They made their way down to the silver stream. The water was shallow—almost waferlike—and if she squinted, she could see tiny, waving underwater plants, their long fingers trailing downstream. Shimmery orange fish leapt and played between the thin silver layers. They swam backward, their shiny spotted tails weaving as they fought the current. With great bursts, they would shoot out of the water to wriggle backward in the air and burst hidden wings out of their backs. They would fly a few feet and splash back into the water to do it again.
Morte had allowed her to ride him a few times in the last few days, but only when she had grown so exhausted from walking that she found herself leaning against each passing tree to keep her balance. With an annoyed snort, he would saunter beside her and lift his leg. Dinah would climb up with a grateful sigh and feel the wave of relief that came with settling onto the already-warmed bear pelt, her legs draped over Morte’s neck. Sometimes Morte would trot, but most of the time they would just walk, for hours, until Morte stopped and Dinah climbed down, grateful for the much-needed break for her perpetually sore muscles.
One day, lulled to sleep by his easy rhythm, she was jerked awake by the feeling of a cool shadow passing over her. Dinah looked up before letting out a small gasp. The trees had converged in a thick canopy of flowering branches, interweaving with each other to create a solid tunnel of flowers. The ground beneath, deprived of sunlight, had a soft and somewhat muddy texture and was covered by a thick maroon moss. The flowers looped down through the tunnel—pinks, purples, greens, and glossy whites, swallowing the sky. Strange white insects buzzed within the tunnel—completely rotund, they fluttered by on petite wings that barely seemed to hold them, nesting on the dewy orchid petals, waiting for their mate. Once the mate arrived, the two little creatures somehow hooked themselves together and created a warm light that glowed from both of them. Together they would float drunkenly through the tunnel.
Dinah was watching them in wonder when Morte gave a violent lurch under her—she was almost sent sprawling past his hindquarters, and would have been if she hadn’t had her hand wrapped in his mane. Without warning, he was running—that pure, furious gallop she had only experienced when she was fleeing for her life. His body flowed like violent water beneath her, his speed unmatched by anything Dinah had ever seen. This time, she was able to enjoy it—the world flying past, the greens and purples of the tunnel blending together as they raced through dripping orchards and past velvety trunks. His hooves barely graced the ground. Dinah felt her black hair flying behind her, her gray cloak flapping in the wind. His muscles rippled and tensed with pleasure and release; Dinah could feel his excitement. She could sense his utter freedom and desperation in the run, and she let it course through her legs, up through her torso. For the first time since she had been awakened that night by the stranger’s hand, Dinah allowed herself to smile, a smile that stretched into a laugh as Morte plunged farther and faster through the tunnel. I’m flying! she thought. Daring to reach one hand above her head, she let her fingers trail the heads of thousands of fuchsia orchids, their swollen tongues dripping down around her. The glowing lovebugs guided their way with subtle iridescent light, bouncing off of branches and flowers, occasionally whapping Dinah across her cheeks and brow. She didn’t mind. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the swift wind on her face as Morte’s speed intensified. The tunnel ended abruptly, with two tree trunks lying squarely in the middle of their path. Morte easily leapt over them—which was terrifying—and then began to canter at a normal speed. From there, the canopy dispersed, as it wasn’t long before they were back in the forest. The air was frigid on her face, which Dinah was surprised to find soaked with tears.
Morte let her ride a bit longer that day. The more Dinah observed him, the more she understood why he had not heeded the King that day as her father bellowed out Morte’s name in a blind rage. Morte wasn’t anything like a normal steed. He didn’t come when called, and he wasn’t to be coddled and loved, as he wouldn’t give it back. Sure, Dinah gave him any apples that she ran across, but only from a distance—tossed in the air. He was not Speckle. The bloody spikes around his feet and the dark look in his eyes reminded her of that every time she looked his direction. Morte was his own warrior. When her father rode him into battle, he had made the mistake of thinking Morte was fighting for him—he never understood that Morte wanted to fight for himself, that he had no loyalty to the man. The love of the fight and the blood—that’s what Morte lived for, not to be the King’s steed, not to be a vehicle for her father’s glory. He didn’t know or care that his owner was the King—he just wanted to fight. Morte came to each battle of his own will.
If her father had understood this, he would never have locked Morte up in that iron pen in the stables, in the dark. The animal had grown resentful in the pen, which explained why he hadn’t killed Dinah and Wardley that day when Wardley tossed her on his back. This would never happen now, Dinah was sure of it. Morte had been waiting for a chance to run free, and he sensed that something important was happening. The sprint from the palace that had lasted almost a day would probably never happen again—that had been a combination of adrenaline and his need for freedom. She was fairly certain that Morte would not kill her, but she wasn’t going to press her luck. Every night she slept a bit closer to his warm side, but she never touched him, nor allowed herself to sleep close to his bone spikes or huge mouth. When she closed her eyes, she could still see him burying his face in the bear’s belly, his maw wet with black blood. It was a sight she would not—nor should she—ever forget.
Morte slept the nights away without a care, and Dinah watched him enviously as he slipped into the depths of slumber. Sleep did not come easily for Dinah anymore. At night, her thoughts wandered into dark places or even darker memories. Charles’s body, lying broken on a stone slab. His beloved servants, Lucy and Quintrell, their throats open and bloody. The sound of the trumpets blaring from the castle and the Cards who had swarmed out of it, so ready to kill their Princess. The stranger, his black figure silhouetted in front of her balcony, the way his hand had wrapped around her mouth, truly the most terrifying moment of her life. She thought about Wardley and his brown curls. Wardley, who had saved her, Wardley who was probably in the Black Towers, black roots twisting into his body, into his brain, hollowing him from the inside out.
When she finally did fall asleep, she drifted from one bizarre nightmare to another. She would be in the Black Towers one minute and her father’s chamber the next. The night before, Dinah dreamt that she had awakened to the sound of someone crying softly just beyond the trees. Curiosity propelled her forward, and she came to a large clearing in the trees, where one of the Heart Cards she killed sat on a log, softly playing a lute, a cat lounging lazily on his shoulder. Dinah had sat at his feet and listened to his weeping song as blood flowed down his chest, a crimson river creeping closer and closer to her white nightgown. She woke up screaming, covered in a cold sweat, and was unable to fall asleep until dawn began its slow rise.
Another week passed. Out here in the untamable wood, she thought a lot about her mother. Dinah had always tried her best not to think on Davianna. Her father had forbidden her to speak Davianna’s name in his presence, so Dinah, young as she was, thought it was best if she just pretended her mother never existed. In a way she was grateful to him for the excuse—it was easier than facing the raw grief, the gray wave of nothingness that would roll over her if she turned her back for just a moment. But here, she was at the mercy of her memories during endless hours of walking. There was no one to talk to except Morte, and Dinah didn’t want to upset the delicate balance they had formed by suddenly becoming very chatty. The good thing about Morte was that he didn’t care if Dinah wept as she walked, or if she spent an hour staring off into the hazy woods. Allowing herself to remember Davianna was a gift that Dinah gave herself—she needed to feel close to someone out here in the wilderness. And so she delved deep into her mind, into Davianna.
Her first memory
of her mother was the tips of her fingers, trailing over Dinah’s face, tracing her cheekbones and lips with absolute devotion. Her mother had loved to be touched and to touch others—she was constantly resting her hands on the shoulders of those below her—Cards, lords, ladies, merchants, or even commoners from Wonderland proper, the town that surrounds the Wonderland Palace. They were originally struck by her beauty, but the touch of her hands left them overwhelmed by her grace. Davianna had been born the child of the Duke and Duchess of Ierladia, the largest and richest township on the Western Slope. Ierladia lay just south of the Todren and was the Wonderland stronghold in the North.
Like Dinah, Davianna was never allowed outside of her palace, though she was afforded every possible luxury. Negotiations between Dinah’s grandfather, the King of Hearts at the time, and Davianna’s father ensured her place at the throne, and from the time she was born, Davianna was groomed to be wife of the King of Wonderland—the Queen of Hearts. This accounted for the way she could float through a room full of the court’s highest born with nary a thought, or how she commanded loyalty wherever she went. She was bred and raised on the idea of being a queen, much like Dinah. But unlike Dinah, Davianna loved her studies and dance lessons, whereas Dinah had mostly been thinking of ways to sneak out of them.
As a child, Dinah got the distinct impression that her mother loved being Queen. She wielded the crown with ease. As a mother she was gentle and loving, patient with her precocious daughter who was always yanking on her crown and smudging her dresses with chocolate-covered hands. Their relationship had changed when Charles was born, but Dinah never felt neglected; rather, she saw the large amount of care that Charles took and longed to be included. And so she was. Instead of croquet or watching ostrich riding, Dinah and her mother would feed and bathe Charles, or spend the day trying to teach him to walk, or taking him outside on the balcony so he could watch the ever-changing stars. Dinah didn’t see her father from age three to five, when he was off fighting the Yurkei wars, and in that time she grew fiercely attached to her mother and Harris, her advisor and teacher.
Unfortunately, as Dinah grew older, she spent more and more time with Harris and less and less time with Charles and her mother. There were so many things to learn before one became Queen, and Dinah was terrible at each and every one of them. How to dress, how to wave, how to address each and every Card, how to take tea and how to send tea, how to eat tarts, how to ride Speckle. Her lessons took all day, but every night Harris and Emily looked the other way when Dinah slipped out of her bedroom door and ran past the Heart Cards all the way to the Royal Apartments to tell her mother about her day.
Davianna would always be preparing for bed, brushing her thick black hair with her pink shell comb and staring at herself in the mirror, her tear-filled blue-black eyes staring back at her, fringed with impossibly long lashes. Dinah knew she had a secret. She could see it in her eyes, in the way she held her body. Every night when Dinah came in, her mother looked as though she was preparing for the visit of a lover, although she was just getting ready for bed. She was always beautiful, always prepared. Together they would climb across Davianna’s heart-shaped bed and her mother would pull her close and listen as Dinah whispered to her all the tiny details of her day—what Harris wore, what Emily said, the things she had learned, how she had cried after she broke a one-hundred-year-old teapot. Every night would end with her asking her mother why her father didn’t love her, and her mother would just shake her head.
“Someday, you’ll understand.”
Like conspirators, they laughed and shared, mother and daughter, so happy to be close and unencumbered by anyone else. When Dinah was on the verge of falling asleep, her mother would always gently shake her awake to go back to her chambers. Exhausted, Dinah would slump back to her room, an annoyed Heart Card always following behind to ensure her safety.
Dinah’s father had returned from war a changed man. He was angrier and increasingly cruel toward them both. She saw less and less of her mother, and when she did, Dinah was alarmed at her shrinking figure and the dark circles under her eyes. Her mother looked exhausted and sad. The care of Charles was taken from her and given to Lucy and Quintrell. Dinah would still occasionally visit her mother’s chambers at the end of the day, but Davianna would often be sleeping, unable to take her visits, and Dinah would be sent back to her room like a child without supper.
On the eve of her ninth birthday, Dinah stumbled across a scene that she would never forget. Her daily lessons in the library had been cut short due to the sneezing of Monsignor Wol-Vor, the language tutor, and the Princess found herself with a few free hours—something she never had. Running happily down the hall, her pink dress in tatters behind her, Dinah made her way to her mother’s apartment. The Heart Cards who normally stood guard at the Queen’s door were oddly absent, and the door was cracked open a few inches. As she laid her fingers on the cool knob, Dinah could hear her father’s voice—he was angry. She paused at the door, waiting.
“How dare you? You are nothing more than a common whore, low-born trash that washed up from the sea on the beaches of Ierladia! I am the King of Wonderland, and I will not be made a mockery of. Is this how you repay me? Who is he? Tell me! I should take your head for this!”
Dinah heard the sound of something crashing—dishes, perhaps. Something hit the door with a loud thud and Dinah leapt back, afraid. She could hear her mother murmuring, attempting to calm her father.
Then, “Don’t tell me it’s NOTHING!” roared the man who wore the crown. Dinah heard the sharp snap of skin against skin—a slap. She desperately wanted to help her mother, but she was afraid of her violent father, who told her terrible war stories that left Dinah feeling nauseated by his cruelty. Her hand lingered on the door as she heard her mother weeping behind it… and then Dinah walked back to her chambers, a coward.
She never told anyone about that day—not even Wardley. It was strange to think of it now, as she stepped over log after log, the muscles in her thighs clenching with the effort as she wove her way through the wood. A tiny stream crossed in front of them, and Dinah stopped to fill her waterskin. Morte lapped at the water and Dinah sat down on the muddy bank to rinse off her sore feet. The tinkling of the stream had a lulling power, and Dinah raised her face to take in the warm sun, resting for just a minute, just one more… one more memory….
Her mother had died on a winter afternoon, when huge mounds of pink snow were piled high against the iron gates outside the palace, and inside everyone was trying to stay warm. Her illness had been violent and sudden. One day, Dinah’s mother had been there—her face thin and worried, but alive—and the next she was lying in her bed, drenched with sweat so hot that it steamed in the cool air. Her lips, once the color of a ripe fig, were blue and withered, and her eyes were somehow gone already—they looked past Dinah, as if the Queen were seeing someone else. The White Fever had raged through Wonderland Proper that year—a quick illness that turned a person’s nails white before it swiftly delivered them to the grave, although it was curious that no one in the palace had gotten it, aside from her mother.
Dinah hadn’t been allowed to touch her mother, or even to go near her bedside. She stood sobbing in the doorway, Harris’s arms wrapped firmly around her, holding her back as she watched her mother’s body convulse and twist in pain. Charles was not allowed in the room, and the King was nowhere to be seen as Davianna took her last breath, her eyes trained on Dinah as she whispered her goodbyes, her body shaking with the effort.
“Dinah, oh my wild girl. You so are smart, just like him. Be gentle my dear, take heart. Be a good queen. Take care of your brother.”
Dinah wept, her fat tears dripping off of her chin. “I will Momma, I will. I love you. I love you.”
The hint of a smile brushed across Davianna’s face. “I love you too….”
The conversation had exhausted the Queen, and it wasn’t long after that she fell into a heavy sleep, never to wake again. The rising of her chest
slowed until it ceased. The Queen was declared dead. Her father, her servants, Harris, everyone who had known her mother, wailed. Cheshire’s dark eyes filled with clever crocodile tears. The Cards came and went; a priest, wearing long red robes covered with hearts, rang a tiny silver bell outside her window. Another bell from somewhere down below rang in return. Suddenly, the entire kingdom was ringing their bells, and the sound of it rose up through the courtyard and in through the open window as a swirl of pink snow rested on her mother’s lips.
Dinah screamed and flailed in Harris’s arms as the thin ruby crown was removed from her mother’s head. The priest held it over open flames until the crown glowed a dim red, as if lit from within. She realized with a start that it was a precautionary measure, to cleanse it from the fever. He walked over to Dinah as he blew on the crown to cool it.
“The Queen is dead. Long live the future Queen of Wonderland.” He placed the crown on her head, the heat of it scorching the tips of her ears. Harris turned and carried her out of the room, and as he turned, Dinah was given one last glance at her mother’s face, her beauty siphoned away by death. As they covered her with a gray sheet, Dinah’s wails bounced off the stone walls. Taking a cue from her father, Dinah had built a wall around that memory, thick as stone and impregnable to wandering thoughts. But here, in the depths of the Twisted Wood, it had been so easy to remember. She could smell the putrid air of the bedchamber, could see the fear in Harris’s eyes as the hot crown was laid on her head.
Queen of Hearts: Volume Two: The Wonder Page 3