When his father had first fallen ill, Ark found himself one evening punching the thin wooden roof above his bed so hard that his knuckles had begun to bleed. School was for little children or for rich kids. He was neither. That was the way of Arborium. He was an apprentice and now he would have to be the head of the house, too. He remembered how scared he’d been to pick up his father’s tools and his first day at work, filling his father’s place, and all the jibes and jeers. How would he survive in the dark sewers, away from the sunlight that sank through the leaves, and the rain that battered the branches?

Somehow, he’d got through, even though the boss had made sure that the newbie got all the dirtiest tasks. He’d survived, kept up to his targets, and even gained the grudging respect from workers twice his size. Now it could all have been for nothing.

It was time to go. Ark glanced one last time at the baby ravens. They didn’t move but simply stared back at him. A strange instinct made him want to reach out and stroke their plumage. These were birds of myth and legend. He’d never been within touching distance before. Forget that! He levered his way out from under the scaffolding, shinned his way up various supporting poles, and peered over the edge of the branch line.

In all the activity, he hadn’t heard the clocking-off bells. The empty highway was beginning to throng with tired day workers streaming away from court and the businesses that surrounded the seat of King Quercus. Ark chose a particularly dense, shaded spot a few feet away and, at the perfect moment, slipped up and over the edge. The storm had gone and taken the mist with it, leaving the trunks shining as if polished.

No one even noticed the dirty plumber’s boy climbing out from under their boots and he allowed the crowds to sweep him along the branch line toward the nearest trunk. That was the thing about Arborium — it was a country that was never still. Buildings creaked, floors vibrated, wooden highways arched and flexed with wind and weight.

Amazing to think that the city of Hellebore, with the palace at its center, was almost all that remained of the great Arborian counties, before the ancient choleric plagues reduced the population to a sliver of what went before. The great forest truly was a place of abandoned echoes.