the moat and kept going until she passed the border of her father’s kingdom. She was in a land she had never seen before. As night fell, she became lost in a dark forest, where she took shelter beneath a tree. In the morning she woke and looked up at the sky between the fir branches. Why hadn’t she answered her father’s question as her sisters had? Why hadn’t she