Queen of Hearts (The Crown) (21 page)

Wardley pushed her back and stared at her face in disbelief. “But who . . . what?!”

“My father. An assassin? I don’t know what’s happening.”

“But why, why would your father kill his own SON? What kind of a father would kill his own SON?” Wardley’s eyes echoed disbelief.

“I don’t know! The kind of father who does not want to share the throne. He killed Charles so he could blame it on me. Wonderland would never accept a queen who commits fratricide. My father wants my crown, Wardley. I don’t think he ever intended to give it to me.”

She shook her head as Wardley forced her to drink water out of a canvas horse bag. It splashed down her face.

Her voice rose to hysterics. “I don’t know, I don’t understand what’s happening. A stranger woke me and told me to leave, but I didn’t listen, I went to Charles’s apartment to see and. . . .” Dinah felt the tack room spin around her. “I heard him, my father. I SAW HIM. He ordered the Heart Cards to arrest me, and kill me if necessary.”

Wardley nodded. “I heard. I managed to slip out the back of the march. We were woken up by the King, ordered to be present for your arrest and trial this morning, ordered to either kill you or take you into custody.”

Dinah took a step backwards. “What are you saying?” She looked down at Wardley’s drawn sword. “You aren’t?”

Wardley gave Dinah an exasperated look. “You can’t be serious, Dinah. Dinah.” He wrapped her swiftly in his lean arms and murmured into her black hair. “You are my sister. My best friend. My Queen. You will not die today, not on my watch. But you must go. Once your father has discovered that you have gone, this will be the first place that he looks. He will kill us both. Dinah, you MUST go now!”

Dinah nodded and reluctantly pulled back from Wardley. She saw tears glistening in his brown eyes. She pulled Speckle’s saddle from the wall mount, her hands shaking.

“NO.” Wardley grabbed her arm roughly and suddenly she was being pulled through the labyrinth of stalls, deeper and deeper into the middle of the stable. His arm was firm; she could not squirm out of his grip.

“Wardley, what are you doing? STOP it! I have to LEAVE!”

Wardley continued to pull her through the stalls. “You cannot take Speckle. Where will you go?”

“Speckle is my horse!”

“You will not be able to outride the Heart Cards on Speckle, not even if you had a day’s lead. Speckle can barely handle an afternoon trot. He’s old, Dinah!”

“Then give me Corning. You’ve always said he is the fastest horse in Wonderland.”

“That he is,” mumbled Wardley as they ran past stall after stall of rudely awakened horses. Their whinnies filled the air. “Even then, even with Corning I’m not sure you could—”

He was interrupted by the blast of a hundred horns sounding out from the palace walls. The sound froze them both. Dinah’s blood ran cold, and she found herself unable to move.

“They’re coming for me,” she whispered. “It’s over.”

Wardley’s eyes narrowed. “Not today it isn’t. You will not die today, Dinah. You will die with a crown on your head, subjects bowing at your feet.” He pulled Dinah through the center of the labyrinth, running now. An iron stall door, twice the height of the other stall doors appeared before them. The chain that held it shut was thick as a man’s arm—but Wardley had keys, since he had been the stable boy for so long.

Dinah felt her entire body tremble. “NO, NO! I can’t. Absolutely not.”

“You must.” There was finality in Wardley’s voice—the decision was made. “You must. Hornhooves are much, much faster than regular horses. They can easily outrun a normal steed, and they can run for days without exhaustion.”

“Yes, and they will kill a person because he is not their master, or because they are in a foul mood that day!”

Dinah was terrified of the Hornhooves. Wardley swung open the pen, revealing the three Hornhooves—two white and one massive black beast. Morte, her father’s steed
. He rode in on a devil steed.
The creatures backed into the corner of their pen, snorting angrily, pawing the ground until it began to crack and break under their massive weight. Morte towered over the other two Hornhooves, a colossal figure of glistening black muscle, more like a dragon than a horse. His hooves were larger than Dinah’s head and covered with hundreds of bone spikes—perfect for impaling a head, knee, or torso.

Dinah’s knowledge of Hornhooves ran through her head; they were not just faithful steeds—they were bloodthirsty creatures, warriors of their own choosing. They loved killing and hunting and death. In their battle frenzy, a strong Hornhoov could kill forty men. There was a painting of Morte in her father’s study, rearing up before a Yurkei warrior, the heads of his fellow tribesmen decorating his hooves as her father raised the Heartsword from astride his back
. This was the animal that Wardley wanted her to ride.

“No,” Dinah started looking around, bordering on hysteria. “There must be a place for me to hide, maybe in the hay, maybe in the rafters.”

Wardley grabbed her roughly and lifted her off the ground, his arms wrapped around her waist. Morte had backed into a corner and was snorting angrily, boiling-hot steam hissing out of his giant nostrils, his black eyes wide with confusion. The steam could scald skin.

“Shh . . . shhh there . . . ,” Wardley approached Morte slowly, still holding onto Dinah flailing in his arms. Morte tolerated Wardley, since he had fed him every morning for years as the stable squire. The animal’s eyes focused warily on Dinah. She could hear commotion outside the stable now, the clanking of boots and armor, the yelling of townspeople.

“Damn it, Dinah, GO NOW. Step up. Now, NOW!”

Her hands trembled as Wardley hoisted her up to his chest, her hands on his shoulders. With a rough shove, he vaulted Dinah onto Morte’s back with so much force that she almost ended up on the ground on the other side. Morte snorted and backed into the stall door. Dinah let out a cry. She was kneeling now on his back, an ocean of glistening black muscle and bone. He was so wide—twice the width of Speckle. Her legs couldn’t fit around him.

“How do I . . . ?”

“Straddle his neck, not his back.”

She edged forward and placed her legs on either side of Morte’s neck as he nipped down at her with his sharp white teeth. He bucked once, twice, and Dinah clung desperately to his mane to keep her balance.

“He’s restless. Your father kept him locked up inside for years. He’ll run for you.”

Wardley threw her bag at her. Dinah wrapped the straps over her shoulders. The noise outside grew louder. Cards were flooding into the stable; they would be on them in minutes.

“Come with me!” she cried.

“I can’t leave,” answered Wardley, avoiding her eyes. “Not yet. Someone has to protect your people when you are gone. What about Harris? And Emily?”

Dinah felt a whisper of doubt. “I don’t think I can do this without you.” Morte bucked again. Wardley reached up and put his hand on Dinah’s shin. He was barely able to reach her because of Morte’s towering height.

“I will find you. Head for the Twisted Wood. You should be able to hide there. I promise Dinah, I’ll find you, you have my word.” Morte reared up and kicked his front legs, narrowly missing Wardley’s face with a razor-sharp spike. Dinah looked down at Wardley. He did not seem afraid. He believed in her. It made her feel stronger, even if just for a second.

“Wardley, I—”

“Stab me.”

“WHAT?”

Wardley handed her his sword, inlaid with a ruby pommel. “Take this, leave me your rusty one. Now, stab my shoulder.”

He patted the fleshy part of his upper arm. “Hurry up. Gods, Dinah, don’t think about it! STAB ME!”

With a cry, Dinah brought the point of her sword down into Wardley’s arm, feeling his muscle separate and tear. Crimson rushed out of him, his blood, the boy she loved, splashing onto the ground, splashing onto her hand. Wardley let out an agonizing scream of pain.

“Arrggghh . . . Dinah, you didn’t have to do it so well!” He staggered out of the pen and began throwing open one stall door after another with his other hand. Dinah heard voices from the outside ring of stalls. The Cards were making their way in. They were trapped. She would die here, Wardley as well. Here in this stinking pen, in the scents of manure and hay. Morte was almost dancing now, his hooves coming up and down, excited by Wardley’s blood. Dinah looked over at Wardley, unlocking every stall door he could. She told herself to remember the curve of his brow, the color of his hair, the tilt of his spine . . . but she didn’t have time.

A Heart Card burst through one of the stall doors. His eyes widened with fear when he saw Dinah on Morte.

“She’s in here! The Princess! She’s on the King’s—”

He didn’t have time to finish. Wardley had pushed the rusty blade through his back. The man fell face first into a drinking trough. Wardley glanced at Dinah, their eyes meeting.

“It’s time.”

Dinah opened her mouth to object. She heard men shouting orders outside the stalls. Morte began to pound the ground with his huge hooves.

“I can’t, Wardley. . . .”

“GO!” screamed Wardley.

He brought the flat of his sword down across Morte’s hindquarters. It was enough. Morte reared up and bolted forward. Dinah didn’t even have time to see what happened to Wardley because suddenly they were plunging through the stable. Morte rushed straight out through the labyrinth of stalls, bursting through door after door. His massive knees hit the doors first, and huge shards of wood shattered out from the pens as Morte trampled everything in his path—doors, troughs, wooden benches, other beasts. Dinah was inundated by a shower of splinters, but could do nothing more than cling desperately to his mane. His breath was so loud it hurt her ears as he burst through wall after wall, pen after pen. Chaos reigned. Wood exploded all around her as horses and men screamed. She could sense Morte’s wild desperation to get out of the stable, his drive to be free.

Heart Cards flooded the stable now, a sea of red and white, and they watched with a fascinated horror as Morte shot past them in a violent shower of wood and hay. The final rung of the circle was a stone paddock. She pulled back on Morte’s mane, but nothing happened. He charged forward, ever faster, excited by the challenge. Morte easily vaulted the wall and Dinah almost lost her balance, slipping down his neck before she was wrenched upright by his momentum when he hit the ground.

They were outside now, and the bright dawn blinded her vision, which eventually focused on a terrible scene, something out of nightmares. Heart Cards were swarming around them everywhere, swinging their swords in her general direction as she flew past them. A brave Heart Card ran out in front of Morte, putting his hands up to stop him. Dinah motioned him out of the way, but he stood firm, his hands out in front of him.

“Whoa! Whoa!” Her screams were useless. Morte surged ahead, and his huge hooves trampled the man’s head into pulp with a sickening crunch. Dinah’s stomach turned but she couldn’t look away. She heard terrified screams from behind her and glanced back. The two other Hornhooves were running loose amongst the Heart Cards now, their hooves already soaked with blood. Dinah turned her head back around as Morte’s body surged beneath her hips. The iron gates that sealed Wonderland Palace from the outside were growing closer with every second, and Morte showed no sign of slowing. People were shouting behind her, all around her, but one voice rose above the chaos—her father’s booming tone.

“KILL HER! KILL HER!” She felt fear twist deep inside. Cards of every type were now trying to stop them. A Club Card flung a pot of burning oil toward them from a watchtower, but Morte was moving too fast and it barely splashed the end of his tail. They were flying through the market now, passing dozens of carts and tables covered in fruit and tarts.

A filthy little girl stood beside her mother, selling bread. She pointed at Dinah as they flew past, tugging on her mother’s skirt. “Look Mama, the Princess!” she said, before falling to her knees.

Dinah’s hood had fallen off long ago, and her loose black hair whipped around her face as she clung to Morte. Dinah felt her bag slipping from her shoulder. Praying that she would keep her balance, she reached around and wrapped the bag’s cords over her back. Wardley’s sword bounced across her shoulder blades. Morte gave a deep huff of satisfaction, a pleased rumble. The animal’s nostrils and mouth heaved with steam, but Dinah got the distinct feeling that Morte was just beginning. His speed grew, his hooves barely brushing the ground. They were moving so fast Dinah could barely make out the faces of the people she passed.

When I die today
, thought Dinah as they neared the tall iron gates,
at least I will know what it felt like to fly.
The ornate gates of Wonderland were left cracked open every day, for travelers and traders to come and go into the palace as they pleased. All around the gates now, Dinah could see Cards scrambling to shut the doors. To each side, large metal winches crawled with Spades struggling to turn the rusty levers that hadn’t been turned in years. Someone gave a shout, and the towering gates began closing toward one other, creaking shut inch by inch. On the left side, a tall, gray-haired Spade squinted in the sun as she neared. Dinah recognized him instantly—it was the Spade she had slapped that day on her way to the palace. He watched her with a fascinated look on his face as other Spades clamored around him, screaming and pointing at each other, pointing at her. His movement was tiny, so small that no one else would ever know, but Dinah saw it. His hand paused on the winch, just for a second. It was enough.

Morte plunged through the narrow opening, his broad shoulders clipping both sides of the iron gate, which then burst backward. The steed let out a whinny of pain as the gates cleanly sliced into him, but his speed never wavered. He had seen the open sky and the field of white flowers before him—he tasted the freedom denied him most days in the dark stables. There was a shimmer of movement under Dinah’s legs as Morte flexed his muscles, and then, just when she thought they couldn’t go any faster, Morte’s pace quickened, his stride lengthening. She leaned, and Morte instinctively turned east, never slowing. Faster and faster, his speed gained a growing rhythm as they soared away from the castle.