* * * * *
A steady wind raced our carriage as it wound its way through the capital towards Phillip's palace. Gazing out into the crowded streets, I met the staring eyes of an old woman. Ratty clothes dripped off her frame like fallen tears, and her face was a valley of cracks and fissures. Despite her poverty, she never looked away as our carriage, a royal carriage, rumbled by on the cobblestones. Though her face and twisted spine had vanished in an instant, her memory, her meaning lived in my mind. Why had Martin died?
He died for this.
And with the new king's summons, I would live for this.