PROLOGUE

She watched in silence the drifting motes of dust that danced within the few, thin rays of sunlight strong enough to force their way through the thick wall of foliage above. She listened as the forest came to life all around her—the soft chattering of squirrels, the lazy hooting of owls as they returned to their nests, the chorus of morning birds, singing to the dawn. The city lay sprawled out below her and around her, peaceful and quiet but for the noise of life that accompanied the bustling creatures dwelling among the branches.

The city was a masterpiece, the culmination of everything the Imrian people had worked for in the many thousands of years they had dwelled in this land. The trees were monstrous in size, rising up from the bed of the earth like leafy colossi, bark-lined fingers scraping the heavens. The canopy of green above the city blocked out the sky altogether but for the few lines of light that were able to wriggle through its various cracks. The thick, broad branches were shaped with magic, woven together until branch became bridge, road, plaza, archway, gate and all other manner of creation. The wide trunks became homes and shops, carved like faces into and around the wood. Spiraling staircases ranged like spider webs across the city, connecting each layer of towering tree and branch to one another. It was a dizzying array of architecture built one atop the other over many long generations—a maze of twisting, interconnected trees, shaped with magic into a bustling city.

She hated it—she hated every last inch of the haven of her people, despised it to the very core of her being. Her dark-eyed gaze roamed the home she had known since her birth, loathing all of it. Her mind’s eye painted the city red—red with the blood of her loved one, murdered before her very eyes. His blood bathed every home, every street, every stairway. The chatter of birds twisted into hideous screams in her ears—the last breaths of her beloved, tainted with anguish and rage. He had died in silence, bravely, but she knew how he must have screamed within, cursing his fate and the country that he had sought to change for the better.

Her slender fingers curled around the banister that surrounded the small, curving balcony until her knuckles went white with the force of her grip. Her brows furrowed together at the center of her forehead, a snarl pulling her lips back and revealing her white teeth—so beautiful when she smiled. She watched the blood of the only man she had ever loved dripping from the edge of the balcony and listened to his anguished screams, hating the peaceful, beautiful world that rose up around her.

It took her a long time to realize that the screams that drilled in her ears were not the imagined cries of her dead lover, but the helpless sobs of her child. Her hands began to tremble, still clutched around the banister, as she turned her head to stare over her shoulder.

The room to which her balcony attached was, like almost all others in the city of Systaria, melded into the wood of a tree. It was the tallest and grandest of all the trees ever to grow from the fertile soil of Imrial—the Core Tree, the very heart of the nation itself. Its boughs and branches rose high above the canopy of the forest, spreading out in all directions for miles across and brushing the clouds themselves. Her room remained beneath the protective canopy, though she had gone above many times before to gaze into the peaceful expanse of the star-studded night sky. That was, of course, before her beloved had been murdered in her presence and before she had come to hate the sight of her homeland. Now she cursed the silver rays of moonlight that her people so lovingly worshipped, and spat the name of Systania, Mistress of the Moon, gentle goddess of the Imrian people.

She cursed the tree in which he lived, and cursed her fate and the fate of all that had come before and would come after. Within the grain of wood, the souls of generations past resided—for centuries, as those of royal blood grew old and died, their spirits would be collected here in the Core Tree, to reside for all of eternity. When Death reached out its hand and snatched her final breath, she as well would slip into the wood, to serve her descendents for all of time.

It was this that she hated most of all—this fate that she could not change, no matter how fervently she wished to. The Great Pact, created at the very birth of her nation, many long centuries before she had been brought into this world. The Great Pact, that bound the souls of every Imrian to the earth on which they lived. It was for this reason that the forest grew so vast and green, despite being located in the very heart of the winterlands. The souls of generations past twined with the earth, protecting the land from enemies and harsh weather alike, and bringing life to what had once been a dead and barren land.

It was this that festered in her heart: the idea that she and her only child would be enslaved to the land that she hated, the land that had murdered her love, even after death. She would have killed the child already—murdered her baby to keep her from the hands of her sister—but for that fact. She was intent on finding a way, no matter what the cost, of setting this child free of the bonds of Imrial. She would sell her soul to demons if she must, if only it meant keeping her from an eternity caged in these lands. If she could not avenge the death of her beloved, then her child would—she would make certain of it.

She forced herself to pry her fingers loose from the banister, turning and padding barefoot across the balcony and into the cover of the room carved into the tree. She could feel the spirits of her ancestors throbbing in the walls around her, warm and alive even in death. She pitied them, as she pitied herself, knowing that none of them would ever find rest in the afterlife.

She moved quietly to the cradle that held her only child, blood of her blood, flesh of her flesh. The cradle, like much of the furniture in the castle, was an outgrowth of the tree—living wood shaped with magic. It rocked slowly back and forth, unaided. The spirits of the Core Tree recognized that the child within was of royal blood, and they did their best to soothe her.

She reached down, lifting the sobbing baby up and holding her close.

“Mother is here,” she murmured softly, soothingly. “I’m here. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.” She froze abruptly, her grip on the still crying child tightening as her dark-eyed gaze lifted, shooting across the room towards the wide double-doors as they swung open. A hiss escaped between her clenched teeth and she recoiled, bumping against the wooden cradle. Her sister swept into the room with her head held high, crystal blue eyes—so different from Merisan’s own—cold as ice. An array of soldiers stood just outside the door, hovering nearby in case they were needed, and the young woman entered alone but for the company of the Aridal.

“Dearest sister,” the woman began, only to be cut off the moment the words escaped her mouth.

“You are no sister of mine, wretched Katerinda!” Merisan screamed, her fingers digging into the flesh of her wailing child, her hatred boiling over the limit of her sense. She snarled like a wild animal, her dark eyes gleaming with murderous rage. The young woman regarded her serenely, unbothered by the less than sisterly welcome. Her expression was still, her face emotionlessly bland, as were the expressions of the soldiers that hovered just beyond the doorway. Only the Aridal’s face contorted with emotion, his brown eyes sensitive with pain. Merisan hated her sister, but she hated the Aridal more, for it was he who had sealed her fate. By the laws of Imrial, Merisan was the eldest daughter and thus the heir to the Throne, but Katerinda had poisoned the Aridal against her, claiming that she was “unfit” to rule. Without his support, she could not hope to take the Throne—the noble’s would gather behind her sister and depose her. She would no longer have the power to change—to destroy—the country she so desperately hated.

“Merisan,” the young woman conceded calmly, continuing. “The verdict has been announced. The High Court has come to the decision that, as you have shown yourself unfit to take over the ruling of this country, I—as the only remaining daughter of the late Queen Katheryn Yviselle—will instead be crowned the next Queen, ruler of Imrial.” Merisan growled low in her throat, staring at her sister in frustrated disgust as she clutched the child tight to her, her fingers digging hard into its flesh. The baby wailed all the louder, its face bright red and its mouth opened wide as it struggled to breathe between sobs.

“Take it then!” she spat. “You horrid, back-stabbing bitch! Take it, and I pray that it crumbles in your hands!”

“Additionally,” Katerinda continued, ignoring her sister’s outraged comment. “The High Court believes that it is in the best interest of all that the child be taken from your care and raised in a separate facility until she should come of age.”

For an instant she was so stunned that she had no words in response. She stared, horrified, her mouth dropping open in astonishment. She had known all along that the Throne would be taken from her—ever since they had found her pregnant with the child of Jivindus, a branded traitor, she had known it was inevitable. It had never occurred to her that they would take her child as well. What could they possibly want with her poor baby, child of a dead traitor and a deposed Queen?

She leaned back against the cradle, her eyes flitting wildly between the faces around her—her sister’s impassive expression, the Aridal, so obviously torn by inner turmoil, and the granite faces of the soldiers without. There was no one to help her—no one in all the world who was on her side. They had already killed the only man that she could depend on.

“I will not give her to you!” she screamed abruptly, the words ripping from her mouth frantically. The baby sobbed loudly, crushed against its mother’s chest. “Never! Never!”

“Sister,” Katerinda murmured, taking a step forward. Her expression momentarily softened as her icy gaze slipped to the wailing child, a hint of apprehension lighting her eyes. Merisan saw the change, but she was beyond caring, her hatred far too deep for forgiveness and understanding. She stumbled around the side of the cradle, retreating from her sister’s slow advance and screaming wildly, almost incoherently.

“She is mine! She is my child! You have no right! You cannot have her! Never!”

“Lady Merisan, please.” It was the Aridal who spoke this time, his voice soft and velvety even in his anxiety. “You are hurting the child!”

“Never!”

“Sister, stop this! You are suffocating the baby! Hand her over now, or we will have no choice but to use force!” Katerinda raised her voice over the shouting of her mad sister and the screaming of the child which rose in pitch as its pain increased.

“Never! She is mine! Mine!”

“Cyril, I am sorry to ask this of you, but please—hold her down.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the Aridal murmured, his expression distraught but determined as he swept into a low bow. Merisan’s screams became mindless, incoherent cries as she felt a heavy weight settle on her shoulders, forcing her down. The Aridal had not so much as moved from his spot—he stood staring at her, brown eyes hard as he wove the threads of magic over her. She thrashed wildly, kicking her legs out and twisting in every direction, though she never loosened her grip on the child. It was no use, however—eventually the weight of his magic forced her down, her cheek planted to the floor and the muscles in her legs twitching helplessly. She stared at her sister with impotent rage as she swept forward, leaning down and prying the sobbing baby from her immobile arms.

“Never,” she hissed breathlessly as her sister rose again, cradling the child. Katerinda turned cold eyes down on her, a slight scowl brushing across her lips.

“You may see her again,” she replied quietly, “when she has come of age.” She turned then, sweeping past the Aridal towards the doors where the soldiers remained, still and expressionless as statues. Merisan felt the threads of magic loosen as the Aridal backed up, but she knew it was too late to retrieve the child. She remained where she was, curled up on the floor, her dark-eyed gaze staring after her sister as her heart thudded loud in her chest.

“You will remain here,” she heard her sister murmur to the soldiers. “She is not to leave this room under any circumstances, do you understand?” The soldiers—now her jailors—bowed in unison as Katerinda, new Queen of Imrial, moved past them, the still sobbing child in her arms and the Aridal following close at her heels.

It was a long, long time after the doors had closed, leaving her alone in the room, before she pushed herself up from the floor. There was no way out, nothing she could do. The child was gone, taken away somewhere beyond her reach, and the doors were guarded heavily with soldiers. She was talented with magic, but even she could not defeat so many in such close quarters. Even if she were to get past them, the castle was the biggest structure in the entire city—finding the child would be almost impossible. There was nothing—absolutely nothing—that she could do.

All the same, by the very next dawn both mother and child were nowhere to be found.