What Mine Eyes Have SeenRhys took the stairs to the top of the Tower slowly. Though he normally took them two at a time--he could've managed three with his long legs, but the stairs curved too sharply--right then he couldn't quite muster the strength or enthusiasm. Things were so certain only a couple of days ago, before the Boltons arrived, and now nothing was certain: people important to him hurt or dying, accusations made, danger, betrayal, deceit, murder... Was he leaving anything out? He arrived at the top of the stairs, opened the hatch door, and stepped up into the room from the opening in the floor. It was dark and quiet here, the only sounds the rustling and occasional caws from the ravens left in the rookery up above. Rhys sighed. Kenrith told him not to let anyone else know about the despoiled rookery, which meant he was the one who was going to end up cleaning up the mess. Tonight. And he was not looking forward to it. But first things first. Rhys moved through the dark workroom with the confidence of one long accustomed to the layout. He lit a small lamp, shielded it so it wouldn't ruin his night vision, and brought it over to the far eyes, rebuilt after Godwyn had that unfortunate accident with it. Kenrith said to look through the far eyes for fires, glints of metal, anything unusual. All right. Apparently Kenrith suspected more Bolton men camping in the woods, waiting for the most opportune time to attack. Rhys sincerely hoped that he was wrong. He lowered his gaze to the eyepiece... He could see the forest in the most exquisite detail ... But no sign at all of any encroachment on the forest. Except ... far in the distance ... there seemed to be an unusual patterning in the trees themselves - visible only, he might suspect, at this elevation. It could be rope bridges, high in the trees. Rhys double checked his findings, then stood and ran a hand over his jaw as he thoughtfully looked out the window. "Hunh." Bridges in trees? Kenrith did say he and his men heard people above and were attacked from the trees. How long had the bridges been there without Holdfast knowing? And who was responsible for building them? Wildings was the only answer that currently came to his mind. Another plaintive caw sounded from the rookery and broke Rhys from his reverie. "I'm coming, I'm coming..." he mumbled. "One more thing I need to do first." Rhys left the Tower to make his way to the kitchens and to where the food stores were kept. The cooks, engaged in settling the kitchen down for the night, looked up at him queryingly. He noticed Mal and Jane - the men who had accompanied Kenrith - seated in a corner playing an arcane dice game. Jane's injured leg was ostentatiously propped on a bench with a thick bandage around it. Jane's wound hadn't been that serious and if he was up to playing dice, he was doing fine. Rhys nodded to the two men but didn't engage them in conversation. Instead, Rhys turned to one of the cooks he recognized. "Maura, have you seen Rickard?" Rickard handled a majority of the buying and selling at the castle, and as such seemed to have a running inventory of stores in his head. Small and dark, with a keen mind and a winning smile, he knew all of the merchants within two weeks' ride of Holdfast and where he'd get the best trade for nearly anything one could think of--Sewell had used Rickard's particular talents to obtain some more esoteric items peculiar to his maestering, so Rhys and Rickard knew each other well. Maura nodded. "He's in the Steward's room," she said, and then sighed. "Trying to persuade him we're going to need more supplies ... but you know what old 'Pennypinch' is like." Rhys smiled--he knew. "Thanks, Maura." He left the kitchens and made his way to the Steward. Everything is in good order. Indeed, they had supplies in hand for the tournament they were expecting to happen (if you remember, at game start, everyone was preparing for that!) Cleaning the rookery is a tedious but necessary task. At least all of Rhys's patients made it through the night ... and seemed mildly improved the next morning. |
