Kyra noted that her father said her uncle and not your uncle, and she wondered why.
“Then I shall join her!” Aidan insisted proudly.
Her father shook his head.
“You shall not,” he replied.
Kyra smiled down at her little brother, so brave, as always.
“Father needs you elsewhere,” she said.
“The battlefront?” Aidan asked, turning to their father hopefully. “You are setting out for Esephus,” he added in a rush. “I have heard! I want to join you!”
But he shook his head.
“It is Volis for you,” he replied. “You will stay there, protected by the men I leave behind. The battlefront is no place for you now. One day.”
Aidan flushed red with disappointment.
“But I want to fight, Father!” he protested. “I don’t need to stay boarded up in some empty fort with women and children!”
His men snickered, but her father looked serious.
“My decision is made,” he answered curtly.
Aidan frowned.
“If I can’t join Kyra and I can’t join you,” he said, refusing to let it go, “then what use is my learning about battles, learning how to use weapons? What has all my training been for?”
“Grow hair on your chest first, little brother,” Braxton laughed, stepping forward, Brandon beside him.
Laughter arose amidst the men and Aidan reddened, clearly embarrassed in front of the others.
Kyra, feeling bad, knelt before him and looked at him, placing a hand on his cheek.
“You shall be a finer warrior than all of them,” she reassured him softly, so that only he could hear. “Be patient. In the meantime, watch over Volis. It needs you, too. Make me proud. I shall return, I promise, and one day we shall fight great battles together.”
Aidan seemed to soften a bit, as he leaned forward and hugged her again.
“I don’t want you to go,” he said softly. “I had a dream about you. I dreamt…” He looked up at her reluctantly, eyes filled with fear. “…that you would die out there.”
Kyra felt a shock at his words, especially as she saw the look in his eyes. It haunted her. She did not know what to say.
Anvin stepped forward and draped over her shoulders thick, heavy furs, warming her; she stood and felt ten pounds heavier, but it shut out all the wind and took away the chill down her back. He smiled back.
“Your nights will be long, and fires shall be far away,” he said, and gave her a quick embrace.
Her father stepped forward quickly and embraced her, the strong embrace of a warlord. She hugged him back, lost in his muscles, feeling safe and secure.
“You are my daughter,” he said firmly, “don’t forget that.” He then lowered his voice so the others could not hear, and added: “I love you.”
She was overwhelmed with emotions, but before she could reply he quickly turned and hurried away – and at the same moment Leo whined and jumped up on her, nudging his nose into her chest.
“He wants to go with you,” Aidan observed. “Take him – you’ll need him far more than I, shuttered up in Volis. He’s yours anyway.”
Kyra hugged Leo, unable to refuse as he would not leave her side. She felt comforted by the idea of his joining her, having missed him dearly. She could use another set of eyes and ears, too, and there was no one more loyal than Leo.
Ready, Kyra mounted Andor as her father’s men parted ways. They held up torches of respect for her all along the bridge, warding off the night, lighting a path for her. She looked out beyond them and saw the darkening sky, the wilderness before her. She felt excitement, fear, and most of all, a sense of duty. Of purpose. Before her lay the most important quest of her life, a quest that had at stake not only her identity, but the fate of all of Escalon. The stakes could not be higher.
Her staff strapped over one shoulder, her bow over the other, Leo and Dierdre beside her, Andor beneath her, and all her father’s men watching, Kyra began to ride Andor at a walk toward the city gates. She went slowly at first, through the torches, past the men, feeling as if she were walking into a dream, walking into her destiny. She did not look back, not wanting to lose resolve. A low horn was sounded by her father’s men, a horn of departure, a sound of respect.
She prepared to give Andor a kick – but he already anticipated her. He began to run, first at a trot, then a gallop.
Within moments Kyra found herself racing through the snow, through the gates of Argos, over the bridge, into the open field, the cold wind in her hair and nothing before her but a long road, savage creatures, and the falling blackness of night.
Chapter Four
Merk ran through the wood, stumbling down the dirt slope, weaving between trees, the leaves of Whitewood crunching beneath him as he ran for all he had. He looked ahead and kept in his sights the distant plumes of smoke filling the horizon, blocking out the blood-red sunset, and he felt a rising sense of urgency. He knew the girl was down there somewhere, possibly being murdered even at this moment, and he could not make his legs run fast enough.
Killing seemed to find him; it encountered him at every turn, on seemingly every day, the way other men were summoned home for dinner. He had a date with death, his mother used to say. Those words rang in his head, had haunted him for most of his life. Were her words self-fulfilling? Or had he been born with a black star over his head?
Killing for Merk was a natural part of his life, like breathing or having lunch, no matter who he was doing it for, or how. The more he pondered it, the more he felt a great sense of disgust, as if he wanted to vomit his entire life. But while everything inside him screamed at him to turn around, to start life anew, to continue on his pilgrimage for the Tower of Ur, he just could not do it. Violence was, once again, summoning him, and now was not the time to ignore its call.
Merk ran, the billowing clouds of smoke getting closer, making it harder to breathe, the smell of smoke stinging his nostrils, and a familiar feeling began to overtake him. It was not fear or even, after all these years, excitement. It was a feeling of familiarity. Of the killing machine he was about to become. It was always what happened when he went into battle – his own, private battle. In his version of battle, he killed his opponent face to face; he didn’t have to hide behind a visor or armor or a crowd’s applause like those fancy knights. In his view, his was the most courageous battle of all, reserved for true warriors like himself.
And yet as he ran, something felt different to Merk. Usually, Merk did not care who lived or died; it was just a job. That kept him clear to reason, free from being clouded emotionally. Yet this time, it was different. For the first time in as long as he could remember, no one was paying him to do this. He proceeded of his own volition, for no other reason than because he pitied the girl and wanted to set wrongs right. It made him invested, and he did not like the feeling. He regretted now that he had not acted sooner and had turned her away.
Merk ran at a steady clip, not carrying any weapons – and not needing to. He had in his belt only his dagger, and that was enough. Indeed, he might not even use it. He preferred to enter battle weaponless: it threw his opponents off-guard. Besides, he could always strip his enemy’s weapons and use them against them. That left him with an instant arsenal everywhere he went.
Merk burst out of Whitewood, the trees giving way to open plains and rolling hills, and was met by the huge, red sun, sitting low on the horizon. The valley spread out before him, the sky above it black, as if angry, filled with smoke, and there, aflame, sat what could only be the remnants of the girl’s farm. Merk could hear it from here, the gleeful shouts of men, criminals, their voices filled with delight, bloodlust. With his professional eye he scanned the scene of the crime and immediately spotted them, a dozen men, faces lit by the