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? There were dozens of them—Dinah quickly counted 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 there were only bright-green grasses that danced in the wind, their seeded tops brushing the carved heads. They were massive in size, most larger than Dinah’s ridiculously large bed back at the palace. Some of the heads were propped upright, which made it appear as if the rest of the body was 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, which allowed it to be propped that way, 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 what 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. Standing so close to the head made Dinah uncomfortable. 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, another King of Hearts, 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? And 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. Had she been Queen, would her head have one day graced this clearing? She hoped so. The valley was strangely beautiful, utterly unnerving, a good place for kings and queens to take their royal rest.
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 these woods, not unlike the black snakes with silver eyes that she had seen in several trees so far. Together they had spiraled themselves into the deepest parts of the Twisted Wood, hoping to make their trail confusing and untraceable. How could she find her way back here, to this valley of her ancestors, to those who ruled when she would not? Her head should be here, not Vittiore’s. She felt the blind fury rising up inside of her, that black hunger that clawed up her stomach and wrapped its arms around her heart when she was least expecting it. How dare they take her crown away? With a cry, Dinah flung her sword blade across the nearest tree, hacking and jabbing until the trunk was battered and flaking. She felt the tremors vibrate up the blade and into her arm, a jarring sensation that was more cathartic than painful. Until she stopped. Both of her hands throbbed with pain, but she didn’t care.
“You killed my brother!” she sobbed, tears running down her face as she brought the blade of the sword down again and again against the rough trunk. “You killed him! That was my crown! It was mine!” In wide arcs, she slammed her blade against the tree, the metal cutting into the wood deeper and deeper with each swipe. This wasn’t swordplay, this was hacking, this was something else, something she had never known before. It felt glorious and dangerous at the same time, intoxicating.
Dinah continued until her arms shook with exhaustion. She angrily flung the sword away to wipe the tears off her face. Taking deep breaths, she leaned her head against the tree, her salty tears soaking into the now-exposed virgin white wood. From its towering height, the top of the tree let out a deep groan, and Dinah watched as the bark rippled up the tree like water. Several trunks twisted accusingly in her direction.