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man who all new to be just and fair.
A man loved and, above all, respected.
    “It is Kyra’s kill,” he repeated,
glancing disapprovingly at her brothers as he did, then turning and looking at
Kyra, ignoring the Lord’s Men. “It is for her to decide its fate.”
    Kyra was shocked at her father’s words.
She had never expected this, never expected him to put such responsibility in
her hands, to leave to her such a weighty decision. For it was not merely a
decision about the boar, they both knew, but about the very fate of her people.
    Tense soldiers lined up on either side,
all with hands on swords, and as she looked out at all the faces, all turning
to her, all awaiting her response, she knew that her next choice, her next
words, would be the most important she had ever spoken.

CHAPTER FOUR
     
     
    Merk hiked slowly down the forest path,
weaving his way through Whitewood, and he reflected on his life. His forty
years had been hard ones; he had never before taken the time to hike through a
wood, to admire the beauty around him. He looked down at the white leaves
crunching beneath his feet, punctuated by the sound of his staff as he tapped
the soft forest floor; he looked up as he walked, taking in the beauty of the
Aesop trees, with their shining white leaves and glowing red branches,
glistening in the morning sun. Leaves fell, showering down on him like snow,
and for the first time in his life, he felt a real sense of peace.
    Of average height and build, with dark
black hair, a perpetually unshaven face, a wide jaw, long, drawn-out
cheekbones, and large black eyes with black circles under them, Merk always
looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. And that was always how he felt. But now.
Now, finally, he felt rested. Here, in Ur, in the northwest corner of Escalon,
there came no snow. The temperate breezes off the ocean, but a day’s ride west,
assured them of warmer weather and allowed leaves of every color to flourish.
It also allowed Merk to sojourn wearing but a cloak, with no need to cower from
the freezing winds, as they did in much of Escalon. He was still getting used
to the idea of wearing a cloak instead of armor, of wielding a staff instead of
a sword, of tapping the leaves with his staff instead of piercing his foes with
a dagger. It was all new to him. He was trying to see what it felt like to
become this new person he yearned to be. It was peaceful—but awkward. As if he
were pretending to be someone he was not.
    For Merk was no traveler, no monk—nor
was he a peaceful man. He was still, in his blood, a warrior. And not just any
warrior; he was a man who fought by his own rules, and who had never lost a
battle. He was a man who was unafraid to take his battles from the jousting
lanes to the back alleys of the taverns he loved to frequent. He was what some
people liked to call a mercenary. An assassin. A hired sword. There were many
names for him, some even less flattering, but Merk didn’t care for labels, or about
what other people thought. All he cared about was that he was one of the best.
    Merk, as if to fit his role, had gone by
many names himself, changing them at his whim. He didn’t like the name his
father had given him—in fact, he didn’t like his father, either—and he wasn’t
about to go through life with a name someone else slapped on him. Merk was the
most frequent name change, and he liked it, for now. He did not care what
anyone called him. He cared only about two things in life: finding the perfect
spot for the point of his dagger, and that his employers pay him in freshly
minted gold—and a lot of it.
    Merk had discovered at a young age that
he had a natural gift, that he was superior to all others at what he did. His
brothers, like his father and all his famed ancestors, were proud and noble
knights, donning the best armor, wielding the best steel, prancing about on
their horses, waving their banners with their flowery hair and winning
competitions while ladies threw flowers