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mine. His grandson may have taken vows at Saint Jarlath’s about twenty years ago. It’s important that I find him.”
    â€œTo tell the monk his grandfather is dead?”
    â€œYes.”
    Joram replaced the volume on the shelf and turned to eye Rhys curiously.
    â€œAnd then what?” Joram asked softly. “Rhys, you’re not making much sense. If the man took vows at Saint Jarlath’s twenty years ago, he may not even be alive by now. Even if he is, he’ll be a cloistered monk. You couldn’t see him. The most you could hope from him would be prayers for his kinsman’s repose—which, if he’s any kind of monk at all, he’ll have been giving all these years, regardless of whether his grandsire was alive or dead. Did the old man leave him an inheritance or something?”
    â€œIn a way,” Rhys murmured. He took the coin from Joram and glanced at it distractedly, but would not meet the priest’s eyes.
    Joram frowned and folded his arms across his chest.
    â€œWhat do you mean, ‘in a way’? If the old man left him anything, it belongs to his order now. You know that monks haven’t any property of their own.”
    Rhys smiled in spite of himself. “Not this inheritance, my friend. This is not for monks.”
    â€œWill you stop dissembling and get to the point? You know about cloistered orders; you know about community property; and you know what would be involved to find this man after twenty years. Who is this monk?”
    Rhys paused, then wet his lips nervously. “All that you have said is true, or would be true in ordinary circumstances,” he whispered, looking up. “But this is no ordinary monk, Joram. We must find him. God help us, and him, but we must! His father is long dead, and his grandfather also, now. But his grandfather claimed to be Aidan Haldane, last living son of King Ifor. Your so-called cloistered monk may well be the rightful Haldane King of Gwynedd!”
    Joram’s jaw dropped, and he stared at the Healer in disbelief. “The rightful Haldane heir?”
    At Rhys’s guarded nod, Joram reached blindly for the bench he remembered being somewhere behind him, eased himself down upon it gently.
    â€œRhys, do you realize what you’re saying?”
    Rhys shifted uncomfortably. “I’m trying to avoid thinking about the political ramifications just yet, if that’s what you mean. Can’t we simply say that we’re looking for a monk whose grandfather died? Besides, the man himself may be dead by now, for all we know.”
    â€œBut, what if he’s not?” Joram replied softly. “Rhys, you may not want to think about it, but I’m not sure you can afford that luxury. If what you say is true …”
    With a defeated sigh, Rhys sank down on the bench beside the priest. “I know,” he murmured, after a long silence. “But the illusion of innocence gives me a semblance of comfort. God knows, I’m not a political creature, Joram, but I …” He bowed his head. “I had a friend,” he said. “I gave him my hand and comfort in his final hour, and he gave me his most precious possession: the identity of his only grandson. He showed me an ancient and noble heritage, and a potential for something different from what we know. And then he said, ‘Ask yourself if the man on the throne is worthy of the golden circlet,’ Joram. He said, ‘Ask if this is the sort of rule you wish for your children and your children’s children. Then you decide.’”
    â€œAnd, have you decided?”
    Rhys shook his head. “Not yet. I don’t think I, or you, or any one man can make a decision like that alone.” He looked up wistfully. “But I have considered what old Daniel told me, Joram. And now—well, I think we must try to find his grandson.”
    â€œTo tell him his grandfather is dead?” Joram asked.
    Rhys glanced