Blood of Wonderland

All day Dinah had felt strange. She had just eaten her last loaf of bread and there were only a few pieces of bird meat left. A creeping feeling made its way from her spine to her forehead. She convinced herself that it was just the sinking feeling of having no more food. Her time was up—she would either need to learn how to hunt or begin eating only fruit that she could find along the way, but that wouldn’t sustain her for long.

Dinah was losing weight rapidly—already she had tightened her belt loop two notches, and when she had splashed her face in the stream that morning, she was shocked at how thin her face looked, how tired. Her hair was a raggedy tangle that would probably take years to work itself out, and her skin was marked with dozens of small cuts from thorny branches. The cut on her hand was healing well, but her two broken fingers still ached whenever she put pressure on them. The shocking thought that she might not survive this ordeal washed over her like a cold wave. I cannot die from something as simple as a lack of food, she told herself.

That day she kept a very sharp eye out for things that looked edible. She found a Julla Tree, but most of its spiky fruit had gone rotten. Dinah managed to grab three fruits that were edible and stashed them in her bag for the following day. She found a strange plant in the ground that sprouted something similar to the cabbage they ate at the palace. Tentatively, she rested a leaf on her tongue only to spit it out immediately. It was bitter and numbed her tongue, and she quickly rinsed her mouth out with water. I’ll die from poisoning much faster than starvation, she thought.

The wood was filled with such fascinating and terrifying plants: huge rubbery vines that gave a shiver when she passed, and when she touched them, they released a puff of sparkling yellow powder; tubal roses that grew long instead of wide, whose petals collapsed inward when the sun set; carnivorous plants that feasted on small rodents—and once attempted to bite Dinah’s ankle and would have broken the skin if she hadn’t been wearing boots. There were thousands of ever-changing plants and flowers woven among the trees—those trees, always knowing—and none of them to eat. Damn it.

Grumbling to herself while ignoring the sharp pain in her stomach, Dinah walked on, watching the blazing sun creep from west to east as dusk settled in like a thick blanket. Without warning, she found herself in a small clearing, marked by a unique tree that had small, perfectly round holes drilled into its impossibly wide trunk. Dinah walked up quietly to inspect the tree, noting that it was at least twice the width of her bedchambers. She padded slowly around the smooth trunk, letting her hand linger on its surprisingly glossy surface. The bark had the texture of marble. It shimmered in the setting sun, the light playing across it like a warm ember. Dinah watched with amazement as rays of sunlight shot through the tree, and suddenly it hummed with life, as if lit from inside. The tree was transparent and filled with a frozen golden sap. She could see everything inside it—every fiber, every bubble of air. This was an amber tree, something she had only seen in her picture books, valuable because they were so rare. Once found, they were immediately hacked down and turned into jewelry, furniture, and hand railings for the wealthy. The base of her tea table was made of this rare amber wood.

Dinah ran her hands over the trunk. It was so beautiful it took her breath away—why would anyone ever chop it down? There was so much more beauty in a living tree than a pendant wrapped around some noblewoman’s neck. The tree pulsed with warmth that Dinah suspected didn’t come from the sun, but rather from inside the tree. Her fingers trembled with the knowledge that its texture was changing underneath her skin. Whereas before it had felt like cool marble, it now was soft, like the jams she spread on toast. When she pulled away, her hands were covered with a dark, drippy syrup the color of molasses. Without thinking, she licked it. After weeks of stale bread and dried bird meat, the syrup was heavenly—rich and sweet, the best thing she had ever tasted. She licked her hands dry, covering her face in syrup, and went back for more until she felt sluggish with the sugar, drunk on this rush of goodness. She stumbled away from the tree past Morte, who had also been licking the trunk.

Dinah was wiping her hands on the damp grass when she looked up in surprise, her eyes catching a strange form in the trees. There was a house in front of her. Dinah leaped back in shock, her hand on her sword hilt. How had she not noticed it? The house sat snugly between two trees, their roots twisting up through the roof. It reminded her of the Black Towers, of that root twisting itself into her mouth, up her nostril … Dinah heaved up the syrup onto the ground, the thick sludge puddling at her feet. Afterward, to her relief, she felt much better without its weight sitting in her stomach.

Dinah gaped at the house as she crouched behind the liquid tree. There was no visible light coming from the house, no candles flickering in open windows, no guards against the approaching night. Morte flattened his ears back against his head and gave a loud huff. Dinah felt that familiar dread that had plagued her all day. While longing to plunge back into the safety of the wood, Dinah found herself drawn to the man-made structure. It had been so long since she had seen anything related to humans, and she longed to run her hands over the walls, to feel timber and bolts, blankets and cups. Also, she reasoned, there might be food in the house, something she could not ignore.

Scrambling on her knees, Dinah found a small rock and threw it at the door. It bounced off with a loud thud and landed beside an empty bucket. Dinah waited a few minutes, but nothing happened, other than the wind tossing the branches of the trees overhead in a lulling whoosh. She drew her sword and approached cautiously, on silent feet. Dinah crouched low beneath the window and raised her head to peer through the beveled glass. She could see nothing through the thick glass, but she could sense that everything was still. With a deep breath, she turned the door handle. The door swung open and rocked on its hinge. Dinah stepped inside. The house was one large circular room with a beautiful high-vaulted ceiling and a dirt floor. On the right, an unmade bed had been overturned and books were scattered about, their pages flapping in the wind. At the front of the room sat a cold fireplace, cozied up to a sitting area that featured a well-worn rocking chair resting against the wall. A blanket had been ripped to shreds and tossed about the room.

To the left was a kitchen but it had been recently ransacked. Milk dripped from an overturned jug onto the floor, where a basket of food had been tossed aside. Hunger making her impulsive, Dinah raced toward it. She pushed past the overturned table, stepping over the blue-and-white-spotted teakettle smashed on the floor. She didn’t care—all she saw were two loaves of bread, some onions, carrots, and what looked to be a burnt husk of thick deer meat. Ravenous, Dinah threw these things into her bag as the sun dipped behind the cottage, filling the room with a shadowy light. She gnawed at the bread. Who had been here? Yurkei? Had an animal gotten in—a wolf? Something worse? Dinah looked around. No. The chaos seemed a little neat for an animal, a little too intentional. What animal would leave food but rip pictures off the wall and flip a bed over?

Morte gave a nervous whinny from outside and pounded the ground with his heavy, spiked hooves. The dishes inside rattled. Dinah took one last glimpse around the kitchen before ducking out of the round house. She said a silent thanks to whoever baked this bread and grew these onions as she made her way behind the house, back into the wood. Morte dutifully followed behind her before they both stopped short. There was a long field that stretched hundreds of feet behind the garden, and a body was there, lying facedown in the dirt. He had been quite large but obviously strong—huge muscles, still as stone, looked as though they had been carved out of his back. He wore a floppy hat and a lavender linen tunic, his feet bare and dirty. A farmer, Dinah thought, pressing her fingers across her trembling lips. Broken jars of the amber tree syrup littered the ground around him. Dinah felt all the air rush out of her lungs as she comprehended what she was seeing. Out of the man’s back arched a long arrow. It nestled between his great shoulder blades, a small blotch of blood surrounding the entry point. He had bled out from the front, the ground stained a deep red all around him. The blood was still wet, but it was cooling quickly and becoming one with the sticky syrup, a sickening, swirling mixture of red and amber.

The fact that this hadn’t happened long ago alarmed Dinah, but not as much as the red blown-glass heart that topped the end of the arrow. She had seen these arrows before, adorning the backs of many Heart Cards that guarded the outer gates of the palace. She stood, the world spinning around her. It wasn’t the Yurkei who had been here. The Cards had found her. Dinah swung the bag around her back and ran straight toward Morte. “Up!” she barked. Her panic was evident and for this he didn’t hesitate, lifting his leg as she neared him. Dinah stepped without fear onto his spikes and vaulted herself onto his back, her legs curling around his massive neck.

From what she could tell, the tracks of the Cards (huge, impossible not to notice once she was looking) were heading north, and so she turned Morte east. From there, they ran. Her heart thudded in her ears as Morte raced through the ever-blackening wood. Farther and farther in they dashed, making an incredible noise, yet what chance did they have not to? Dinah could barely see, but Morte seemed to have perfect night vision—he easily navigated branches and deep holes in the earth without trouble. Every few seconds, she would glance back, praying that she wouldn’t see a white Hornhoov emerging from the darkness. They had made it a few miles from the house when she heard the first faint shouts and clinking of armor. Fear surrounded her and made it hard to think. The sounds seemed to be coming over a dark ridge in the distance.

Tears welled up in her eyes and her hands shook as she clutched Morte’s mane, turning him around, racing away. As he ran, the sun disappeared over the Yurkei Mountains and all was black. The Twisted Wood became nothing more than shadows, an inky shade of trees and branches. Dinah could barely see Morte’s head in front of her as he dived through the trees, straining to outpace the growing sounds of horses and men. The cacophony was coming from all sides now, so foreign and abrasive to her ears after so much silence. Morte’s arrival desecrated the quiet wood, violating the peace of the trees, the hum of the insects. She couldn’t see where her pursuers were, but they were getting closer—and there was nowhere to run where they wouldn’t hear Morte crashing through the brush.

Dinah drew her sword and the ring of metal echoed through the trees. She wouldn’t be able to fight through many of them—any of them, maybe—but she would not be taken to the Black Towers. She would force them to kill her, and she would try her best to kill her father. That was her only purpose on this night; if this was going to be the way it ended, so be it. She would avenge her brother, his keepers, and lastly her mother, slowly killed by her father’s neglect and cruelty. Dinah sat still and held her breath for a moment. Then her father’s voice carried through the darkness, commanding his troops, the sound sending a dagger of fear straight through her.

“She’s here! Bring her to me, dead or alive. A lifetime’s worth of wages and a position in the court will be given to the Card who finds her. Do your duty and avenge your innocent prince! His blood will not be in vain!”

The voice stopped Dinah cold—Morte as well. They stood perfectly still as the roar of soldiers echoed all around them in the darkness. They were surrounded. A leaf crackled directly behind Dinah, and she heard deep breathing.

“Hide,” whispered a voice in the darkness. “If you want to live, don’t fight. Hide.”

Dinah didn’t need to be told twice—or have time to consider the source of her advice. She quietly dismounted Morte and bid him to follow her into a densely leafed area of the trees, stumbling many times over things she could not see. Something slithered over her boot and she forced herself not to scream. It was a consuming darkness. The stars must be on the other side of the sky tonight, she thought, hiding from this terrible noise. The sounds of the Cards were all around her—the violent breaking of tree branches, the clanking of cups against thighs, horses pawing the ground, and a singular sound that chilled her blood—the thundering sound of another Hornhoov.

She stood still, considering how best to hide—and to hide Morte. She looked over at him through the night but could see almost nothing—the black of his coat blended effortlessly with the trees and night. I have to disappear, she thought. Disappear into the night. The dress. Moving as quickly as she dared, Dinah untied the flaps on her bag and rummaged through it, her hands feeling for the thick, heavy fabric. When it seemed she had touched everything in her bag except for what she needed, Dinah’s hand felt it. She pulled out the dress, unfurling it against the starless night. Dinah could barely see her hand in front of her face, let alone the pitch-black fabric of the dress. Dropping her sword to the ground, she pulled the dress over her head. It slipped over her easily, the ends of the dress brushing the ground. Reaching back, she felt that the dress collar was lined with a hood. Dinah pulled the black wool over her dark hair and face. It was long enough to cover everything, and the fabric reached her chin. She pulled her hands into the sleeves so that they would not show and inched up next to a particularly wide tree, leaning into the trunk.

The voices were almost on top of her now—they would be on her in seconds with their swords and horses and torches. She looked over at Morte, who stood as still as she was, white steam hissing out of his nostrils. It was taking every inch of his control not to leap into the fight. Dinah reached out and felt for his nostrils. She gently and carefully laid her hand over his muzzle. Her voice shaking, she murmured, “Still … still …” The steam stopped and Morte knelt on the ground, becoming one with the thick foliage around him. Perhaps the animal knew he could not win this fight, not tonight, not while he was still recovering from the bear attack. Either way, Dinah could no longer see him. She pressed her face and body up against the tree and waited for them to come. Quivers of fear crawled up from her legs and infested her chest. Her knees felt weak. She clutched at her heart.

“Don’t move,” whispered the same voice from before. Was it above her? “Don’t move, don’t breathe, and the Cards shouldn’t see you.” Dinah froze, a black statue in the wood. She closed her eyes as the Cards swarmed around them. Several Cards trampled right past her—it sounded like one almost tripped over Morte before he suddenly changed direction and veered to the right. He should be thankful to be alive, she thought, as that would have ended in his very gruesome death. Two brushed past the tree she was leaning against, and Dinah clenched her hands inside the sleeves to keep from fainting. Unable to raise her head for fear of being seen, Dinah kept her eyes glued to the ground. She could see nothing except the occasional flash of a torch as it was waved in the darkness, the wood swallowing the light in their vast space.

The voices of the Cards flowed past the trees. “She was here!” “I heard her, Your Majesty!” “She’s over there!” The echo of the Cards bounced through the wood, making it very hard to tell where each man was—and she could see that the Cards were disoriented and scattered. They were unaccustomed to the trees, to the starless night. To Dinah’s horror, she felt the earth shake beneath her feet and heard the singular plodding with which she had grown so familiar. She dared to raise her face a few inches. The white Hornhoov carrying her father had entered the trees, with Cheshire’s sleek stallion following behind him. Her father sat proud and furious atop a female half the height of Morte but still gigantic. He carried a torch, so clearly visible in the darkness that surrounded the rest of the Cards. He wore his red armor, a black heart slashed boldly across the chest. The gold of his crown glinted in the firelight, his eyes lit up like flames. He held the reins on the Hornhoov in one hand and his Heartsword in the other, ready to kill. He seemed to stare right at Dinah, right through her. Beside him, Cheshire sat with his dagger clutched loosely as he scanned the wood, his black, catlike eyes searching each tree, his purple cloak draped over the flank of his steed.

The Hornhoov turned her head in their direction, and the king began thundering toward them. Dinah clutched the tree, pressing her face against it, fearing that her heart would actually explode.

“Stay still,” ordered the voice. Dinah froze as her father’s Hornhoov walked closer to them, his torch only lighting the few feet in front of him. Carefully, she raised her head and saw her father in the darkness, his face a mask of righteous fury. The king looked confused, as though he were unsure of what he was seeing. He was close enough that she could make out the sweat on his brow and smell the stink of drink clinging to his skin. She was sure he could hear her heart, which thudded with enough power to shake the tree.

Her father climbed off the Hornhoov and began making his way toward the clump of trees where Dinah was standing. Hatred flooded over her fear, and she felt an intoxicating rush of fury circle up from inside her gut. He killed Charles, she thought. And I will kill him now, a shadow in the darkness. Yes, my king, come ever closer. Moving as slowly as she could, Dinah reached for her sword, her eyes trained on his neck, the only open spot in his armor. Suddenly there was a loud crash from the wood behind her.

“There!” yelled a soldier from a distance away, “I heard something over there! I think it’s her!” The king’s face distorted with pleasure, and he vaulted back onto the Hornhoov, turning her in the direction of the sound. Cheshire followed, giving a backward glance at the seemingly empty valley before raising his dagger menacingly and following the king. The king’s Hornhoov kept trying to turn back—it could obviously smell Morte—but Dinah’s father simply yanked the reins and dug his spiked heels in.

“Go, you blasted creature! Find her!” Together they galloped off into the brush, the light from his torch dimming to a dull candle in the darkness.

“Go …,” snapped the voice, and then Dinah heard the sound of a body dropping down from the tree above.

“Who are—”

“No time!” snapped the voice, distinctly male, somehow familiar. “Yeh, go! I’ll lead them south. Quickly, for they will surely come back here.” He was as invisible as she was, a hulking, dark shape in the trees. Dinah flung the bag around her, climbed onto Morte’s back, and strapped the sword across her shoulders. She leaned forward and pressed herself against his black coat, becoming invisible once more. Black on black, a shadow at midnight.

“Quietly now,” she whispered to her giant steed. Morte seemed to understand as they headed east, his hooves gently kissing the earth. They moved far away from the roaming Cards, deeper and deeper into the night, until the sounds of her father’s army were no more. They walked quietly for hours, and Dinah noted that the flat floor of the forest was now increasingly sloping upward, harder and rockier. Hornhoov and rider moved soundlessly through the trees until Dinah spotted a small rock outcropping perched upon a narrow ridge overlooking the forest. Strategically, it would be a great place to watch for the approaching Cards, and besides, the trembles in her legs reminded her that they should go no farther. Without a word, she slipped off Morte and collapsed against the rocks, exhausted from her ride and from the all-encompassing fear. Morte knelt behind the rocks next to her and fell quickly into slumber, leaving her alone with the night sky.

Comforted by the fact that she didn’t think her father’s army could sneak up on them in the dark—or find them in the dark, for that matter—Dinah let her eyelids flicker closed once, twice, and then she surrendered to her voracious exhaustion. She dreamed of a deck of cards on a glass table, being played by a black glove. The hand was detached from an arm, and tiny flecks of crimson dripped across the faces on the cards as they were revealed. Hearts. Spades. Diamonds. The king. The king. The king.

Her eyes opened again in the early dawn and she woke drenched in a feverish sweat, unsure of what had awakened her so suddenly. Then she heard the click of a boot in front of her and felt a cold steel blade pressed firmly against her neck. Trembling, she raised her eyes, her black braid brushing the tip of her sword. A Spade stood before her, his massive frame blocking the sun.

“Morning, Princess.”