Blood of Wonderland - Colleen Oakes

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Dinah walked, she considered how the trees knew everything. They knew that she had once been the Princess of Wonderland Palace. They knew that her father, the brutal King of Hearts, had betrayed her mere days before her coronation. He had murdered her beloved brother, Charles—once the infamous Mad Hatter—by throwing him out a window. They knew of the stranger who had sent her on her way, fleeing the palace on Morte, the devil steed, a Hornhoov whose bloodthirstiness was legendary. They knew Wardley, the love of her life, had promised to come for her. And they knew that her father was probably tracking her now.

      It wasn’t just Dinah’s history that these trees knew—she could feel their keen awareness in her bones. These trees of the Twisted Wood knew who drew the location of the stars night after night. They knew each Yurkei and Wonderlander, those who embraced the dark and those who chose the light. Yes, the colossal trees of the Twisted Wood were aware, and that fact had both frightened and comforted her as she trekked through the wood with Morte following her, always at a distance of at least twelve paces. Farther and farther they wove their way into the wood, as the trees, always knowing, groaned and cracked around them.

      Her stomach gave a loud growl and Dinah reached for her bag as she knelt on the forest floor, but not before she settled Wardley’s sword close beside her. She untied the brown straps attached to the muslin and slowly laid out its contents, taking a full inventory of what she had: two white linen tunics, a belt, one black dress, eight full loaves of bread, twelve large pieces of dried bird meat, a bag of rapidly rotting berries, the remnants of her bloody nightgown, and a sharp dagger. She pulled the dagger out of the bag. It was obviously expensive, the hilt inlaid with dozens of amethysts interspersed with rich swirls of silver and gold. The black gown beside it was heavy and completely devoid of color—it was the kind of thing that Dinah would wear but Vittiore would never let drape her shoulders.

      Vittiore.

      Dinah ground her teeth together, gripping the dagger. No doubt Vittiore would soon be crowned queen, taking Dinah’s place on the throne next to her father. It was all so clear to Dinah now, how Vittiore had always been part of the plot, always waiting in the wings to get her hands on Dinah’s crown. She had long suspected that Vittiore wasn’t exactly the poor child found in a sack that she claimed to be. Vittiore had been in on the plot to frame Dinah from the start. She’d been in on the plot to kill her brother, Charles. The king could never have pulled off such a coup without her willing participation. Dinah angrily closed her fist around the dagger hilt before forcing herself to calm down. She turned the dagger over in the sunlight. Maybe I can exchange it to buy food, Dinah thought, before she realized how silly that sounded. She would be going to no villages, no towns. Her father and Cheshire expected her to be weak, to look for help among Wonderlanders. She wouldn’t. She would just disappear into the wood, forever.

      I will learn to survive, she thought. I will wait for Wardley and then we will find a boat and sail to the Other Worlds. The thought made her weary and morose. Heavy despair seemed to hover around her, waiting for the perfect opportunity to overwhelm. If Dinah didn’t keep moving, it would come for her swiftly. Her legs were sore when she pushed herself onto her feet and strapped the sword firmly across her back. Morte had fallen asleep beside her, and Dinah thought it best not to wake him. He no doubt needed the rest as much as she did, and waking an angry Hornhoov might lead to being crushed to death.

      Making note of the path behind her, Dinah began wandering through the trees as she snacked on some berries. The wood seemed to go on forever in every direction. Tiny clusters of flowers brushed her face as she pushed past a tree that spiraled in on itself, its trunk circling into the sky. The tree was weeping a frosty milk that dripped down its branches and formed a white moat around the base of the trunk. Dinah knelt beside the tree and peered into the milky substance. Tiny pink insects with gossamer wings skated over the surface, dipping their long noses into the liquid. The milk was sucked up into their bodies and distributed into their veiny, transparent wings. The white substance then gave their wings a crumbly texture, like toasted bread. At this transformation, the insects tucked their wings back and walked away, looking more like tiny lizards than the butterflies they had resembled at the start. They looked at Dinah with indifference as they strolled away into the forest.

      “Incredible,” murmured Dinah. She stood. The sun flashed on an unnatural shape in the distance as Dinah raised her eyes. It was tall and metallic—and not of the forest. She leaped backward, stumbled on a wide root, and fell. She scrambled for her weapon in the damp leaves as she struggled back to her feet. I am no warrior, she thought as her heart hammered in her ears. The metal continued to flash in the sun. Dinah advanced slowly, making her way through the trees, her sword leading the way. Trembling, Dinah clawed her way up a small embankment parallel to the flashing light to gain a better view.

      The hill rose up next to a deep groove in the forest, and Dinah perched on the edge, preparing to see a battalion of soldiers waiting for her. Instead she found herself looking down into a valley … of heads? Dinah quickly counted dozens of them as she carefully made her way down the hill. Dirt rose when her boots hit the ground with a thud. The forest floor had changed—all around this particular valley, the foliage was thick and dense, with ankle-high ferns and roots tangling the ground. Here were only soft grasses that danced in the wind, their seeded tops brushing the carved heads. The heads were massive in size, most larger than Dinah’s ridiculously large bed back at the palace. Some of them were propped upright, which made it appear as if the rest of their bodies were buried underground and they were simply popping up for a look around. Some of the heads lay on their sides, their lips brushed with the burnt yellow grass. One head lay completely upside down, the blunt cut of its square neck facing the sun. That head was wearing a crown, the sharp tips of the crown anchoring the head into the soil. There was something familiar about it … Dinah ventured closer, making her way through the heads. She bent to look at the face and crown, her black hair brushing the dirt.

      A wave of dizziness rushed over her as she realized she was looking at her father, the King of Hearts. She could tell by the crown, the same crown that encircled her father’s head now, and by his heavy cheeks. Though he was made entirely of shiny bronze metal, it looked so much like her father—the same unbending will etched across his brow, the same bloodlust running through his eyes, the same hint of an ironic smile that never quite blossomed. The upside-down head stared at Dinah, its hard eyes piercing her chest. Her heart thudding, she turned away to take in the others. They were all kings and queens of some sort. She recognized several members of the royal family—her grandfathers and grandmothers, dating all the way back to those who had been present at the building of the palace.

      There was Queen Millay, famous for her gracious hospitality and striking beauty. Her head lay on its side, the pearl crown on top of it covered with a creeping, soft, green moss. Next to her lay her king, King Royce. He was famous for not being faithful to his diligent queen, and for making his mistress the Queen of Hearts after Millay had died. Dinah did not see the mistress’s head anywhere.

      Twenty or so heads of what Dinah guessed to be Yurkei chiefs were here as well—strong, solid heads of handsome warriors carved from stone, crowned not with a piece of gold or silver, but with feathers or elaborate fabric swirls that dangled down and framed their bright, glowing eyes made of blue gemstones. Dinah found these the most haunting. The eyes of the Yurkei heads made her feel as if they were watching her as she walked along, as she touched each face and marveled at its size and beauty.

      Sunlight reflected through the low clouds and sent a rippling shadow over the heads, making them look for a minute as if they were engaged in conversation—a never-ending dialogue of politics, land, and legend. Dinah was fascinated. Who made these, and why? When? How had they transported such massive sculptures into the forest without removing the trees that surrounded them? Dinah let her fingers run over the face of the current Yurkei chief, Mundoo, her father’s enemy. The metal was warm, perpetually kissed by the sun, and it felt soothing against her cut palm. The valley was utterly unnerving and yet, somehow, also strangely beautiful.

      I will take Wardley here one day, she thought, if I can find it again. She wasn’t convinced that she could—she and Morte had twisted and wound their way through the wood not unlike the black snakes with

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