WE STOOD THERE, STUDYING each other. There were wings of gray in his dark hair, at the temples; lines of anger, bitterness, and exhaustion scored his face. A savage scar slashed across the bridge of his nose, still not fully healed. A dirty, stained bandage was tied around his lower leg, and as he straightened from the signpost he leaned heavily on a gnarled staff.
I knew what he was seeing as he ran his dark eyes over me: a non-descript woman of middle age, with brown eyes and brown hair, clad in shapeless robes with a satchel slung over one shoulder and a staff of her own. I could have been anyone—a poor farmwife, perhaps, traveling home from the market to warmth and husband and children.
“It’s been a long time,” he said. “Do you remember me?” He gave a short, rough laugh. “I don’t sup
