The Wonder (Queen of Hearts Saga #2)(6)

Still, it was hard not to be distracted by the beauty around her. The deeper they descended into the Twisted Wood, the more breathtaking the forest became. The soft colors of the plains gave way to deep mossy greens, their fuzzy fingers reaching ever upward on towering majesties of trunks and branches. In the early mornings, the calm and quiet lull would be broken when white light radiated through the trees and heavenly streams of dawn covered the forest floor. One day, as she absently watched a red-striped otter flit in and out of a stream, she came very close to walking off a cliff. Behind her, Morte gave a loud snort and Dinah stopped, the tip of her boots sending a scatter of pebbles off the cliff and down into a clear river far below. Even that fascinated her; she had never seen such translucent water, or the minerals that graced the river floor. Silver layers of rock converged upon each other, giving the entire river a rippling effect, though the water’s flow was quite mild.

They made their way down to the silver stream. The water was shallow—almost waferlike—and if she squinted, she could see tiny, waving underwater plants, their long fingers trailing downstream. Shimmery orange fish leapt and played between the thin silver layers. They swam backward, their shiny spotted tails weaving as they fought the current. With great bursts, they would shoot out of the water to wriggle backward in the air and burst hidden wings out of their backs. They would fly a few feet and splash back into the water to do it again.

Morte had allowed her to ride him a few times in the last few days, but only when she had grown so exhausted from walking that she found herself leaning against each passing tree to keep her balance. With an annoyed snort, he would saunter beside her and lift his leg. Dinah would climb up with a grateful sigh and feel the wave of relief that came with settling onto the already-warmed bear pelt, her legs draped over Morte’s neck. Sometimes Morte would trot, but most of the time they would just walk, for hours, until Morte stopped and Dinah climbed down, grateful for the much-needed break for her perpetually sore muscles.

One day, lulled to sleep by his easy rhythm, she was jerked awake by the feeling of a cool shadow passing over her. Dinah looked up before letting out a small gasp. The trees had converged in a thick canopy of flowering branches, interweaving with each other to create a solid tunnel of flowers. The ground beneath, deprived of sunlight, had a soft and somewhat muddy texture and was covered by a thick maroon moss. The flowers looped down through the tunnel—pinks, purples, greens, and glossy whites, swallowing the sky. Strange white insects buzzed within the tunnel—completely rotund, they fluttered by on petite wings that barely seemed to hold them, nesting on the dewy orchid petals, waiting for their mate. Once the mate arrived, the two little creatures somehow hooked themselves together and created a warm light that glowed from both of them. Together they would float drunkenly through the tunnel.

Dinah was watching them in wonder when Morte gave a violent lurch under her—she was almost sent sprawling past his hindquarters, and would have been if she hadn’t had her hand wrapped in his mane. Without warning, he was running—that pure, furious gallop she had only experienced when she was fleeing for her life. His body flowed like violent water beneath her, his speed unmatched by anything Dinah had ever seen. This time, she was able to enjoy it—the world flying past, the greens and purples of the tunnel blending together as they raced through dripping orchards and past velvety trunks. His hooves barely graced the ground. Dinah felt her black hair flying behind her, her gray cloak flapping in the wind. His muscles rippled and tensed with pleasure and release; Dinah could feel his excitement. She could sense his utter freedom and desperation in the run, and she let it course through her legs, up through her torso. For the first time since she had been awakened that night by the stranger’s hand, Dinah allowed herself to smile, a smile that stretched into a laugh as Morte plunged farther and faster through the tunnel. I’m flying! she thought. Daring to reach one hand above her head, she let her fingers trail the heads of thousands of fuchsia orchids, their swollen tongues dripping down around her. The glowing lovebugs guided their way with subtle iridescent light, bouncing off of branches and flowers, occasionally whapping Dinah across her cheeks and brow. She didn’t mind. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the swift wind on her face as Morte’s speed intensified. The tunnel ended abruptly, with two tree trunks lying squarely in the middle of their path. Morte easily leapt over them—which was terrifying—and then began to canter at a normal speed. From there, the canopy dispersed, as it wasn’t long before they were back in the forest. The air was frigid on her face, which Dinah was surprised to find soaked with tears.

Morte let her ride a bit longer that day. The more Dinah observed him, the more she understood why he had not heeded the King that day as her father bellowed out Morte’s name in a blind rage. Morte wasn’t anything like a normal steed. He didn’t come when called, and he wasn’t to be coddled and loved, as he wouldn’t give it back. Sure, Dinah gave him any apples that she ran across, but only from a distance—tossed in the air. He was not Speckle. The bloody spikes around his feet and the dark look in his eyes reminded her of that every time she looked his direction. Morte was his own warrior. When her father rode him into battle, he had made the mistake of thinking Morte was fighting for him—he never understood that Morte wanted to fight for himself, that he had no loyalty to the man. The love of the fight and the blood—that’s what Morte lived for, not to be the King’s steed, not to be a vehicle for her father’s glory. He didn’t know or care that his owner was the King—he just wanted to fight. Morte came to each battle of his own will.