House of Ash and Gold

Chapter 2: The Cold House

A few years had passed but the clang of steel rang through the courtyard below at around the usual time.

Cael Varissen leaned against the balustrade of the tower stairs, peeking through the slits at the figures moving in the yard.

His half-brother Jorlan was already at it again, sword in hand, driving the practice blade into his opponent's ribs with a brutal flourish.

Cael flinched at the sharp crack of wood against wood.

Jorlan was everything their father, Lord Edric Varissen, could have wanted in a son: tall for his age, broad-shouldered, already wielding a sword like a man. The knights clapped him on the back when he disarmed his sparring partner, and Edric himself stood at the edge of the yard, arms folded, lips pressed into the faintest expression of approval.

From here, Cael could just barely make out his father's gray eyes sweeping over the yard and briefly, up to the tower where he stood.

The gaze lingered. Then dismissed him.

Cael swallowed and ducked back behind the stone.

When he dared glance again, he saw Jorlan looking up too, a smirk curling his lip.

Jorlan mouthed something across the distance. "Watch and learn," then turned back to his next opponent.

Cael hated that smirk.

He hated the way the knights all murmured about Jorlan's strength and called him my lord, even though Cael was the legitimate heir. He hated that his own hands were too small to grip a proper practice blade, that his eyes blurred when he stared too long in the sun, that when he'd tried to join the sparring last month he'd ended up flat on his back before he could even swing. He hated that his father had turned away without a word when it happened.

Hated it enough that the memory burned behind his eyes even now.

Cael ducked back fully behind the balustrade, letting the cold stone press against his shoulders. He slid down until he was sitting on the narrow stair, knees drawn up, fingers absently finding the locket where it rested against his chest, a blackened steel and gold pendant no larger than his thumb, warm to the touch and faintly etched with runes he couldn't read. His mother's parting gift, tucked into his swaddling the night she died, and the only thing of hers he truly owned.

For years now, since he first heard the whispers and saw faint thread of light, he'd found himself slipping into moments like this.

Moments where the world around him fell strangely muted.

Where the air thickened, faintly charged, and something in the stones and timbers of Varissen Hall seemed to… watch him back.

The first time it had happened, the morning after, he'd thought he was going mad.

The whispers came faint and ragged at first. At odd hours, when he was tired, angry, or alone.

Sometimes in the sparring yard after everyone left, when the dust still hung in the air. Sometimes in the kitchens, when no one else was around and the fire was dying. Sometimes, worst of all, in his own room between the moments he closed his eyes and drifted toward sleep.

They came like threads of old voices caught in the stones.

"… not enough… heir… broken…"

"… watching you…"

Always faint. Always distant. Never clear enough to answer.

And always other people's.

He'd told Matilde, once.

She'd gone very still, then crossed herself and muttered something about "old blood" and "better to let sleeping things lie." But she'd also told him that if he had to listen, if he couldn't help it, then at least to learn the difference between the house's echoes and his own mind.

He hadn't understood what she meant.

Not until now.

Because now... now the whispers changed.

He froze, fingers gripping the edge of the balustrade.

This one wasn't faint. This one was warm, close and clear.

"… Little thorn…"

His breath hitched.

He straightened slowly, staring across the courtyard... at nothing.

"… my sweet boy… you're listening now…"

It wasn't a whisper exactly. More like her breath in his ear, low and familiar, carrying the faint scent of lavender.

"… good… watch them… wait… they don't see you yet…"

He swallowed hard, throat dry.

That voice, that presence, it was hers... Liora Ashveil, his mother.

It couldn't be anyone else.

He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath his palm.

It faded as quickly as it came, leaving behind only silence.

For the first time in weeks, he realized the other whispers… had stopped.

He was alone again.

But he knew one thing now, this wasn't madness.

Not entirely.

The bells began to toll then, breaking the spell.

Low and heavy, their peal carrying through the keep.

He rose to his feet, brushing dust from his tunic, and descended the tower stairs in silence.

By the time he reached the courtyard, the retainers were already gathered around the bier.

Ser Caldus lay beneath a white shroud, his hands folded over his chest. The smell of incense clung to the morning air as priests muttered prayers no one seemed to truly listen to.

Caldus. The one man in this cold stone hall who'd never sneered at him. The one who'd taught him how to keep his feet in the sparring yard, who'd told him it didn't matter if his eyes blurred. "Feel the swing with your body and in your mind, lad, not with your sight."

And now he was gone too.

Edric stood at the head of the bier, with a presence that was the very picture of lordly composure. If he felt anything at all, his face didn't show it.

Beside him, Jorlan stood perfectly at ease, like this was just another day to endure before supper. Every now and then, Jorlan glanced at Cael with a faint amused smirk, as though this funeral were somehow his failure too.

Cael's fingers curled at his sides.

He could feel the faintest echo of that other voice still there, lurking just behind his own heartbeat.

"… watch… wait…"

The knights lifted the bier and began the slow procession toward the Cold House.

Cael fell into step behind them, ignoring the weight of eyes on his back.

The crypt doors groaned open, releasing a breath of chill air that smelled of stone and old incense.

One by one, the mourners filed in, their torches sputtering against the damp walls.

Cael followed them down, each step colder than the last.

Inside, the torches threw long shadows over carved sarcophagi and hollow alcoves, each bearing the crest of Varissen.

The priests set Caldus's bier into place between two ancient stone coffins, their words echoing flatly off the walls.

Then, as the others began filing out again, Cael stayed where he was.

Something tugged at him.

He stepped closer, resting his hand lightly on the wood of the coffin.

The air shifted, not as violently as before, but enough to make the torches gutter and his breath fog.

"… boy…?"

He stiffened.

The voice wasn't hers this time. it was deeper, older, rougher, but it was still clear.

It was Ser Caldus voice.

How is that possible

When his fingers lifted, the presence faded, leaving only the chill.

At the top of the stairs, Matilde was waiting.

Her eyes scanned him, narrowing slightly. "Why did you stay behind."

"I was saying goodbye," he muttered.

"Hm."

She didn't press the matter, but her gaze lingered briefly at his chest where the locket lay hidden beneath his tunic before she turned and led the way back into the light.

The great hall was quiet when he returned.

The household sat at long tables, breaking bread and drinking weak wine. They spoke in low murmurs that stopped every time he walked past.

Jorlan lounged near the hearth, laughing quietly with two squires. Edric was already deep in conversation with the steward, not even sparing him a glance.

Cael sat at the end of the table, breaking his bread into small, uneven pieces, and thought about his mother, about her voice, soft and close just for him, cutting through all the others.

"… watch them… wait…"