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toward the door. There he paused to collect his wits, to resume his professional demeanor, to steel himself for the servants and the waiting priest. A last glance at the old man, and then he opened the door.
    â€œIt is finished, my lord?” the priest asked.
    Rhys nodded. “The end was easy. He did not suffer much.”
    The priest bowed, then slipped past Rhys to begin chanting the final prayers, the servants slowly sinking to their knees around the doorway, some of them weeping softly. As the words drifted out of the room, Rhys, suddenly very tired, picked his way slowly down the stairs to where Gifford awaited him.
    Gifford stood as his master approached, clutching Rhys’s medical pouch to his chest.
    â€œIs it over, master?”
    Rhys nodded, then gestured for Gifford to open the door and proceed.
    Yes, it’s over , he thought to himself, as they stepped into the street again.
    Or, is it only just beginning?

C HAPTER T HREE
    Then give place to the physician, for the Lord hath created him: let him not go from thee, for thou hast need of him .
    â€”Ecclesiasticus 38:12
    It was raining steadily by the next morning, when Rhys Thuryn drew rein before the Abbey of Saint Liam. Unaccompanied by any servant or attendant, he had ridden most of the night to reach the abbey, for the coin Daniel had given him would not let him sleep. He dismounted and led his horse beneath the eaves extending around the courtyard, then waited until a young novice came to take charge of the animal. His leather cloak was nearly soaked through, his fur leggings spattered with mud. Rain dripped from his cap and the ends of his hair as he strode into the shelter of the cloister walk and scanned the area.
    He had been to Saint Liam’s many times before, of course—had studied here with Joram, years ago, before he had discovered his talents in the healing arts. The memories were happy ones, of more carefree days.
    But the reason for his visit today was not mere nostalgia. For, of the men Rhys knew he could trust, there was but one who might know the origin of the worn silver coin now lying in the pouch at his waist. Joram MacRorie, Rhys’s boyhood companion and probably his closest friend, was currently a master here at the abbey school. If Rhys’s information proved to be correct, and the man Benedict in the unknown monastery really was the Haldane heir, then it was also Joram who would know how best to use that knowledge for the good of all concerned.
    With a sigh, Rhys swept off his sodden cap and began to make his way along the roofed cloister walk toward the Chapter House, ruffling his gloved fingers through wet, unruly hair. Joram would not be in the Chapter House at this hour, of course. Chapter would have been concluded hours ago, before most folk were even rising for the day.
    But the schoolrooms and the quarters of the schoolmasters lay through the passage just ahead. If he could not himself locate Joram, there was a good chance of finding someone who did know where the young priest was.
    He stood aside as a double line of schoolboys marched past with their master, solemn in their blue school cloaks with the badge of Saint Liam blazoned on the breast. Then he was moving through the passage to the central hall, into which the schoolrooms opened. Across the hall he spied a priest he knew, and he approached with a respectful bow.
    â€œGood morning, Father Dominic. Do you know where I might find Father MacRorie?”
    The old priest peered at him myopically, then beamed as recognition came. “Why, it’s young Rhys Thuryn, isn’t it? Were you not one of my pupils some years ago?”
    Rhys smiled and bowed again. “I’m flattered that you remember after so long, Father.”
    The priest’s rheumy eyes had flicked to the Healer’s insignia on Rhys’s tunic, and this time it was his turn to bow.
    â€œHow could I forget, my lord? Your sacred calling was apparent to me even in