House of Ash and Gold

Chapter 11: The Scribe’s Book

After the silent oath, Cael kept to himself for two days. He still took his usual place at meals and showed up at the practice yard when called, but otherwise he vanished into the quieter corners of the house.

On the morning of the third day, Edric summoned him without looking up from his own plate.

"You're useless with a blade and too soft for the yard," Edric said. "Fine. Go sit with Master Renn and learn something worth earning your keep. If you can count, at least you'll be less of a disgrace."

That was all, no explanation or room to refuse.

Cael didn't argue. In fact this worked perfectly for his own plans.

He only nodded once and rose while Jorlan snorted into his cup.

By the time he reached the scribe's counting room, Master Renn was already hunched over a ledger, quill scratching. He didn't even glance up when Cael arrived.

"Sit," Master Renn muttered after a long pause, still writing. "If you're going to waste my air, boy, at least keep your hands off the ledgers until I tell you otherwise."

So Cael calmly stood aside, he kept his hands folded and his eyes on the pages, and when Master Renn finally noticed him staring, he only said, dryly,

"What? Never seen numbers before?"

"Sit," the scribe finally muttered without looking up. "I don't care for shadows standing over me."

Cael moved quietly to the bench at the edge of the long table. He kept his hands on his knees, fingers splayed to keep them from fidgeting.

For two mornings now he'd come to this little counting room tucked between the tower and the hall, under the pretense of being "instructed" in household accounts. In truth, no one expected him to learn a damn thing. This was probably why his father sent him here officially now, another way to keep him out of sight and out of the way while Jorlan strutted in the yard.

But numbers unlike steel didn't slip out of his fingers.

The scribe's quill scratched and paused. The man leaned back, pinched the bridge of his nose, and squinted at Cael with watery gray eyes.

"You actually read any of this yesterday?" he asked flatly.

Cael nodded. "Yes."

"And remember it?"

"Yes."

The scribe snorted, lips curling faintly. "Doubt that. Even Edric couldn't tell you where the winter wheat shipments come from, and he's been signing for them twenty years."

Cael didn't bother to answer. He reached out, slid the open ledger closer, and ran a finger down the left margin.

"Wheat from Dorvale. Twenty-five wagons, three weeks late," he recited. "Docked at Alne wharf before the frost. Stored in the south granary because the north roof leaks. You sent the receipt yourself."

The scribe froze, quill still in hand.

Cael continued. "Silver for oil was two marks short last quarter because Gerren skimmed it to pay the glaziers repairing the botched windows in the west wing. And" He turned a page. "The pageboy who delivered the invoice was paid twice for the same run."

When Cael looked up, the scribe was staring at him, eyebrows lifted.

"You read all that yesterday."

"Yes."

"And you… remember all of it."

"Yes."

The scribe grunted and leaned back, folding his arms over his narrow chest. "Well. That explains the staring. Thought you were half-asleep."

"Not asleep," Cael muttered.

The scribe's lips twitched faintly, almost a smile. "No. Not asleep. Sharp little fox, aren't you."

That wasn't what Edric called him. But Cael didn't say that out loud.

Instead he asked, "What happens if the Dorvale wheat doesn't come?"

"Then the city bakeries riot, and I get blamed." The scribe snorted again and dipped his quill. "And if the wheat does come but the roof's still leaking, it rots before spring. And then you get blamed."

Cael traced the columns of numbers with his eyes. He could already see which ones would break first.

Hours passed. The scribe gave him a stack of parchments and told him to copy figures into clean columns.

At first Cael did as instructed — slowly, carefully, each stroke deliberate. But before long, he found himself glancing at each page only once, the rows of numbers lodging in his mind as easily as faces.

By midday the scribe was watching him more than the ledgers.

"You know," the old man said as he poured himself a cup of watered wine, "these numbers… they travel farther than you ever will."

Cael glanced up.

 "The wheat starts in Dorvale," the scribe continued. "The parchment you're holding was drafted there, stamped in Alne, then carried north by courier to the Ridge." Then I copy it clean, send a second copy back for their records, and the third goes on to the royal seat. Every mark you make is seen by three, four, sometimes ten pairs of eyes before it's finally buried in a vault."

Cael flexed his fingers and glanced at the stack of ledgers on the shelf.

"These parchments move faster than swords," the scribe added. "They're worth more too. Some of the best scribes in the city earn more than knights."

Cael raised a brow at that.

"Because a sword only wins you the field," the scribe said simply. "A pen wins you the harvest."

Cael's lips curved faintly. "And the gold."

"That too."

By the third day, Cael no longer waited to be told what to do.

He arrived early and unrolled the day's accounts himself.

He started to notice patterns, not just the numbers, but the hands that wrote them. One clerk's ledgers leaned to the left, another's carried a faint smudge of ink at every tenth line where his thumb dragged. Both small tells, both easy to forge if someone needed to.

He noticed more too — names that appeared again and again beside shortages, little half-moons of ink where numbers had been scratched out and rewritten. The scribe never mentioned them, but Cael saw.

And when the scribe caught him staring at one such entry too long, the old man only raised a bushy brow and muttered, "You see more than you should, boy. Best not to let Edric know."

"Why?"

The scribe shrugged. "He doesn't pay me to ask questions. You shouldn't either."

But Cael filed it away. Like everything else.

That afternoon, when he returned to the hall for supper, he found himself watching the servants again.

There, a kitchen maid was slipping something into the steward's pocket while he poured Jorlan's wine.

Little trades. Notes and coins passed quicker than the platters of roast duck. It seemed they'd agreed to conduct their dealings only at meals, or perhaps mealtime was simply the one chance they had to meet inside the keep.

The pen wins the harvest and silver keeps the servants in line.

Jorlan didn't notice, of course. He was always too busy boasting in his own little world. And Father either didn't notice, or didn't care enough to rein them in.

...

That night, after supper, he slipped back to the counting room.

The scribe was still there, alone, squinting at a lamp and muttering curses under his breath.

Cael knocked once and entered.

"Back again?" the scribe muttered without looking up.

"I have a question."

The scribe's quill paused mid-stroke.

"Well?"

Cael stepped closer and pointed to the parchment on the table. "Who writes the contracts?"

The scribe glanced at him. "Depends."

"On what?"

"On how much gold is changing hands. The little contracts, selling wheat, buying salt, those are handled here. I write those. The big ones, land leases, ship commissions, dowries, those go through the city scribes. Under seal."

"And they… get paid more than you."

The scribe gave a dry laugh. "Boy, the royal scribe in Alne earns more in a year than you're worth in ten."

Cael's jaw tightened faintly.

The scribe eyed him sidelong. "Why?"

"Because," Cael said slowly, "if someone wanted to change things… to control who signs what… it would be better to know how the contracts work."

The scribe's lips curved faintly. "Now that… that's the kind of thinking I'd expect from an Ashveil heir. Not the usual Varissen dullard."

Cael didn't answer. But inside, the hum in his chest stirred again, faint but approving.

Later, in his room, he unrolled a scrap of parchment and began to write.

What I Am Becoming: Ledger of Names

Memory — sharp. Names, faces, voices, even numbers now.

Sight — clearer. Can see… tells. Who lies, who forges.

Touch — resonance still strongest through the tower & locket.

Patterns — …new? Reading people through the ledgers.

He tapped the quill thoughtfully and added:

Pen — wins what steel cannot.

Then he tucked the page beneath his mattress, where no one would look.

...

The next morning, when he entered the counting room, the scribe already had two ledgers open.

"You're early," the old man said without glancing up.

"So are you."

The scribe chuckled faintly and pushed one ledger toward him. "If you're so eager to learn, copy this for me. Then we'll see if you're as clever as you think."

Cael sat down and got to work.

By the time midday bells rang, the scribe was watching him again with an unreadable expression.

"You've got a dangerous mind," the scribe said finally.

"Why?"

"Because you notice what most people pray is overlook."

Cael let the words settle. Then he dipped the quill and kept writing.

That evening, as the sun sank below the hills, Cael lingered in the counting room after the scribe left.

He closed the ledger he'd been copying and pressed his palm flat against the old wood of the table. Warm.

Not like the stones of the tower, but warm all the same.

He closed his eyes and let the resonance come.

The faintest whispers, not words this time, but numbers. Coins clinking, pages turning, a muttered oath about missing shipments.

Not memory, not quite. More like… the echo of every hand that had written here before.

When he opened his eyes again, the ink on the page seemed darker. The columns clearer. Even the dust motes hung still, as if waiting for him to speak.

Cael smiled faintly to himself.

The blade may have been Jorlan's domain for now.

But this… this was a weapon too.

Cael left the counting room that night with ink on his fingers and the faint hum still alive in his chest, already imagining how the numbers and the steel would one day answer to him, not them.