Dinah wiped her eyes as she pushed her blistered feet into the cool stream. The relief was instant and it occurred to Dinah that she could possibly stay here forever, in this tiny lovely part of the wood, where all the trees were white and the huge dark-blue and deep-green veiny leaves stretched out over the ground. . But she couldn’t. Not yet. After a few moments, Dinah pulled her feet out of the stream, delicately wrapped them with the remaining strips of linen and pushed them back into her boots, now instruments of torture. She watched silently as a fiery red hawk danced and dipped over the horizon, such a thing of beauty. She looked hopefully over at Morte, wishing he would lift his leg and have mercy on her. He did not, but rather stared off into the distance, his massive black head tilted with interest.
“I guess we’ll be walking then,” groaned Dinah. It was nice to hear a voice—any voice, even if it was her own. They continued walking northeast. Her march to starvation, as Dinah had begun to think of it, dragged on.
The tracking hawk continued to circle lazily overhead.
Chapter Three
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 their 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. I survived the Black Towers, a father who wanted me dead, and a bear attack. I will not lie down and die just because I have run out of food. I will fight and I will learn.
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 told herself. I can’t just start eating things that I don’t know. And what she knew was so little. The Twisted 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 amongst the trees—those trees, always knowing—and none of it to eat.
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. It had the texture of marble, and yet it was thoroughly wood. 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 pulsed 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, rare because they were so valuable. 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 leapt back in shock, her hand on her sword hilt. How had I not noticed it? The house sat snugly between two trees, their roots twisting up through the roof. This made Dinah shudder. Morte continued to drink with abandon. 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, over and over again. 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. Was this dangerous? Should she flee from the house? While longing to plunge back into the safety of the woods, 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 cat 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 silent and still. With a deep breath, she turned the door handle. The door swung open and rocked on its hinge. Dinah stepped inside, praying to find a fully stocked kitchen. 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. The blanket that had once been draped on the chair had been ripped to shreds and was tossed about the room.
To the left was indeed a kitchen that 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 tea kettle smashed on the fl
oor. 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 meat—deer, perhaps. Ravenous, Dinah threw these things into her bag as the sun dipped behind the cottage, filling the room with a shadowy light. She gnashed 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 woods. Morte shortly followed behind her before they both stopped short. There was a long field that stretched hundreds of feet behind the garden, and the body was there, lying face down in the dirt. He had been quite large but obviously strong—huge muscles, still as stone, that 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 blown red 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 that 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, not veering away from their previous path. From there, Morte ran. Her heart thudded in her ears as Morte raced through the ever-blackening woods. 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. I’ve come so far, so very far—it couldn’t happen here. Not now… . As they raced away, 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 dove 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. Their arrival raped the quiet wood, violating the peace of the trees. It was a violent commotion. They were so loud and they seemed to be everywhere, all around her, pouring down from every side. She couldn’t see where they 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 thin swoosh 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 black night; if this was going to be the way it ended, so be it. She would avenge her brother, his keepers, and her mother, killed by her father’s neglect and cruelty. Dinah stood still and held her breath for a moment. Then her father’s voice carried out through the darkness, commanding his troops, the sound of him 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 can bring me either. Listen to me, men, 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,” hissed a voice in the darkness. “If you want to live, hide; 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 leafy 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. She could see almost nothing, save the tips of the trees as they reached for the gray night sky. The sounds of the Cards were all around her; the violent breaking of tree branches, the clanking of a cup against a thigh, horses pawing the ground, and a singular sound that chilled her blood—the thundering sound of another Hornhoov crashing through the brush.
She stood still, considering how best to hide. And how did one hide Morte? She looked over at him in the darkness but was surprised that she 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—the heavy black dress. She pulled it out, 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 thin black linen over her dark hair and face. It was long enough to cover everything, and the fabric dusted 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 partially wounded from the bear. 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,” hissed 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 woods.
Don’t breathe. Don’t think. She closed her eyes as the Cards swarmed around them. Several of them trampled right past her—one almost tripping 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 woods swallowing the light in their vast space. She could hear them scrambling, hear the swords being drawn and the arrows being cocked, the sounds of weathered breathing and water canteens and flags flapping in the wind, as loud as a trumpet’s blast.
The voices of the Cards rose up from the trees. “She was here!” “I heard her, Your Majesty!” “She’s over there!” The cacophony of sounds bouncing through the woods made 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 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.