11

Waiting to meet you at the crossroads were a man and a woman in deep conversation. The man was tall, redheaded, and dressed in white robes that might have been worn by a prophet or a mystic in an ancient drama. They made him look almost otherworldly, but for his silver spectacles and calculated smile. The woman was small, fair, and shrouded in a hooded black cloak. She'd conjured a glowing orb in her hand for light.

The man introduced himself as Alvis Wyrde, speaking as calmly as if you'd happened to meet on the road. The name Wyrde belonged to one of the northern dukes or duchesses up near Delevon, you thought. The woman did not immediately offer her name, or any greeting at all, though Alvis kept glancing at her as though he expected her to speak. It looked as though you'd have to speak next, if you meant for whatever this was to progress.