Chapter 68 The Miscounted

  The three boys reached the headwaters of the Blackwater River just as dusk began to fall, the swollen waters hurrying down from the high ridges like a restless beast. The air here was colder, sharper, and carried the scent of pine and wet stone.

  It was Pit who spoke first, his broad hands brushing the damp moss from his leggings as he looked back at the hollow they now called their own.

  “Six hours,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “Six hours, and Caelen’s gone and built us a home out of a hole in the ground.”

  Tiberan gave a low whistle, his eyes lingering on the small opening hidden behind the piled stones Caelen had so carefully stacked. From the outside, it was nothing but an irregular outcropping on the ravine wall, a place no normal traveler would spare a second glance. Yet, within it, it was more than shelter. It was craft. It was survival.

  “Not just a hiding hole,” Tiberan said, voice low, reverent. “He made a hearth inside, and the smoke doesn’t even linger. Rises through that mud chimney of his, clean as any hearth in my father’s hall. And you saw the way he shaped it? He sent the smoke to that windswept cleft, where it whirls and vanishes. Anyone hunting for us would pass right by.”

  Pit grunted, shifting uneasily. He had used his gift to harden the mud along the chimney’s length, sealing cracks with the precision of a mason. Still, the idea had been Caelen’s. “He sees things,” Pit admitted, rubbing his palms together. “Where I’d see only mud and stone, he sees what it can be. A comfortable area for a bed, a chimney for warmth, not just a place to hide, but safety. It’s like he knew this cave was waiting for him to shape it.”

  Inside, the cave was almost warm compared to the cutting wind. The fire crackled in its earthen throat, smoke drawn away without choking the air. Along one wall, an area raised for beds had been built from packed dirt, its surfaces softened with a layering of dried grasses. Above, the stone roof gleamed faintly with firelight, showing where Caelen had chipped away the loose rock with nothing but a pick and stubborn resolve.

  Tiberan stretched himself out on the nearest bed, running his hands across the grass matting. “Soft as hay,” he murmured, “but warmer. And raised, too—no damp earth stealing the warmth from our backs.” He laughed suddenly, the sound half incredulous. “Who else could’ve done this? With only a shovel, a pick, and his bare hands? By the Veils, Caelen, if this is what you can build in six hours, I’d like to see what you could raise with six months.”

  Pit’s eyes glinted in the firelight, his awe edged with unease. “It’s not just the work,” he said slowly. “It’s the way he thinks. Who digs a chimney out of a cave wall, and then hides the smoke with the wind itself? Who builds a wall of stone at the entrance so no one knows we’re here?” He shook his head, voice dropping. “Not a noble child. Not any ordinary boy, at least.”

  The two of them fell silent for a moment, the only sound the snapping of the fire and the distant rush of the river.

  Caelen crouched low by the mouth of the cave, his hands blackened with soil and dust, his tunic streaked with mud. He had spent much of the afternoon testing the weight of stones along the ridge and dragging down only those he deemed fit for his work—broad enough to anchor, yet flat enough to stack with balance. One by one, he pressed them into place on either side of the entrance, each stone carefully wedged against the other until the frame rose waist-high.

  Tiberan watched him, half in awe, half in disbelief. “He’s building a wall… inside a cave,” he muttered to Pit, who only gave a shrug and tossed another branch into Caelen’s pile.

  The branches were no thicker than a boy’s wrist, cut short to fit snug between the rising stones. Caelen jammed one down, twisting it so that it caught tight. Then another. And another. The crisscrossed stakes began to form a lattice sturdy enough to stop a charging boar, yet pliant enough that Caelen could pull sections free if they needed a quick escape.

  “Three stones here,” Caelen said in his halting, broken cadence, patting the base where a gap yawned. “Then… strong. No push through.” He grinned, a quick flash of satisfaction, and braced his weight against the frame to test it. It did not budge.

  Pit gave a low whistle. “Not bad, Caelen. Not bad at all. Looks more like a hunter’s lodge than a hole in the rocks.”

  Caelen completed his work, and his eyes scanned it. “Safe for night. No tusks.” His voice carried both relief and pride, though his gaze flicked back to the forest’s edge as though expecting some hidden watcher.

  The entrance gave a new feel—secretive, sheltered, almost as if the cave itself was no longer part of the open wild but a true home, tucked away behind stone and branches. Smoke curled faintly from the hidden chimney above, and the sound of the Blackwater murmured nearby.

  Tiberan finally shook his head, unable to keep the grin from his lips. “I thought we were just camping. He’s gone and built us a fortress.”

  Tiberan finally sat up, watching Caelen across the flames as he checked the stone wall at the entrance one last time, ensuring it was stable, that no stray glow of firelight could escape through the cracks. His face was calm, but there was a weight behind his eyes, the same weight that had grown since they’d left the estate.

  "He thinks differently," Tiberan whispered. "And I will learn all that he has to teach." Pit nodded once, slowly, in agreement.

  …

  The morning

  Caelen knelt on the ground next to the little fire, coaxing a battered kettle sitting on top of the coals. Steam rose, infusing the air with the bitter-sweet smell of dried leaves immersed in the water. He stuck it once with a stick, watching the roil of color shift through the liquid, but his mind was far away from the tea.

  The steward had lied—or perhaps been careless, but Caelen doubted it was a simple error. The headcount he had been told of the valley folk was far too low. He had seen it himself over the last days: too many homes, too many working hands in the fields, too many children running by the streams and boundaries. And if the people were more numerous, then the taxes—the lifeblood of his family’s coffers—were falsely recorded.

  He felt his chest tighten as he leaned back on his heels. If the steward understates the population, then he understates the yield—fewer names on the rolls, fewer coppers in the tithe. But if the truth is larger… gods, then we are bleeding revenue that we desperately need. Entire fields’ worth. A margin wide enough to fund soldiers, roads, and even to store relief in lean winters.

  He poured them all a cup. He blew softly at the steam, letting it scald his lips without drinking. The taste of opportunity was sharp and bitter. Yet with it came danger. What am I to do with this? Return now? Go home and accuse a man who has served for years, without proof, but my word? If I do, I risk revealing my hand, and worse, I reveal that I am capable, and that will draw attention too early.

  Pit came in with a bundle of kindling, whistling softly, and set it by the fire. Tiberan followed later, his arms full of water skins dripping cold, and neither pressed Caelen with questions. They had seen his silence stretch from breakfast into lunch, through the gathering of wood, through the winding of cord and repair of packs. Caelen thanked them with nods but spoke little.

  It is worth the risk, his thoughts pushed, like a continuous grinding wheel on stone. This could be the turning point my brother longs for. If our revenues rise even by a third, the valley could stabilize. No more scraping, no more hollow promises to the people. We could match some of the northern lands coin for coin in the next levy.

  But then came the shadow of fear. What if I am wrong? What if I miscount? What if I walk back and deliver this news only to find myself accused of fabrication, of scheming to wound the steward’s place? Worse still, if word spreads that I have been ranging in Avalon, not in recovery and resting, will my father’s council not see that as rashness, even a mystery to be investigated?

  The tea had cooled by the time he finally drank. It was earthy, plain, grounding. He looked at his friends—their steady movements, their quiet trust—and felt the weight of it. He had dragged them into this with his curiosity.

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  Through the evening, his thoughts did not ease. Through the next morning, while they gathered water and enhanced the wall of stones at the cave entrance with moss, his mind spun the same circle: opportunity versus exposure, duty versus risk. Even at midday, when the three of them worked in silence to stack a new pile of firewood, his gaze lingered on the forest, as though an answer might step forth from the trees themselves.

  They would remain here for some days, he decided—let the river’s headwaters keep them hidden, let the cave serve as both shelter and refuge while his mind grappled with the truth. This discovery is too significant to dismiss, he admitted to himself, staring into the smoke that wound its way unseen into the ravine. Yet one misstep and it could devour me.

  The choice loomed like a cliff edge, and Caelen knew he could not tarry forever, when suddenly, the sound of a branch breaking in the gorge rang out.

  …

  Aldric rode slowly along the river’s edge, his horse’s hooves crunching over pebbles and sticks half-hidden beneath the tall grass. The two scouts fanned out a little ahead of him, scanning the banks, their eyes darting to the ground and back again in practiced rhythm.

  One of them, a wiry fellow with a hawk’s gaze, drew rein and crouched. He ran a hand through the wet soil, then shook his head.

  “We should have seen some sign by now, Aldric,” he said. “If they’d made it this far, there would be campfire ash, tracks, something. They can’t live out here without leaving marks. My thought is—they’re not this far yet.”

  Aldric sat straighter in his saddle, lips curving in the faintest of smiles.

  “No,” he said, his voice calm but confident. “They’re here. My brother—he’s too stubborn, too curious to have turned back. I told him once I’d hunt him while he ran off in the wilds. I thought this would be the time to make good on that promise.”

  The other scout chuckled. “Hunt him? You sound as if you expect him to want to be found.”

  Aldric's eyes softened, almost proud. “Caelen has always been cleverer than most give him credit for. He’ll leave fewer signs than you think. Still…” He exhaled, shaking his head with a quiet laugh. “I’d wager he’s watching us right now, enjoying himself far more than he should.”

  The party pressed on until the river thinned into a braid of narrow streams, tumbling noisily over stone. The ground pitched upward, and the headwaters spilled from a cleft where the ridge split into two narrow valleys.

  One scout pointed his chin to the right. “Ten to one, they’ll turn that way. Easier ground. Brings them back toward the heart of the valley, closer to the villages. That’s the way I’d bet.”

  Aldric narrowed his eyes, weighing the words. He sat still in the saddle, letting the river’s spray drift across his boots. Something in his gut held him from answering. Caelen was not always predictable, and though brotherly rivalry pulled him one way, brotherly pride tugged another. He wanted to believe his brother could surprise even trained scouts.

  Then it came.

  The faint whistle of air being split—the sharp crack of stone on bark. A rock slammed into the tree just feet from Aldric, sending splinters down to the ground. His horse jolted, sidestepped nervously, but Aldric’s grip was firm, soothing it with a low murmur.

  Slowly, Aldric raised his eyes to the ridgeline.

  There, standing on a rocky ledge above the water, was Caelen. Sling in hand, arm relaxed at his side, a grin spread wide across his face. His eyes gleamed with triumph and mischief both.

  Aldric let out a loud, unrestrained laugh, shaking his head. “Well,” he said to the stunned scouts, “I told you he was here.”

  The scouts exchanged bewildered looks, but Aldric couldn’t take his eyes off the figure on the ridge. Pride swelled in him, mingled with the old spark of rivalry. His brother had bested them—this round, at least.

  “Good timing, need talk,” Caelen called down.

  The three horses stood loosely tied by the creek, heads bowed, tugging lazily at the grass that grew thick and green by the water. The scouts lingered near them, voices low, trading words with Pit and Tib, the easy camaraderie of men relieved to be out of the saddle. The sound of the water masked their talk, but Caelen’s gesture was unmistakable—his hand cutting in a slight arc, his chin tipping toward the rocks.

  “Come, brother,” he said quietly, eyes glinting with the same mischief that had carried in the whistle of his sling. “There’s something I’d show you.”

  Aldric hesitated only a moment before nodding, handing his reins to a scout. He followed his brother over uneven ground, stepping lightly behind him as Caelen slipped past a low, unassuming stone wall pressed tight against the hillside. At first, Aldric thought nothing of it—a natural tumble of rock, one more crag in the endless ridge. But then Caelen ducked into a dark cleft, and when Aldric followed, the world opened.

  Inside, the air shifted—dry and warm, scented with smoke and earth. His eyes adjusted, and what he saw drew a low exhale from his chest.

  A cave, yes, but more than that. A fire burned steadily at the far wall, its smoke tugged upward into a rough chimney that carried it away. The glow painted the stone in amber, throwing shadows across the space. There was an area for a raised bed and blankets,

  It was not merely a shelter. It was a safe retreat.

  Aldric straightened, his gaze traveling again over the chamber. How long had Caelen been here, working at this in secret? How much of himself was tucked into these walls? The scouts would call it primitive, but Aldric could see the cleverness in every choice.

  Caelen moved with quiet ease, pouring steaming tea into a cup. He pressed it into Aldric’s hand, then sat across from him, eyes steady, waiting.

  Aldric lowered himself onto the bed. The warmth from the fire wrapped him, the tea in his hands adding its gentle heat. He looked around once more, unable to help himself.

  His thoughts came unbidden—This is more than a hiding place. This is something more. He’s built a stronghold of his own, in miniature. My brother, the dreamer, the wanderer—look what he has done here.

  Admiration pricked at him, tangled with worry. Pride, too, though he would never admit it aloud. He lifted the cup, the steam clouding his vision for a heartbeat, and thought: If he can do this alone, what could he do with all of us beside him?

  The tea was warm in Aldric’s hand, the blanket beneath him. He was still marveling at the clever chimney when his brother’s voice broke the quiet.

  “Population… not counted, wrong.”

  Aldric turned his head. Caelen’s dark eyes were fixed on him, unblinking, as if measuring whether to say more.

  “What do you mean?” Aldric asked.

  Caelen’s words came haltingly, each chosen like a stone laid on a wall.

  “Incompetence… or deceit. Numbers… wrong. Missed taxes. Heartland first. Maybe… valley too.”

  Aldric sat straighter, the steam of the tea forgotten. The words landed hard, each syllable carrying weight beyond its brevity. Population not counted correctly? Incompetence or embezzlement, it was betrayal! He felt the ground shift beneath him as surely as if the cave itself had tilted.

  “Our steward?” Aldric questioned, his voice caught between disbelief and defense. “Our father’s steward has kept these records for decades. He—he’s loyal. He has never failed us.”

  Caelen’s gaze didn’t waver. He only repeated, low and certain:

  “Numbers. Wrong.”

  Aldric’s throat tightened. A part of him wanted to brush it away, to call it paranoia. But the tone… there was no madness in it. No jest. Only conviction.

  He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Do you understand what you’re saying? If the population reports are false… then our revenues, our levies, our men-at-arms—everything was built on lies.”

  Caelen nodded once, slow and grave. “Tax season… near. Steward… trusted too much.”

  Aldric swallowed hard. The steward had dined at their table, broken bread with them, and prayed in the same chapel. His father’s hand of trust rested on the man without question. To suggest deceit was to suggest rot at the very heart of their household.

  And yet—if Caelen were right, then their enemies wouldn’t need to come with blades. The family’s strength could be sapped coin by coin, year by year, until the valley itself weakened from within.

  Aldric set the tea aside, rubbing his temple. “This… this could ruin us, brother. If the counts are wrong, if the valley yields differently than we claim, then we’ve been living in illusion.” He trailed off, imagining the humiliation, the punishments, the loss of honor. “But it does answer the old question as to why the valley never prospered.

  He looked again at Caelen, at the strange brother who built walls in caves, and noticed what others dismissed. A part of him ached with pride—because only Caelen had seen what the rest of them had missed.

  Quietly, Aldric asked, “How far do you think it goes?”

  Caelen’s lips pressed tight before he spoke. “Deep.” A pause. “Deeper… that only father can uncover.”

  The words sent a chill through Aldric, colder than the wind outside.

  At last, Aldric drew in a steady breath, setting his shoulders. “Then come back with me to the manor. We will both tell Father together. He must hear this from us, not from rumor or accusation. If the steward has betrayed us, we’ll face him as one.”

  Caelen’s expression didn’t change, but his answer came quickly, sharper than before.

  “No. Must stay… away. Not safe. For me.”

  Aldric blinked, startled. “Not safe? What do you mean? You are his son. You have every right—”

  But Caelen only shook his head, gaze sliding toward the cave wall, jaw tight. “Not safe,” he repeated, voice low. “Will be found/seen, I not prepared!”

  The silence that followed hung heavier than stone.