Still clutching her sock, she turned until she thought she was facing the right direction, and began to walk.
It is one thing to walk through an unfamiliar orchard, in an unfamiliar country, when there is a road to walk upon. A road—even an improbable road—is a safe, secure thing, saying “someone wanted to go from here to there, and so they made a way to do it comfortably.” It skirts the worst of the brambles and briars, the stickiest of swamps and the deepest of lakes. It protects, simply by existing. It is another thing altogether to walk through that same unfamiliar orchard, in that same unfamiliar country, when there is no road at all.
Zib walked as quickly as she dared, tripping over hidden tree roots and stepping on fallen bits of berry bush. The stones that had seemed to roll out of her way before were rolling into her way now, making every step hurt, until it felt like the soles of her feet were black with bruises. She kept walking, clutching her single sock like it was some kind of a security blanket.
When she came to the edge of the orchard, she stumbled, barely catching herself. In front of her was not the improbable road, not the open fields of berry bushes, but what looked like a part of the Tangle, only coaxed, somehow, into a glorious ballroom crafted entirely from thorny briars. The high, vaulted ceiling was open enough to let the light shine in, passing through leaves in varying shades of green and purple, until it created the illusion of stained glass. Zib knew, without even looking, that the orchard was no longer behind her: there was only the briar, going on forever.
At the center of the room of briars was a throne made of loops and tangles. On the throne was a woman, dressed in a gown of flower petals and mist, with a crown of silver filigree atop her head. Her skin was pale and almost gray, like the clouds that danced on the western wind, and her hair was long and white and free of snarls.
She was impossibly beautiful. She looked like sunshine on a Saturday, like chocolate cake and afternoons with no homework. She had a smile like a mother’s praise, all sugar and softness, and Zib stared at her, wanting nothing more than to throw herself into those welcoming, unfamiliar arms.
As Zib’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw the shape of a sword embroidered on the front of the woman’s gown. As if that were the key, more swords appeared, hidden in the filigree of the woman’s crown, woven into the briars of her throne, created by the shadows on the mossy ground. But of course she was the Queen of Swords. Who else could she have been, to be so beautiful, to be so perfectly here?
If you trust her, you’ll never get home, whispered a voice in the back of her mind, a voice that sounded so much like the Crow Girl that Zib nearly looked over her shoulder to see if she’d been followed. That was silly. The Crow Girl was with Avery, looking for a lock to fit their skeleton key. Avery couldn’t be left alone. He was delicate.
Zib had never been allowed to be delicate. From the day she was born, she had been told to be tough, to be bold, to pick herself up and dust herself off and keep running. Sometimes she wondered what it was like, to be allowed to fall down and stay fallen.
“Hello, little girl,” said the incredible woman. “What’s your name?”
“Zib,” said Zib.
“They call me the Queen of Swords. This is my protectorate, and I would very much like to be your friend, if you would be willing to have me.” She leaned forward on her throne, smile growing wider. “We could do such wonderful things together.”
Queens are cruel monsters. They eat and eat and are never full, and they leave lesser beasts in their wake, thought Zib. Still, she stepped forward, lured by the Queen’s smile, so sweet, and her hands, so soft, and the idea that it would be nice to be delicate, for a change. It would be nice to be cherished, and protected, and safe.
Thorn briars, even enchanted thorn briars—perhaps especially enchanted thorn briars, which must on some level resent the fact that someone is telling them what to do; briars are meant to be wild, fey things, growing as wild and wide as they desire, driven by nothing but their own fickle whims—must, on occasion, drop pieces of themselves. This is how they spread, and how they cleanse themselves of debris, that they may not collapse under the weight of their own dead branches, their own unnecessary leaves. Zib took another step toward the Queen. Her bare foot, shorn of shoe and sock, clad only in dirt, which concealed but did not protect, came down squarely on a fallen bit of briar, the thorns biting deep enough to draw blood.
Zib screamed.
There is nothing quite like the earnest, full-throated scream of a child in pain, but to dismiss Zib’s scream as something so ordinary is to do it, and Zib, a great disservice. For since she was an infant, she had possessed a scream that could shake windows and wake sleeping strangers, that seemed to reach past the normal sounds and frequencies of agony and grab hold of something deeper, darker, and far more primal.
She screamed and the Queen of Swords shied away, her delicate composure broken by her confusion. “What is that noise?” she demanded. “Stop it at once! I command you!”
Pain had broken the Queen’s thrall quite completely, and Zib did not obey. She dropped to one knee and clutched at her wounded foot instead, trying to extract the betraying briar from her flesh. The thorns were wicked. They snatched and tore at her skin as she pulled them, until she screamed again, this time less in pain and more in agonized frustration.
The Queen of Swords halfway rose from her throne, no longer smiling, no longer quite so perfect, for no one seems quite perfect when they are in a temper. “You must stop, or you won’t be welcome here any longer!” she cried. “I’ll refuse to keep you! I’ll banish you from my lands!”
This was a baffling enough series of statements that Zib stopped screaming and simply blinked at the Queen of Swords. Even her hair seemed to echo the question in her eyes, curling around her face in a vast cloud of confusion. Finally, she asked, “Is that meant to be a threat?”
“Yes! All the best things are here! This is the protectorate of winds and transformation, of spades and changes! My gales are the best gales, my storms the best storms, and you’ll have none of them, none, if you can’t stop making that horrific noise!”
Zib stood, slowly. “I’m looking for a lock to fit a skeleton key. I’m walking the improbable road to the Impossible City with my friends, and we want to be gone. Tell me how to find the lock and how to get back on the road, and I’ll leave, and you’ll never have to see me again.”
The Queen of Swords scowled at her. She was still beautiful. It is a myth that goodness is always lovely and wickedness is always dreadful to behold; the people who say such things have reason for their claims and would rather those reasons not be overly explored. But she was far less compelling without a sweet smile curving her lips and a delicate angle canting her chin. A hurricane can be beautiful. That doesn’t mean it would be a good idea to go dancing with one simply because it asked you.
Zib smiled, sweet as sugar candy, and opened her mouth, and screamed again.
The Queen of Swords clapped her hands over her ears. “Enough, enough!” she cried. “Stop that noise and you can have your lock, and take it with you out of my protectorate as fast as feet can carry you! I need beasts and better, not filthy, screaming children!”
Avery would have been hurt by her words. Avery didn’t think of himself as “filthy,” would have been shocked and horrified to realize that the label was closer to true than not. He was not a child built for mud puddles and brambles, and there was nothing wrong with that, for every child is built differently, and meant for different things. For example, to Zib, the word “filthy” was a simple statement of fact, neither cruel nor a reason to be ashamed.