Queen of Hearts (The Crown) (22 page)

Dinah heard the gates being pried open behind her and turned her head in despair. A small army of horses emerged, led by a large man riding a white Hornhoov. The King of Hearts. His Heartsword was raised above his head and he was screaming Morte’s name over and over again, with a crazed look upon his face. Dinah gave a shudder. She had never seen her father be more himself than in this terrible moment, and she knew she would never again question whether he had thrown her brother from the window. He was full of hatred and fury, intent on her death. There was no doubt.

She turned away, her heart hammering in her chest, and clung to the monster’s neck. Morte gave a happy whinny and Dinah understood that he had just realized they were being pursued. Shivers of pleasure rippled down his back and his relentless gallop took on a joyous feel as they flew over bare fields and streams, past towns and villages, and over hills, flying until the palace was nothing more than a white-and-red dot behind them. Wardley had been right—Morte showed no signs of exhaustion; rather his speed seemed to increase. For every step her pursuers took, the Hornhoov took six. He would run them off their feet.

Dinah glanced back periodically, but it wasn’t long before the Cards saw the hopelessness of this pursuit. They fell back one by one as their horses collapsed, exhausted by this endless sprint. Only her father pursued now, but he was never able to gain on them, even astride another Hornhoov. Morte was stronger and faster than the females, and angry at his confinement. His heavy hooves pounded the wildflower-carpeted ground, the short-grass plain, the rocky sand. On and on, Morte overtook the fields and hills leading to the Twisted Wood. The distance between them grew and grew until Dinah finally saw her father turn back, a tiny speck of white in the distance. A whoosh of air released from her lungs and suddenly she dared to hope that she might live until nightfall. Her legs and buttocks screamed with pain with each gallop, her body slamming fiercely against Morte’s muscled back again and again.

Dinah pressed her head against the side of the Hornhoov’s neck, a new weariness overtaking her. She was sure if she fell, he would keep running. Not only did he not care for his rider, but he didn’t even seem to remember that he HAD a rider. The fall alone would surely shatter her bones. If she fell off, he would keep going, either that, or he would circle back around to kill her, his giant hooves grinding her head into pulp. And she would let him.

They were heading due east now, so she leaned left, hoping to turn him more north, into the deeper parts of the Twisted Wood. His body responded and he churned the mud out from under his hooves as they veered in that direction.
Go to the Twisted Wood
, Wardley had said.
I’ll find you.
The trees on the horizon grew taller and taller, their limbs reaching for the sky. The sun loomed high in the afternoon sky. They had been running for hours, for days it seemed.

Morte flew up a ridge and Dinah sat up with surprise, shading her eyes. She had almost fallen asleep against his immense neck. “My gods.”

Now, she could see it—the Twisted Wood. It lay directly ahead of them, its outer ring of trees as tall as the castle towers. Their spindly branches clutched hungrily at the sky. The trees leaned and moaned together, their limbs shifting ever so slightly, even though there was no breeze. Dinah looked in wonder at the Wood, though Morte showed no signs of stopping. She held on. What else could she do as they sped closer and closer to the tree line? Though the trees were gigantic, the Wood had been farther away than it looked, and Dinah’s legs were cramped, her thighs bleeding by the time they made the edge of the trees. Her throat was parched—water seemed like an enticing dream.

The sun began to set in the East as they neared the border. It had been a day and half a night since Dinah had been shaken awake by the stranger. Morte was finally showing signs of exhaustion as violent spasms began to surge up and down his neck and a violet-tinted foam dripped from his lips. The trees, taller than anything Dinah had ever seen, taller than the Black Towers, lay directly ahead, their ghoulish arms blocking out most of the waning light. Something in the trees gave a shimmer, so Dinah didn’t see Morte’s hoof land in a small hole, plummeting him forward.

The air took them quickly, and both were thrown violently toward a muddy creek bank. Dinah’s body flew up and over Morte’s as his rolled like thunder beneath her. Dinah landed on her side, the bag cushioning her fall. She rolled with a thud against an overturned tree, her head slamming into the withered trunk. Something in her hand snapped like it was a thin tree branch, and a blinding pain shot up her arm.

She tried to raise her head but it was no use. She couldn’t think, she couldn’t move. Dirty water flowed into her open mouth as she struggled to stay awake. Her final thoughts were of Charles’s eyes as he poked his tousled head out from behind a staircase, brilliant blue and a soft green.

“My Dinah.”

He had touched her hand lightly.

She closed her eyes and surrendered to the black, a queen no longer.

Chapter Fourteen

Dinah dreamt of drowning. She was twisting and floating, only this time instead of the inky substance of glossy mirrors, she was actually inhaling water. The sea itself was flowing into her mouth and lungs. Wriggling fish nested on her tongue, minnows picked at her teeth. An eel, checkered white and black, slithered over her body, wrapping itself around her torso, her chest. Seaweed clung to her ankles as she struggled to move, and she felt a growing panic that she would never reach the surface.

Out from the black water swam something shadowy, something huge and terrifying. Dinah blinked her eyes, crusted over now with bits of coral and sand. A shimmering white fish glided toward her. Its scales rippled in the sunlight, blinding her with its beauty. It opened its mouth and Dinah saw row after row of razor-sharp teeth. The fish was wearing a hat. She opened her mouth to scream and all the water rushed in.

Dinah opened her eyes with a start. Was she drowning? Was she dying? There was water in her mouth, real water. She sputtered and choked. To her relief, the water was from a small stream, barely a trickle over a ground covered with mud and dying plants. Dinah turned her head and spat, gagging on a piece of grass that was stuck to her cheek. Hands shaking, she pushed herself up, only to have a stabbing pain race through her fingers. She looked down. Two of her fingers were swollen and distorted, both twisted in unnatural directions. She couldn’t bend them, and touching them lightly caused her to cry out in pain. Still sputtering, Dinah sat back down and stared down at her fingers.
Take a breath. You have to think.

After staring for a few moments, she reached down and yanked two thick blades of grass up from the stream bed and wound her injured fingers together. Dinah let out a scream when she cinched the knot; it felt like needles being shoved under her nails. Breathless, she lay down facing the stream where she could see her filthy reflection. Frantically, she wiped the crusted blood off her face, which was scratched from temple to chin. The muddy waters of the creek still tasted foul on her tongue. She spat again and rolled over before letting out a shrill scream. Black hooves covered with thick bone spikes dug in inches from her face. Blood stains spotted the spikes—some fresh and dripping, some old. From this close, she could see that the bones were jagged, cut like a carving knife. This made them even more deadly than a smooth blade when pushed into the sides of a man’s head.

Dinah raised her head slowly, hoping not to spook him. Morte loomed over her, so large his frame blocked out the afternoon sun. All she could see were heaps of black muscle and bone.
He will kill me
, she thought.
He wants to.
Steam hissed from his nostrils as the steed rocked his head back and forth over her. His hoof raised and stomped down, inches from Dinah’s frame, so easily crushable, this sack of tissue and bone. Morte stomped his hoof again. The ground trembled. He lowered his huge head and sniffed Dinah; steam washed over her face, so hot that she feared her skin would blister. She didn’t move, her body as still as stone, her eyes closed. Finally, Morte seemed satisfied and pulled his long muzzle back, stomping again.

Dinah opened her eyes and gave a terrified glance over at his hoof. One of the bone spikes had broken and was now pushed upward, several inches deep into Morte’s foot. It must have happened when he stepped in the hole, she thought, and when he struggled he pushed it into himself. Marrow dangled from the end of it and Dinah felt her stomach heave. The huge hoof came down again in front of her face, breaking the hard ground as if it were made of glass. Dinah took a deep breath and raised herself slowly to her knees, her hands up in front of her, showing surrender. Morte bucked, his feet landing in a shower around her. She stayed still until he stopped moving and then reached out her shaking hands until they hovered above the bloody bone spikes. He huffed angrily.

I could lose my hands
, she thought,
either my hands or my head.
Reaching out with the utmost of care, Dinah placed her shaking hands on Morte’s leg, running them slowly down together until they reached the hoof, as she had seen Wardley do a hundred times with normal horses.
Wardley.
What had become of him? Her hands rested now just above the bone spikes. She left the hand with the broken fingers on Morte’s massively muscled leg while she wrapped the other around the bone spike that was impaled into the bottom of his hoof. The jagged edges of the spike pressed into her skin as she pulled downward. Morte let out a terrifying scream of pain and pounded the ground with his other hooves. The bone hadn’t moved at all, except now it was slick with blood from Dinah’s lacerated hand.

Morte gnashed his teeth together, and Dinah could sense his fury and anxiety growing. She had mere seconds before he lost control and killed her, she could feel it. She wrapped her hand once again around the bone spike and yanked with all her might, the skin on her hand ripping and tearing as if she was grabbing the end of a sword. Dinah let out a blood-curdling cry as the bone scraped deep into her skin, sliding on the wet blood. Her blood mixed with Morte’s as it dripped, and her high-pitched scream was matched by his as he knocked her roughly aside with his head. Dinah curled into the ground, her head under her hands, one of them holding the bloody bone spike as Morte stomped around her in a circle, his hooves inches from her body.

“Please . . . ,” murmured Dinah. “Please.”

Morte stood still and considered taking her life for a few minutes before he stomped away to inspect his wound. When Dinah raised her head, he was staring at her from a dozen yards away, his huge black eyes taking in every inch of her face; he was thinking, calculating. After what seemed like an eternity, he gave a loud huff and bent his head to drink from the meager stream. Dinah sat back and let relief wash over her as she clutched her injured hand. Morte would not kill her, not right now, anyway. She washed her hand in the creek, blood tinting the water red before it traveled downstream with a cluster of variegated purple leaves. She ripped off the hem of her once-white nightgown—now brown, bloody, and covered with coarse black hair—and wrapped it around her hand. Pain from her broken fingers swept over her and she wearily climbed out of the creek bed, fearing she might faint. Stumbling, she came to rest against the overturned tree she had smacked her head on, keeping an ever-wary eye on Morte, who was now happily eating every bit of foliage in sight.

Food.
Dinah was suddenly aware of a gnawing emptiness in her stomach, a hunger stronger than she had ever experienced. Legs trembling beneath her, she pushed herself to her feet, and walked very slowly toward her bag. She untied the strings, letting it fall open before her, her hands searching wildly for food. It wasn’t long until she found a second bag inside the first, filled with dried bird meat, small loaves of bread, and fresh berries. Dinah ripped into the bread, chewing quickly and swallowing large chunks. She was convinced that nothing had ever tasted as good as this plain bread, and she followed it with a handful of berries. There was a small waterskin inside the bag, which she filled with water from the creek. The liquid was brown and muddy, but it still flowed down her throat like sweet nectar, and Dinah drank until she felt that she might be sick.

Her stomach full but unsettled, Dinah finally felt her mind begin to clear as she stared in shock at Morte, his mane tousled wildly in the wind. The truth played over her mind in waves. Her father had killed her brother. The stranger had warned her, packed this bag, and sent her on her way. If she had followed his instructions, there would have been no chase. She would have slipped away quietly into the night, heading in whatever direction best suited her. But she had to see Charles, had to see his broken body, had to see Lucy and Quintrell piled on top of each other like old dresses in the closet. She had to see Wardley. Wardley, her love. Wardley had saved her and she had stabbed him in return. What would happen to him? How would he possibly find her again? Would her father spare his life because of his liking for the boy or would he take his head because of his loyalty to Dinah? Hopefully the King would see the very-real stab wound she had given him and be convinced, but he was generally untrusting. What would become of Harris and Emily? A tear rolled down her cheek as she thought of her kindly guardian waking up, finding her gone. Would he believe that she had done it? That she had knocked him unconscious and killed her own brother? Dinah shook her head.
Never
. Harris knew her true self, but hopefully he had the good sense to hide his loyalty from the King.

The Twisted Wood gave a loud groan behind her, followed by the creaking of the trees consciously shifting their wide branches. Every time Dinah blinked she could see her father, the rage on his face, the Heartsword raised above his head, the bloody look in his eyes. He would have killed her if he had caught her, and he would kill her now if he caught up with her. Dinah quickly got to her feet, her thighs aching and raw from clenching them around Morte’s neck. The King of Hearts would be coming back, with horses and Cards and trackers. Several of the Spades were trained in tracking, and they would find her easily out here.