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It had been a day like most other days in the Citadel. Breakfast before the sun was up, then instructional periods with Archmaester Walgrave in the morning and Archmaesters Ebrose and Vaellyn in the afternoon. Sometimes Rhys managed a midday meal, sometimes he missed it.

His evenings were spent in further study in the Citadel's library. It was more comfortable than the cubicle given to him as a place to sleep and he was less likely to be bothered there than if he tried to study at, say, any of the local taverns.

If you excelled at something, you immediately became a magnet for unwanted attention from the other novices and acolytes. The first lesson Rhys learned at the Citadel was that he was no good at fist fights. The second lesson Rhys learned was how to maintain a low profile. You avoided unwanted attention by staying alone most of the time.

Six years he'd been here, with three links and status as an acolyte to show for it. Rhys wasn't disappointed in his progress. There were novices that had been here longer and were still pink-necked. Three links he had forged for himself in that time: silver for healing, brass for anatomy, and nickel for surgery. He was currently working on his black iron for ravenry and wood for herbology and expected to have both by the end of the year. That would be five links. He needed seven to qualify to take his vows for maester.

It was late in the evening now as Rhys made his way from the library back to his sleep cubicle. It had rained earlier in the day and not only were the cobblestones still wet and the sky overcast, but there was an unpleasant smell present he couldn't name, one that he only smelled when things were damp. Both the Citadel and Oldtown were ancient and cramped and dirty. Rhys missed the open fields of Dorne, or even the crisp air of Holdfast, but it was no good dwelling on it. Although the surroundings were less than savory, and politics and rivalry ran rampant, Rhys was learning more daily at the Citadel than he learned in a month on the sands of Dorne.

Details on the training and care of ravens flitted through his head as he treaded carefully on the slick cobbles. Archmaester Walgrave would no doubt quiz him on the material in the morning and Rhys wanted to be prepared, but right now he only looked forward to getting out of the damp and into bed.

But as he approached his dormitory, he nearly collided with someone hurrying down the steps. A young novice, one of those studying under Archmaester Ebrose. Dynstan, his name was - and he was meant to have a rare skill mixing potions. A rare inclination for trying them too, runmour had it, but his blue eyes beneath the pale red thatch of hair were wide and guileless.

"There you are!" he said importantly. "I was coming to the library to get you - my Maester wants to see you immediately."

"Something wrong?" Rhys asked, following the novice back to Archmaester Ebrose's rooms.

Dynstan shook his head. "He looked glum, but he's always glum when it's raining. There was a message from the Ravens for him, though. From the North, I think. Perhaps it's something to do with that. I just know he said immediately!"

From the North? That gave Rhys something to think about.

He shot a sidelong look at Rhys. "Perhaps they're sending you out to investigate some mysterious ailment ... Is it true you spotted those sick sailors had black bile fever in Bitterbridge last year?"

"Hookworms," Rhys said. "They cause blood in the stool, sometimes looks black, hence the name. Doesn't have anything to do with bile at all. Knew it was hookworms because they had itchy feet." He glanced at the novice to see if he'd figured out what itchy feet had to do with it.

Dynstan looked confused. "The ... the worms have feet? Or the people who have the worms?"

His eyes widened. "Is that how they catch them? Through their feet?"

They were starting down the long cool corridor that led to Archmaester Ebrose's rooms, lined on both sides by cupboards where innumerable distillations and dried herbs were stored at cool temperatures.

He'd been down this corridor enough times that Rhys didn't bother to glance left or right. "That's how the sailors caught them, walking barefoot," he answered Dystan. "The site of entry, wherever it is, will itch terribly."

Dynstan shuffled his own feet - probably the mention was making his own feet itch in sympathy. But he knocked at the Archmaester's door and called out, "I have brought Rhys to you, Maester!"

"Ah!" There was satisfaction in the voice behind the door. "Come in, come in! Not you, young Dynstan. Run along now and see if the kitchen have prepared enough water against my bathing."

Archmaester Ebrose was well-known (and much derided in some quarters) for his addiction to steaming hot baths, fragranced with his own choice of herbs.

Rhys opened the door and stepped in. He closed it behind him before turning to the Archaester and nodding a greeting. "Good evening, Archmaester. I am here as bid."

Good," said the Archmaester. "Good."

He was engaged in grinding something with a pestle and mortar, with his half moon spectacles pushed up above his bushy white eyebrows so they winked and caught the candlelight most disconcertingly.

"I have had a message from Maester Sewell," he said - and there was a certain respect in his tone as he named Rhys' great uncle. "He would welcome your presence at Holdfast."

Rhys blinked. Caught off-guard, he replied more frankly than he would have normally, "I don't understand. I'm to stop everything here and go north? What about my studies?"

"I think you can complete your current courses," said the Archmaester. "They should be over in a three-month, shouldn't they? The message was 'as soon as is possible', not a 'drop everything and come at once'. As for training ... no-one will dispute the qualirty of training you will receive at Maester Sewell's hands. Indeed, I am proud to say I studied the stars under his guidance myself."

His hand reached up to finger the link in his chain.

Just how old _is_ his uncle? Rhys wondered to himself.

"It is said no other Maester at Oldtower had the ability to undertsand and teach in so many fields of knowledge. Indeed, I believed ... " He broke off with a sharp look at Rhys, and then shook his head. "No matter. The important thing is no-one will dispute learning completed with Maester Sewell. And there will be no question of favouritism either. If Sewell decides you are worthy of a link, then you will unquestionably have earned it."

Rhys raised his eyebrows. That was high praise from the Citadel, a place full of men all trying to get ahead of one another. That they would trust another maester like that, no question, was very surprising to him. "Archmaester, if I may ask a question... Why did my great-uncle not become an archmaester himself?"

Ebrose shot him a sharp look under beetle brows. "He did."

"Then why is he not here at the Citadel? And why is he called 'maester' instead?"

Archmaester Ebrose started to speak, and then hesitated. "Perhaps," he said, glancing around the room, "that is a tale best told by your great-uncle himself. And at some distance from Oldtown.

Rhys's eyebrows climbed further still.

"Shall I send a raven to tell him you're coming? And when will you be ready to set out?"

The young man paused, considering things, then replied, "Please send the raven. I'll be leaving immediately. If Maester Sewell can oversee my studies up north then there is no reason to delay. Did he give any indication what this is about?"

"Lord Hardy," said Ebrose somberly. "His condition has taken a turn for the worse - and Arch ... Maester Sewell is anxious to have your skill to aid him. But do not leave too hastily, Rhys. To do so might attract ... " He hesitated. "Suspicion."

"Sir?" Rhys asked, not understanding.

"There are some people," said Ebrose, lowering his voice, "who will read more into this journey tyo Holdfast than a summons from your great-uncle. They saw him as dangerous ... and you are bright enough to be dangerous too, Rhys. If your studies should lead you in certain directions."

Rhys's expression turned solemn. "I've spent the better part of six years trying not to attract attention to myself," he said, also lowering his voice. "I've had a reasonable amount of success with the novices and other apprentices. Frankly, I thought that if I didn't embroil myself in the political morass that is the Citadel then I would be ignored by the maesters and archmaesters, too."

"An excellent plan," said Ebrose. "However, two things mitigated against it. One was the fact that you are Maester Sewell's relative - and the other is your own intelligence. You might try to make it, but you must know that you are among the best students of your generation. Most of the Maesters and Archmaesters will accept that at face value. But some will ... wonder."

Rhys narrowed his eyes. "Wonder? At what?"

"Whether your modest demeanour conceals something of the same doubtful ambitions that once guided your great uncle." The Archmaester's dark eyes were troubled. "There as such a thing as being too good, Rhys. And some wonder if all his years in the snow have tamed Maester Sewell."

"This would appear to be a prime opportunity for me to transfer my loyalties from Sewell to the Citadel and gain personal advantage," Rhys commented, his eyes intent on the archmaester in front of him.

"Indeed," said the Archmaester. "And an ideal opportunity for the Citadel to rid itself of a potential problem by burying you in the vastness of the North. Sending you to an obscure backwater."

He measured a little red powder into a copper scale.

"There are some who would give you your full Maestership immediately if you foreswore your great-uncle, you know. And, indeed, we are meant to put our family ties behind us when we put on the collar."

Rhys frowned. "The title is not all that important to me. I've already gained what I wanted from the Citadel: excellent training to become a healer, due to your excellent tutelage. That will not be sufficient reason to betray my uncle."

"Indeed," he continued thoughtfully, "I would appear to have more options not becoming a maester. No vows, no oppressive Citadel orders. I would be free to, say, return to my family."

"Indeed," said the Archmaester again, adding three drops of a vivuidly blue liquid to the powder. "Nonetheless, there is more power in a brotherhood than in being a single, masterless man. Your uncle knows that - for even his demotion and exile have not caused him to resign his vows. And he has visited here, to add to our store of knowledge, and to acquire more. You might choose not to take vows when the time comes, Rhys. But I suggest you burn no boats before you are fully conversant with the art of their construction."

"Well spoken, archmaester," Rhys acknowledged, bowing his head. "At the risk of sounding ingenuous, the only burning ambition I have currently is to be a good healer. But I think you already believed that, hence your desire to have our current conversation. Thank you for your words of wisdom. They will not go unheeded."

"No," said the Archmaester, shaking the resulting mixture a little and watching, apparently fascinated, as it fizzed and bubbled. "No, I credit you with that much intelligence, certainly."

He set the mixture down and looked at Rhys over the top of his spectacles.

"Go North. Take the training you will receive from Maester Sewell. You may be able to aid him with one Lord Hardy and - if I recall correctly - the next Lord stands in your debt. Maintain your links with the Citadel ... but enjoy the length of the leash you'll have on your collar. So would be my advice. But I'm an old man, and I want my bath to ease my aches and pains."

His tone was testy, but there was amused warmth in his eyes.

"Yes, Archmaester Ebrose. Thank you." Rhys quirked one corner of his mouth at the old man and left.

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