Light glanced off of the empty throne and streaked across the wide room, peeking around corners and climbing the walls. Silence was the only occupant. Something fluttered overhead, breaking the stillness. Vines with leaves so emerald they appeared black in the shadows, wrapped their way around the rocks and past the windows, filtering the light and casting the interior in a wash of green. The castle was holding her breath. She’d been holding her breath for so long.
Then, through the stillness, a cry rang out, lusty and strong, and the castle released her breath on a long sigh. The child had arrived. A girl. The first daughter of King Kjell and Queen Saoirse, a new daughter of Caarn. Her mother had longed for her, her father rejoiced when she was placed in his arms, and her brothers—all four of them—gazed down at her with varying degrees of adoration and distrust. Princess Koorah had finally arrived.
The staff had been busy in anticipation of her birth. The happiness of the day clung and quivered, breathing welcome and promise to all who entered there. The wood shone, the tapestries glowed, and in the corridor, the portraits of the kings had been carefully dusted. The row of painted royals looked down on passersby, pale-haired and softly smiling. Except for the last. His hair was dark, his eyes fierce, and his mouth turned down. He wore his crown of gold as though it were a crown of thorns, sharp and uncomfortable against his brow. The woman beside him in the picture—her own crown as natural to her as the golden flecks on her skin—gazed up at him with soft eyes and curved lips, his hand clutched in hers. She rarely let go.
Some speculated that young Kjell, the oldest prince of Caarn, was actually the son of the late king. He was born six months after Aren died and the Healer made vows to the Seer. But as he grew, few had doubts as to his sire. He was big for his age and had the same pale eyes and dark hair as his father. When people saw him, they always knew.
His mother had caught him with his head tipped, listening to things she couldn’t hear, mimicking a melody she hadn’t taught him. His father had shown him how to press gentle fingers to the breast of a dying bird, and together they’d watched it fly away, whole.
Twin boys—Gibbous and Peter in honor of the men who’d lost their lives on the Jyraen Sea—were born two years after their older brother. Their red hair and vivid eyes gave them the look of mischievous elves, and Grandfather Tree recognized their small hands and their climbing feet, widening his boughs and spreading his branches to catch them should they fall. The walls of their nursery were constantly flowering, and the castle staff had found a stalk of corn growing in Peter’s chest of drawers.
When King Kjell declared his fourth son Lucian Maximus, everyone commented on the fine name and never knew it was chosen to honor a beloved horse and a patient dog. Lucian Maximus longed to run and fly and swim, not unlike his namesakes, and the first time he changed he was only three years old. Queen Saoirse found a small bear in her young son’s cradle and got her first grey hair.
Caarn had grown. Dendar had flourished. People had returned, and the Volgar had not. Animals roamed the hills and the surrounding fields. Grazing cattle and galloping horses dotted the countryside. Dogs barked, lazy cats sunned themselves on the rock walls, and the chickens clucked and strutted, chastising the pigs in their pens.
The forests had grown too, welcoming the Spinners of Caarn when their days grew numbered, watching over the valley that thrived and spread. The trees were not aware of the passing of days or the turn of the seasons. They simply grew, keeping their patient vigil, graciously sharing their gifts. Sometimes the Healer, a son of Caarn, would walk among them with reverent hands, greeting them and whispering thanks, and the trees would nod their leafy heads, thanking him in return.
***
To my husband and my children, thank you. At the end of a project I’m always tired, overwrought, and irritable. But you all still love me. Every time.
To my assistant, Tamara, thank you for making time for me in your life, for keeping me organized and efficient, for filling in ever-growing gaps. Your friendship over these last years has been one of the best parts of my writing success.
To Nicole Karlson, your effusive praise and late night messages gave me so much encouragement on this project. You love this book, and because you love it, I was able to love it more.
To my publishers around the world, to my readers in every corner, to the bloggers and tweeters, book groups and bookgrammers, thank you for spreading the love for my books. I am indebted to you.
To Jane Dystel and Lauren Abramo, thank you for your support and for taking care of me. I am always reassured that I am working with the best literary agents in the world.
To Karey White, you are such a blessing. Thank you for editing for me, for knowing your stuff, and for keeping it real, always.
***
Amy Harmon is a Wall Street Journal, USA Today, and New York Times Bestselling author. Amy knew at an early age that writing was something she wanted to do, and she divided her time between writing songs and stories as she grew. Having grown up in the middle of wheat fields without a television, with only her books and her siblings to entertain her, she developed a strong sense of what made a good story. Her books are now being published in fifteen different languages, truly a dream come true for a little country girl from Levan, Utah.
Amy Harmon has written eleven novels — the USA Today Bestsellers, The Bird and The Sword, Making Faces and Running Barefoot, as well as From Sand and Ash, The Law of Moses, The Song of David, Infinity + One, and the New York Times Bestseller, A Different Blue. Her recent release, The Bird and the Sword, is a Goodreads Best Fantasy of 2016 finalist.