Anest remembered little of his mother, save that she was a slight, large eyed, auburn haired beauty who laughed often. She would often sing . . . he dimly remembered feeling safe, happy.

He couldn't remember exactly when she had gone. As a child, no one would speak to him of her absence. All he could recollect clearly was darkness, and whether that darkness was within or without, it seemed the sum total of his existence for a time.

He had been too close to his own pain to realize that this is when the light in his father's eyes had died. And his father was gone long and often with the two older boys. Anest had learned a kind of black patience waiting always for their return, which was invariably silent and comfortless. When the eldest boy failed to return one night, little was said about his absence.

Before Anest's thirteenth birthday, Anest's father was gone for an especially long time. When he returned, Anest did not need to ask about the absence of his remaining brother. His father carried the deaths of both his sons in his eyes. Perhaps they were carved into his very soul.

By this time, Anest was becoming an excellent swordsman, learning as did all boys, the skills that would ensure his survival. He had aspirations of becoming a soldier of Brand, of following in the footsteps of his father, his father's father, and on into the dim past of his family's history.




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