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Prologue
The Snowlands, Arctica Late Morning
A large figure faces the grove of evergreens. This edge of the Reinvale lies still and quiet in the deep snow, the trees are silvery green and frost covered.
The young man in red stands nearly as high as the thirteen pines, planted seven years ago, when he had marked the spot he would call home. He touches the holly leaves, the red winter berries hanging in drupes. His fingers grip the needles of the pines, their scent fresh and cool.
His boots big and black, the skins of his trousers red as Russian leather, his beard left unshaven and scraggly this morning. He scratches at his morning whiskers. Underneath his beard is a young face, he is not long past boyhood. He walks into the center of the circle of trees.
The tall man falls on his knees and begins to whisper to the trees, whispers as soft and gently spoken as prayers. He speaks in an old language, the language of his mother.
He pauses, and leans towards the center tree, the ice covered boughs dancing in a light wind. He stands up, suddenly alert, and reaches through the thick branches to place a rough wind-burned hand on the tree trunk. He tilts his head and speaks again. He closes his eyes and waits.
Then the pine begins to whisper back.
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