The stranger arrived at dawn, walking slowly up the eastern road.
William saw him from the roof of his house—a figure wrapped in a travel-worn cloak, his steps measured, his head bowed. He carried no weapon that William could see, but there was something about the way he moved that suggested he was not a man to be underestimated. He walked like someone who had been walking for a very long time.
William climbed down from the roof and walked to the gate.
The stranger stopped a few feet away. He was old—older than William had expected—his face lined with years of hardship, his eyes the color of the winter sky. He looked at William with an expression that was hard to read.
"Are you William Draven?" he asked.
"I'm William."
"I've traveled a long way to meet you." The stranger extended his
