She didn’t get a chance to finish her question. A shadow rose out of the barren village, moving quickly and flying toward them. She opened her mouth to yell, but it was too late. An arrow grazed her cheek and buried itself deep into the mill behind her. When she turned, she could see a red glass heart quivering in its nock.
Dinah leaped back and Ki-ershan shoved past, pushing his torso in front of her and pressing her against the wall behind him. He turned to shield her beneath his arm. Cheshire ducked just as another arrow whistled past his head. His black eyes were wide with fear as he screamed at them both. Two more arrows thunked into the wood above their heads.
“Get the queen inside! Where is that coming from? Ki-ershan? Can you see it?” Ki-ershan, still crouched like a protective animal over Dinah, raised his head.
“There!” He pointed. A small, lone figure was running away from the mill, a bow at his side. Ki-ershan screamed something in Yurkei, and Dinah saw Yur-Jee sprinting after the figure. Dinah’s voice was caught in her throat as she watched Yur-Jee quickly gaining on the shadow. Suddenly the Yurkei stopped running, took a deep breath, and raised his bow, a pale arrow nocked on the bowstring.
“Stop!” Dinah cried, but it was too late. In a flash, Yur-Jee released the arrow and it buried itself deep in the figure’s back. The small figure pitched forward into the dirt. Ki-ershan grabbed Dinah’s arm and yanked her to her feet, pulling her down the rickety stairs. Cheshire, breathing loudly, followed, a dagger clutched to his chest. They ran toward Yur-Jee, who had propped the figure up, his knife at the man’s throat. As Dinah approached, her heart sank. It wasn’t a man. It was a tall boy, no more than thirteen, pale and wild-eyed. He drew labored breaths that Dinah knew would be his last. A black stain spread rapidly on the front of his shirt. Yur-Jee stepped away and the boy crumpled to the ground.
“Don’t go near him,” Cheshire warned as they approached. “He’s an assassin.”
“He’s a boy,” snapped Dinah. She knelt beside the boy, taking him gently in her arms. He was almost the same age as Charles, but with curly red hair and a generous dotting of freckles. Flecks of blood covered his mouth, and the point of the arrow protruding from his small chest rose and fell with each breath. Dinah laid her hand over the wound and pulled the boy close. His eyes opened and shut at random as he stared at her face. He coughed up blood as he tried to speak.
“Are you the Queen of Hearts?”
Dinah nodded and touched his hair gently. “Why did you do this? Where is your family?” The boy’s eyes were fluttering now, and Dinah gave him a soft shake. “Look at me. It’s going to be all right. Why did you try to kill me?”
“The king . . . the king . . . he took my family, and he said that if I didn’t kill you, he would kill my parents.” His unfocused eyes lingered on Dinah’s face. “I’m sorry. Please don’t . . .” His mouth gave a final tremble, and he pulled himself up to Dinah’s ear before resting against her neck. “There is one of us in each village.” His body gave a convulsive shake and a raspy rattle passed through his mouth, his sour breath washing over Dinah’s cheek.
She looked into his eyes. “I’ll protect your family when I am queen. I promise.”
A small smile dashed across his face before his cloudy eyes stared out at nothing. His chest stopped heaving. He was gone.
Dinah slowly laid his body down on the ground and used her sleeve to wipe the blood from his mouth. He looked so much like Charles. The same eyes, the same determined mouth. This wasn’t an accident. Images of her brother’s fractured limbs flooded her mind, of his eyes staring motionless at the stars. She thought of Lucy and Quintrell in a bloody pile, of the dark spot underneath Charles’s head, of the crown he made that she would never wear.
Without a word, she stood up and began walking back to camp.
“Your Majesty . . . ,” Cheshire called after her.
“Bury him!” she barked in reply.
Cheshire followed her. “He tried to kill you.”
Dinah whirled on him. “Only because the king threatened his family! He was innocent, and we buried an arrow in his back.” Her shoulders shuddered. “We shot a child.”
Cheshire was insistent.
“Yur-Jee could not tell that he was a child. He saw an assassin, one who almost put an arrow through your neck. It is the essence of war, painted in shades of gray that no philosopher could sort out. He tried to kill the queen. We could not let that stand. What if he got away? Made it back to the palace? What if he had been spying on us the entire time?”
Dinah nodded. “I understand your point, Cheshire, but you need to hear mine. I’ll not have my army killing children, whatever the circumstances. In the future, anyone who does will answer to me. You and Yur-Jee will bury the child. With your hands.”
Cheshire’s eyes darkened. “Watch your tone, daughter, lest you forget who you fight. In two days, we will march on the palace, and there will be no mercy for any of us. Remind yourself why you lead this army and steel your dark heart. There is more blood ahead than you could imagine.”
Cheshire turned, but Dinah grabbed his arm. “My dark heart beats just fine,” she snapped before letting go. “And it’s big enough to sustain my rage and my mercy.”
Cheshire stared at her for a long moment before dropping his head. “If you say so. If it is your wish, I will help bury the child.”
Dinah held his gaze. “Good.”
She was left alone, huddled in the dark, as the men worked nearby to bury the ginger-haired boy. Her hands and neck were covered with slick blood that she frantically tried to wipe on the dried grass at her feet. It wouldn’t come off. Dinah raised her hands to the moonlight, illuminating her wet palms. A queen’s hands, she told herself.
Hands trembling, she pushed herself to her feet and raised her weary head. I am the queen, she told herself over and over again until she felt it thrumming through her body, hoping it would stiffen her resolve. Behind her, she could hear the sounds of earth showering down onto the boy’s body, the child resting forever in the cool ground. She stared in the direction of the palace. Her tears dried on her cheeks. She let Cheshire’s advice wash over her.
She would let the fury define her, not the mercy. It was too painful.
“I am coming for you,” she whispered to the night air, to the King of Hearts, a man who made a habit of killing children. She rested her hand on her sword as she let her rage writhe through her veins. There were no stars that night, for even they trembled at what lay before them.
Five