“Do not run. Do not run.” He repeated the mantra again and again, convincing himself rather than Dinah. Dinah did not need the reminder. As terrible as the tunnel was—and it was the foulest place she could ever dream of, a place of nightmares—there would be nothing worse than being trampled alive and left to die in this place, to have your body consumed slowly by whatever demons thrived in this dark corridor. Her pace stayed steady, and her hand tightened around Sir Gorrann’s in a show of strength. She would keep him calm. They stayed silent, afraid their voices would collapse the rock inward, or even worse, stir up the invisible creatures to aggression. A wild fear of the unknown pressed against Dinah’s brain and she found herself remembering every dark thing that had ever happened to her. She saw death, bodies, the king. Charles, with worms crawling out of his eyes. Vittiore, wearing the crown her brother made her. The dead farmer, the arrow in his back leaking blood.
She stumbled once, twice. Sir Gorrann was having a hard time as well, murmuring violent things to himself as he bumped off the wall, falling over his own feet. Some slithery heavy thing had settled on his shoulder, and he struggled to wrench it away. Dinah kept walking. She couldn’t help him. Her hope was gone. The steam from Morte’s nostrils was burning her elbow now, his muzzle pressed against her back. He was pushing faster now. We’re going to die in here, she thought. Another thought occurred to her—perhaps they were already dead. Perhaps this tunnel was death, in all its hideous finality.
She couldn’t remember who she was. How did she get here again? A creature was prying at her mouth. Might as well open it, she thought. What could be the harm? Then warm light appeared at the end of the tunnel, a hazy pinkish spot, welcoming and safe. It throbbed through the darkness. Cyndy broke into a sprint toward it and Sir Gorrann followed, forgetting all previous instruction, so desperate to be free from this underground hell. Slimy, terrible things detached themselves from Dinah’s hair and wrists, slithering down her legs and back into the darkness. The light blazed through the dark. She burst through into its glorious pinkness and fell to her knees beside Sir Gorrann. He pushed her out of the way just before Morte’s gigantic body collapsed in a heap right where she had been kneeling.
They lay on the ground, gasping, taking in heavy breaths of delicious, sweet air, so happy to be free of the tunnel. Minutes passed. There was nothing sweeter than being alive. Morte whinnied happily beside her, rolling on the soft carpet of flowers to erase the stench of the tunnel. When she finally felt balanced again, Dinah peered down at her hands on the ground. Purple flowers, the same color that Cheshire wore so often, opened and shut before her eyes, their blooms radiating individual rays of soft light. With each pulse of the petal, a tiny tendril of red lashed out, a pink light on the tip of the stamen. It was remarkable and strange all at once, and her eyes followed the ground until she saw that one flower led to a patch of flowers, and the patch of flowers led to a field. They were in an entire valley full of blinking purple and pink flowers, pouring out light and—she held her hand over the tip of the flower—Yes, heat.
The flowers radiated a warm heat when they popped open, which accounted for the heavenly air that flowed through this field. The grass was a bright green, and felt more like a soft pillow than a wooded forest floor. Dinah felt the overwhelming desire to slip off her boots and run laughing through the flowers. It could only be called a hysterical happiness. She was drunk with it.
“My gods,” she heard Sir Gorrann mutter, and Dinah stood up. The Spade rested his hand on her arm and with a gentle touch tilted her head upward. They both looked in wonder. Thousands of enormous, swirly mushrooms filled the field. They were huge, as tall as trees in most places. Their stems were wider than Dinah, trunk-like white stalks that led up into a thick, billowy explosion of color, the horizon like a bucket of parasols. They exploded from the ground, each unique in its varied colors and type, giving the overall effect of being in a hazy dream. Dinah turned in a circle. The valley was deep and long, a maze of color and fantastic curling shapes, each mushroom standing proudly against the sky.
Dinah blinked. She suddenly wasn’t sure how long she had been staring at the mushrooms. Had she been here an hour or a minute? She looked over at Sir Gorrann. The Spade stood rooted in the same place he had been before, his mouth agape. Dinah began walking toward one of the mushrooms. Its cap was a brilliant yellow with swirls of glittering orange and red, like someone had taken a wet paintbrush to the top. Underneath the cap, a warm white light pulsed within its gills. They seemed to contract with each burst of light, as if they were breathing. The mushroom was utterly intoxicating, perhaps the most attractive thing she had ever seen. It seemed to be calling to her. Dinah reached out to touch the stem.
“Don’t.” The deep voice broke her trance and Dinah’s hand jerked to a stop. The Spade walked up beside her. “Don’t touch them. They might be poisonous. We don’t know. On the other hand . . .”
“I want to eat them,” whispered Dinah, her mouth watering at the thought.
Sir Gorrann scratched his beard, his hand trembling with want. “I do as well, which is exactly why I think we shouldn’t. Let’s continue on our way.”
Dinah wanted to do anything but leave. Instead, she simply nodded. Her eyes took in every stem, every inch of the mushrooms. Together they walked silently through the field, the fungi stretching out in all directions, seemingly never ending. Dinah watched with fascination as they passed a pink-and-white-striped mushroom with a black stem and yellow gills, a bright blue mushroom the color and depth of the sky, and a deep purple mushroom with a stem covered in a thousand tiny mushrooms of the same color. The light in the valley faded into a soothing glow. It was something otherworldly, the most extraordinary thing Dinah had ever seen, the exact opposite of the dark tunnel from which they had emerged. Sir Gorrann didn’t speak, but the Spade had drawn his sword for some reason that Dinah couldn’t fully comprehend. Morte walked behind them, eating everything in sight. There was no way Dinah could stop him in this valley of rich food, and she watched him with envy as he gulped down a pure white mushroom that appeared to be made of frosting. Her steps fell silently on the soft lawn. Twisty tendrils curled up from the ground, as thick as a man’s arm, as they passed. The curls gave a tiny shake when her foot landed beside them, as if they were stirring from a deep sleep.
I could stay here forever, thought Dinah. I could lie underneath the mushrooms and simply watch their colors pulse with this . . . enthralling life. Dinah let her eyes linger on a pink mushroom, its rich fuchsia the same color as the inside of a Julla fruit. Tiny glowing stars dotted its cap. “Oh,” breathed Dinah, amazed at the beauty of it all. She reached for the mushroom. An odd cry echoed through the valley, such a strange sound in this peaceful haven of light and warmth. It sounded like a crane. The cry was followed by another, and then she heard a whump. She knew that sound. Her face distorted with terror as she spun around. The first arrow took the Spade off his feet. He flew backward onto the grass, a white-feathered arrow protruding from his chest. Two more arrows landed on either side of him. The valley grew lighter as all the mushrooms suddenly radiated with blinding white light. A second arrow landed just past her feet, another in front of her. She blinked in confusion.