The physician bent down and washed his hands in a bowl nearby. Arwain caught the sweet, pungent smell typical of Drayner’s surgery. Then the physician was shaking his hands vigorously and beckoning his helpers to bring the next victim forward.
He glanced at Arwain while he waited. His gaze was one that Arwain had seen before in the faces of field physicians; practical and detached but underlain by a deep anger. It contained a cruel vision.
But who knows what my own gaze tells, Arwain thought, and, as if in confirmation, a brief look of self-reproach passed over the physician’s face.
‘I’m sorry I spoke harshly, Lord,’ he said. ‘I didn’t recognize you.’
‘It’s of no consequence,’ Arwain said, laying a hand on the man’s arm. ‘Tend your charges.’
The physician turned to the man being laid
