Ark had no idea what she meant. Disturbed, he ran to the back stairs and leapt up them two at a time, drawn to his favorite spot. The way up was far narrower than any main trunk, the steps little more than horizontal slivers. There was no expensive glass up here, only the occasional knothole through the skin of the tree letting in wind and ever more light as he climbed the familiar route. Soon, he left the main body of the building far behind, squeezing his already thin body into an ever-decreasing spiral, the triangular steps now so small his toes could barely find purchase. The branch in which he climbed began to rock from side to side. Up here, he and the tree were the wind’s playthings. This journey was never for the fainthearted. One strong gust and the wood could easily snap, with Ark, wrapped tight in this coffin of bark, tumbling down to certain death.

But Ark felt the opposite of fear. He was a foundling of the forest. The trees would not abandon him now. Sometimes, he wondered who his real mother was. How could she have left him and his sister out in the cold? Maybe he was the hidden son of a duke, and one day the knock at the door would come announcing his inheritance. He shook his head. Useless daydreams. The closer he got to the sky, the more the events of the last day and night faded from him. The back-and-forth motion soothed his runaway mind. A few more steps and there it was: a tiny door, set like a stone in a ring. He pushed and with that one movement left behind a world of gloom.

The view, from this tiny circular platform high above the crown of the tree, was immense. The forest that contained the country of Arborium spread away from him in every direction. It was an unending and undulating green blanket, rippling with leaves and hidden life. This rickety nest that now only children could reach was ancient, its original use lost over the centuries. Ark imagined it as a lookout post in a battle from long ago, or perhaps the site of offerings to Diana. The kirk services were all right, but it was here, where the only vaulted roof was carved out of cloud and air, that he felt as if he slotted into place.

Not far to the west Ark saw the great palace of Quercus rearing up out of the trees. It was still a few miles away, its battlements gleaming with beaten and polished copper. He’d never had business there, although he’d been on the grounds along with all the common folk for the yearly Harvest Festival. But the son of a plumber was hardly welcome at court. Those snobs would thumb their noses while the whole country went up in the fires of treachery.