Chapter Text
Now her hand is raised
A sword to pierce the sun
With iron shield she defends the faithful
Let chaos be undone
-Victoria 1:3
Modest in temper, bold in deed.
--Trevelyan family motto
Kirkwall was on fire. Again.
Adjusting the red bandanna that covered her nose and mouth, Hope tried to blink away the tears blurring her vision from all the smoke. She didn’t know how long she’d been fighting her way through the streets of Lowtown, finding survivors and escorting them back to the relative safety of the Keep, but she was sweating like a horse and her sword and shield were getting heavier by the moment. Not to mention that she’d given her last potion to an injured mother, whose children she couldn’t bear to orphan through inaction. And she’d let her fellow guardswoman Lia have her helm after the poor elf lost hers to a particularly vicious fire spell.
Right, you’re a bloody hero, she told herself. Father will put it on your memorial once this is all over. Hope Trevelyan, beloved daughter, probably wishes she’d married that margrave’s son from Ansburg even though he was a tit. They’ll have to burn you in effigy, because they won’t be able to scrape together enough of a corpse for a proper pyre.
She couldn’t believe it had come to this--or she could, but it was one thing to wonder when mages and templars would wage war openly in the streets, and quite another thing entirely to be caught in the middle of it. And the Chantry… all those people…
“Stop woolgathering, guardswoman,” called Sergeant Melindra. “We still need to check the Foundry district.”
Hope couldn’t manage a salute, so she settled for a sharp “yes, ser” and kept walking. It was more of a scuttle, really, trying to maintain a proper defensive stance in case they ran into any more aggressive templars or blood mages or--
“Demons!” shouted the sergeant. A pair of shades rose from the ground, like darkness given form and giant creepy claws.
At least it’s not the fire ones, Hope thought.
Training and adrenaline kicked in at the same time. Hope bellowed a challenge at the nearest demon and crossed the distance between them quickly, thrusting at what she hoped was something vital. It felt like attacking a particularly solid breeze, but the blows she blocked with her shield were hard enough to make her arm tremble.
A claw swipe snuck through her defenses and tore open her right cheek, the pain burning like ice. With a snarl, she redoubled her efforts until her whole world narrowed to slashing and parrying, ducking and sidestepping and advancing, even striking with her shield to little avail.
An age later, the creature disappeared in a cloud of hazy shadow, and Hope moved on to help the sergeant dispatch her own enemy. They stood in silence for a few moments after, trying to catch their breath. Hope’s blood buzzed in her ears, her shoulders and lower back ached, and she could swear she heard a distant ringing like Chantry bells on a feast-day.
“Are you well?” the sergeant asked, gesturing at Hope’s face.
“I’ll be fine,” Hope replied, despite the stinging pain. She could feel blood trickling down her cheek to soak the now-torn bandanna scrunched around her neck.
“Don't be foolhardy.” The sergeant pulled a poultice from a belt pouch and offered it to Hope, who hesitated for only a moment before taking it gratefully.
“How many more of those do you think there are?” she asked, pressing it against her wound.
“It’s said that shades are the spirits of the dead returned from the Fade,” Sergeant Melindra muttered. “How many people have died here tonight?”
The thought chilled Hope to the bone even as it stoked a fire in her chest. She’d put a half dozen people to the sword herself already, Templar and mage alike, and who knew how many had perished in the Chantry explosion? From falling debris? From smoke and flame?
“Let’s help them find their way to the Maker’s bosom,” she replied. “I suppose it must be quite large if it’s to fit everyone.”
A laugh escaped the sergeant, like a startled bird taking flight.
The two guards returned to their grim work, weary and stained with blood and ash. In the distance, the fate of the city was decided, and the fires of Kirkwall spread until they threatened to consume all the world.
#
The barracks were extra crowded as the morning shift returned from their beats and the night shift arrived to take over, or rolled out of their respective beds. Some guards had always lived elsewhere in the city, others always in the barracks, but more than usual had found themselves homeless after the battle a month earlier.
Hope lived in the barracks. She had no relatives in Kirkwall, and her family in Ostwick would be more inclined to have her visit them than to journey to the City of Chains themselves. Not that they ever asked her to visit; they didn’t think she could.
Her feeble attempts to eat an apple with one hand and polish a spot on her breastplate with the other were interrupted by Lia strolling up and nudging her leg.
“Guard-Captain wants to see you,” Lia said.
“Did she say why?” Hope asked. The elf shook her head and left with a flick of her fingers to her forehead.
Hope tucked her rag into a pocket and discarded her rapidly browning fruit with a sigh. Maybe she could sneak some cheese later on her way out.
Why did the guard-captain want her, she wondered as she crossed the room. Assignments were normally posted on the board, and she couldn’t think of anything she’d done wrong--or right, for that matter--to warrant special attention.
The simplest and most unfortunate answer presented itself just as she knocked on her superior’s office door, and was confirmed when the door swung open.
“Guardswoman Trevelyan. Or should I say, Lady Trevelyan.” Guard-Captain Aveline stood behind her large desk, her armor immaculate as always, her expression stony. Her posture and tone conveyed her barely concealed annoyance. “I believe you have something to tell me, and my unexpected guests.”
The other occupants of the office, to Hope’s dismay, were her sister Grace and her brother Victor.
It shouldn't have surprised her that her family would send someone to retrieve her, but Hope had been too busy helping with the rebuilding efforts to give anything else much thought. Her mother would have been ashamed at her lack of foresight. Whether in chess or ballroom politics, the elder Trevelyan had always schooled her children in paying attention and staying ten steps ahead of, well, everyone else.
Hope had never been particularly good at chess.
“Hope, thank goodness you’re well,” Grace said, practically throwing herself at her sister. “Look at your face--what a scar! But I suppose we should thank the Maker you’re alive at all.” Her hair smelled of crystal grace, as if she’d bathed before coming. Which, knowing Grace, she probably had.
Hope awkwardly wrapped an arm around the shorter girl. “You’ll stain your dress,” she murmured, thinking of her armor polish. Grace was dressed like any other noble in Kirkwall, all tight bodice and flared skirt in a becoming shade of crimson.
“I’ll get a new one.” Grace took a step back and searched Hope’s eyes, her own shimmery with unshed tears. “We’ve been worried sick about you ever since we heard what happened.”
“I sent you a raven to tell you I was fine. Two ravens.”
“Yes, but--”
“You’re in a revolting amount of trouble,” Victor said. He apparently hadn’t bothered to bathe, probably because he was loathe to strip out of the ceremonial family armor he wore. A rampant stallion was worked into the metal of the breastplate, and she knew if he turned around she would see the full Trevelyan coat of arms painted on the shield hung on his back. His hand rested on the sword at his side, peace-tied with a red cord.
The guard-captain cleared her throat, pinning Hope with a stern look. “Your family seems to have expected you to be with the templars, rather than here.”
“Yes, ser,” Hope replied. “I’ve been telling them as much.” And paying one of the templars to bring her any letters that went to the Gallows, to make sure the illusion was maintained. The poor man had died in the battle, and the templar she’d begged to replace him had either failed in his duty, or had outright betrayed her confidence.
“Three years, Hope,” her brother said. “Father is livid. He should have made sure you went to the Ostwick Circle, instead of indulging your ridiculous nonsense about helping to rebuild here after that business with the Qunari.”
“I did help,” she retorted, though clearly they both knew that wasn’t why she’d requested the transfer.
She’d gone to the templar training refuge older than the other recruits; despite her father’s devotion to the faith, she was still his little girl, and he’d kept her at home for as long as he dared. He’d made sure she was proficient in combat, but she was nonetheless compelled to relearn based on templar methods, and her own faith and loyalty to the order were weaker than if she’d begun indoctrination as a child.
She’d turned eighteen, and it had been time to take her vows, but the knight-captain conducting her training had determined she wasn’t ready. A year passed, then another, leaving her the eldest recruit over and over as the others endured their vigils and were sent away to various Circles. Then the Qunari had attacked, and she’d formed her plan.
She’d insisted to the knight-captain that she would undergo her vigil as soon as she reached Kirkwall, but she suspected he didn’t believe her. She still wasn’t sure why he’d let her go anyway, but once permission had come from her father, he hadn't forced the issue. Perhaps he knew the vigil would fail, or he believed an unwilling templar was a danger to herself and others. Perhaps he thought she really would go to the templars in Kirkwall, and they’d be able to succeed with her where he hadn’t.
“Why did Father send you, anyway?” Hope asked. “If he thinks I’m going to the Circle now--”
“Mother sent us,” her sister said softly.
Of course she did, Hope thought. Her father would have sent a rude letter, which Hope would have been able to ignore. She couldn’t look away from Grace’s big, sad eyes so easily.
“She wants you to come home,” Grace continued. “Ostwick has been quiet, but there’s word of other Circles rebelling. More importantly, she heard the First Enchanters are planning to meet in Cumberland soon, to vote on whether to secede from the Chantry entirely.”
Hope stared at her sister, mouth hanging open. Secede? They couldn’t possibly. The Chantry wouldn’t stand for it. The templars would be up in arms everywhere, the whole world echoing the violence and death that had blown through Kirkwall like a wild summer storm.
“She wants me to hide,” Hope said. “To cower in our keep and pray for the Maker to shield us if everything goes to shit.”
“She wants you to help protect our lands and our people instead of bloody Kirkwall,” Victor snapped. “If she and Father thought you were some delicate flower, you’d have been dedicated to the Chantry instead of the templars.” He gripped the pommel of his sword and glared at her, dark eyes narrowed. After a tense moment, Hope realized she was doing the exact same thing and forced herself to relax her hand.
“Enough.” Guard-Captain Aveline leaned forward, palms on her desk. “As touching as this reunion is, I have no end of work to do. Lady Trevelyan, you are a duly appointed guard and you have served well in your time here. If you wish to be relieved of duty, you may go with my blessing.”
“And if I don’t?” Hope asked, a lump forming in her throat.
“Then you or someone else will escort your guests off the premises, and you will return to your post. Your choice.”
“Now see here, Guard-Captain,” Victor snapped. “My father is a bann of Ostwick, and if you attempt to forcibly remove us, the viscount will--”
“Victor, hush,” Grace said. “I'm certain Father isn’t interested in causing a diplomatic incident. Hope?” She pleaded silently, eyes wide, while Victor stood with his back so straight he might have had a spear up his ass.
Or a halberd, Hope mused, suppressing a smirk.
She thought of the friends she’d made in Kirkwall, the ones she’d lost and the ones who remained. She thought of all the homes she’d helped rebuild after the first battle, the families she’d helped feed and clothe, only to have to do it all over again in the wake of more and worse conflict. She thought of the years in between, dealing with gangs and cultists and blood mages. She thought of everything and everyone she’d fought for, that one long night when the sky rained fire and demons roamed the streets. Leaving felt like an abandonment of all that, like giving up on her self-appointed duty.
Then she thought of her family, her brothers and sisters, her cousins and aunts and uncles. She thought of the people she'd left behind in the bannorn: the knights and guards who lived in the keep, the servants and gardeners and grooms and cooks and tutors who kept the massive property in order. She thought of the farmers whose fields she'd grown up barefoot in and the townsfolk who had tolerated her boundless curiosity about their lives. She thought of climbing trees and riding her horse through rolling green hills and walking along the cliffs that overlooked the last vestiges of the Waking Sea as it flowed into the Amaranthine Ocean.
She imagined all of that wreathed in fire, templar and mage staining it with the blood of her family, her people, demons and abominations conjured from death and despair to torment those left living. She wouldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t. Her very nature wouldn’t allow it, and her mother knew that.
Checkmate, Mother, she thought. You’ve outplayed me again.
Hope stood at attention and saluted. “It has been an honor to serve you, Guard-Captain,” she said.
“You didn't serve me,” the guard-captain replied. “You served the people of Kirkwall, as do we all.” She quirked a half-smile at Hope. “Don't forget to turn in your arms and armor to the quartermaster.”
“The sword is mine,” Hope said quickly.
“The armor then.” The guard-captain inclined her head at Grace and Victor. “Lord and Lady Trevelyan. May your journey home to the bannorn be swift and safe.”
Grace nodded and murmured a polite reply, while Victor swept out of the room with an expression like someone had twisted the halberd up his ass. Grace took Hope’s arm and together they left, with Hope wondering whether she was making the biggest mistake of her life.
#
The years passed, sometimes slowly as sap trickling from a tree, sometimes in quick leaps like deer fleeing from the baying of hounds.
Hope crouched in a fighting stance in the training yard of her family’s keep, her exertions and the mid-morning sun already coating her in sweat. Her sparring partner had given her name only as Livvy; a recruit from one of the smaller villages in the bannorn, the girl had arrived a few weeks earlier with fresh scars on her arms and vengeance in her eyes. Ostwick’s neutrality was being tested, and if Livvy were any indication, it would be defended vigorously.
“You're tall-manning again,” Hope told her. “Legs apart, knees bent, keep your center of balance low for stability. And if I hear a snicker out of you one more bloody time, Clifton Poole, you’ll be doing laps around the yard until you throw up.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the offending recruit straighten as if struck.
“Lady Trevelyan,” a voice called from the edge of the yard. One of her mother’s maids stood with her hands clasped primly in front of her.
Hope lowered her sword. “Yes, Potter?”
“Your presence is required.” Potter bobbed a curtsey, staring demurely at the ground.
Hope gestured at the assembled soldiers-in-training. “Pair off and practice like I showed you. Ser Tom, if you please, come supervise.” A knight who had been leaning on a post in the shade sauntered over and cast a sharp eye on the proceedings while Hope followed the maid into the house.
She was led to her mother’s sitting room, which overlooked the water maze on the eastern side of the estate. Raised platforms were arranged in concentric circles within a carefully tended pond, with some of the platforms mounted so they would lower into the water when stepped on, simultaneously spraying the unlucky victim in the face--or chest, or missing them entirely in the case of one of the dwarven gardeners. The correct path led to the center of the maze, where a statue of blessed Andraste waited inside a small stone alcove, to silently congratulate those patient and careful enough to find her.
It was intended to be a meditative experience, but Hope and her siblings had delighted in chasing each other until they were all thoroughly soaked. After so many years, she knew the maze too well to fall prey to its traps unintentionally.
She wished she could say the same about her mother’s.
Bann Trevelyan joined her a few minutes later, the picture of noble elegance in a tight-waisted navy gown that flared at her hips. Her hair was pinned in elaborate braids atop her head, and her makeup was carefully applied to enhance the good qualities nature had bestowed. She wrinkled her nose at her daughter and reached for a bell on a side table, which summoned Potter.
“Be a dear and fetch some scented water and a towel for the young mistress,” she told the maid, who hurried off without a word.
“Is that a polite way of saying I smell like a horse in a lather?” Hope asked.
“Your words, darling, not mine. I would ask you to sit, but the brocade is so difficult to clean properly.”
“Of course.” Hope watched her mother lower herself gracefully onto a settee, resting against one of the arms in a way that managed to look both relaxed and entirely contrived.
“How goes the training?” the bann asked.
“Same as yesterday: slowly, but in the right direction.” Hope crossed her arms. “That’s supper talk, Mother. As much as I delight in the typical dance suite of courtly conversation, perhaps we can dispense with the allemande and get straight to the gigue.”
Her mother favored her with a close-lipped smile. “You’re not so impertinent with strangers, I hope.”
“I’m the very embodiment of hope,” she said drily. “But I fear you mistake me for Prudence.”
That earned her a laugh, and a real smile.
“Very well, I’ll indulge your impatience.” Bann Trevelyan’s face settled back into an unreadable mask. “It has been confirmed that Divine Justinia intends to hold a conclave, to broker peace between the templars and mages.”
“Maker’s breath.” Hope nearly collapsed into a chair, but remembered the brocade and crossed her arms instead. “Do you think she can make it work, after everything that’s happened?”
“Really, dear, you're turning this gigue into a tumble behind the stables. In a moment I'll have Potter retrieve a chessboard, and you'll get no more out of me until you win.”
“My apologies, Mother.” Hope took a steadying breath. “Are negotiations still proceeding between the factions in regards to the time and location?”
“No, that's been settled. It will be at the Temple of Sacred Ashes at the beginning of Drakonis.”
Hope bit back her response as she eyed her mother, thinking. That meant virtually anyone attending would have time to celebrate First Day before beginning their journey--though Wintersend might be out of the question for some--and they’d be back home before spring planting unless negotiations were protracted. As for the location, it was as neutral as might be achieved under the circumstances, despite technically being on Fereldan soil, and it granted a certain… aura of holiness that might work in the Divine’s favor.
“May Andraste guide them all,” Hope said.
“I am sure she will,” her mother replied drily. “But she may be difficult to hear among the many other voices expected to be in attendance.”
Of course it wouldn't be merely templars and mages at the conclave; the war had much farther reaching consequences than that. Hope thought of the scars on Livvy’s arms, then those on her own face, which led to dark thoughts of Kirkwall that were interrupted by Potter’s return with the requested cleaning accoutrements.
The water smelled faintly of crystal grace, light and sweet, and Hope washed herself carefully as she thought. Her mother didn't interrupt, which meant she expected Hope to come to her own conclusions before confirming or denying them.
No doubt some commoners would make the pilgrimage to the sacred site, which had been rediscovered during the blight that plagued Ferelden a decade earlier. But Bann Trevelyan wouldn't be concerned with their complaints and pleas, inasmuch as they were unlikely to affect their bannorn in Ostwick, which was her purview. That left more courtly considerations.
So other noble houses must be sending delegations as well, either to advocate for the templars or mages, or to curry favor with the Divine. If enough representatives attended, it might even be a way to secure or reaffirm alliances with each other that would profit them more directly.
Hope dried her face and arms, feeling refreshed. “Is there a specific goal our emissary will be expected to achieve?” she asked, and was rewarded by a coy smile.
“You are aware of your father’s opinions on the situation, as he dances measurably worse than you do,” Bann Trevelyan replied. “For myself, I have never had the grand ambitions of some of our neighbors, or their prejudices. I welcome opportunities to flourish, but am content with stability and security. A steady pace makes a light journey for horse and man.”
Hope rather thought sometimes there was a need for a good gallop, but she kept it to herself. Instead, she asked, “Will you be sending Victor or Faith? You can't spare Justin since he inherits, Grace is big as a house, and Prudence is--oh.”
Her mother’s smile now carried a touch of sadness. “Give yourself a few moments next time, dear. You're not as quick as Grace, but you're sharp enough to cut through in the end.”
The enormity of what was being asked was not lost on her. She was the youngest child, with little dowry to speak of and few marriage prospects--not that she was interested in marriage. And so long as the war continued she would never be pledged to the templars--not that she wanted to be, really, and she suspected that ship had long since sailed regardless. As her family’s representative, she would be positioned to advance their house or weaken its foundations, and potentially establish a reputation for herself that could grant her opportunities abroad, and a degree of independence she would not otherwise have in Ostwick.
Not to mention that she might have some sway in any compromise between the warring factions, given her history.
“I was in Kirkwall,” she murmured.
“Indeed. Not witness to the final unpleasantness in the Gallows, perhaps, but your relative neutrality and valiant efforts in defense of the common people could prove… useful.”
Hearing the events of that night, and the years preceding it, recounted so calmly, so distantly, raised heat in Hope’s face and neck. Her father had been furious at her subterfuge when she returned home, for all that it had likely saved her from a worse fate, but her mother had managed to spin a positive tale for their relatives and neighbors through her usual careful applications of charm and wit. Hope had found it uncomfortable at first, then grown to tolerate it, but the idea of it being used as leverage now left a taste in her mouth like raw spindleweed.
“My sweet little Hope,” her mother said gently. “Do stop making that face. Four years since you left that blighted city, and still I have not been able to remove your heart from your sleeve and return it to your chest.”
Hope flushed. “Now who’s tumbling behind the stables,” she murmured, looking out the window, at the maze circling its way peacefully through the pond and the statue of Andraste waiting at its center.
She heard her mother rise from the settee and turned to see the woman clasping her hands together in front of her. “In any event, you will not be unaccompanied,” Bann Trevelyan said. “Sanders will go as your secretary, to help draw up any necessary contracts, and of course you will take Howell as your lady maid. Ser Gertrude and Ser Earnest will--” She sniffed. “Well, you will protect yourself, I am sure, but they will assist you in protecting the others.”
“I’m not the only Trevelyan who will be in attendance?” Hope asked.
“I should think not. Certainly your great-aunt Lucille will send a representative, and Dorner, and your cousin Osher might spare someone, though her loyalty is principally to House Bayart now. And Albrecht may--”
“Albrecht? He couldn’t find his own trousers with both hands if he were wearing them.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Darling, I may share your sentiment, but you are too much your father’s daughter at the moment. School yourself to silence if you cannot speak civilly.”
Hope gave her mother an elaborate, deep bow. “Most esteemed Bann Trevelyan, I offer my humble and abject apologies for my impertinence. I expect you will be re-educating me in proper dance forms over the coming months, that I not embarrass myself with a clumsy galliard.”
“Your apology is not accepted, because you certainly are not sorry, and that was thick as treacle. I will send for you at tea time. Do wash up and dress yourself presentably.” Bann Trevelyan plucked a small hand bell from a nearby table and rang it, summoning Potter, who curtseyed and awaited instructions.
Knowing a dismissal when she saw one, Hope bowed again and left her mother to her business. She found herself loathe to return to the training grounds, although the prospect of beating a pell into submission was pleasant. She couldn’t keep her head straight enough to dream of dealing with the recruits, and Ser Tom likely had them well in hand.
A conclave. A chance for peace. The weight of her family responsibility resting squarely on her shoulders. And perhaps a future beyond drilling recruits, patrolling the bannorn, or giving up sword and shield for hatpin and fan, to be freed from her parents and eldest brother only to find herself captive to someone else.
Perhaps a turn in the water maze will do me good after all, Hope mused, and proceeded in that direction, her stormy thoughts at odds with the bright sun and cloudless blue sky overhead.
#
Hope and her retinue left Ostwick a week after Wintersend. The journey to Haven took over a fortnight, with the Waking Sea unseasonably calm on the passage to Jader. They docked at Kirkwall briefly to resupply, but Hope had little time to do more than wander the docks listlessly, watching the dockhands move cargo and the merchants barter, the once-familiar smell of fish and garbage filling her lungs. She’d kept in touch with a few guards and other cityfolk through letters, but those had slowed, and then stopped, until Hope was embarrassed to try rekindling a fire gone cold. Her mother had always scolded her poor hand at correspondence, and as she wondered whether any of the helmed figured patrolling the area had been her friends once, she had to admit the elder Trevelyan was right.
After reaching Jader, they began the long ride toward Gherlen’s Pass, then along the western shore of Lake Calenhad. The early spring weather was cool, the horses content to trot along the well-traveled roads with the many others making the same journey, most on foot, some mounted. Wagons laden with goods also accompanied them, as the quantity of people expected at the conclave would need to be fed, if nothing else. Most of the supplies were what was left from the long winter--hard cheeses and pickled vegetables and beans, Maker’s ass, Hope was so sick of beans--but there were fresh eggs and fish and bread at inns that hadn’t been completely overrun by travellers. Any beer they found was, sadly, very Fereldan, and Hope had to keep herself from pinching her nose when she drank it.
The fighting between templar and mage had, for the moment, ebbed like a tide. Members of each side traveled to Haven, some alone, others in groups of a half dozen or more. The mages blended in, so long as they didn’t carry staves, but the templars were nearly impossible to miss, armed and armored as they were.
They avoided each other for the most part, but Hope had to break up more than one argument before it ended in swords and spells, or worse, abominations.
“Don't know why you bother, my lady,” Ser Earnest told her after the second time, as they returned to the road they'd temporarily abandoned. “Might as well let the templars do their duty.”
“Which duty would that be, ser?” Hope replied. If he noticed the chill in her tone, he ignored it.
“Putting those apostates to the sword.”
“That is certainly one interpretation of a templar’s charge.” She tried to edge her palfrey ahead of his, but he matched her speed.
“But my lady, what else can they do?” he asked. “These rebels are running roughshod over Thedas. You of all people should know how dangerous they are.”
Hope could almost feel him staring at the deep lines of her scar. She turned to favor him with a smile that she knew was very like her mother’s, because they had been practicing it for months.
“Do you know how many people I killed in Kirkwall, the night of the Chantry explosion?” she asked, her voice soft as a kid glove.
“N-no, my lady.”
“Eleven. They were neither my first kills nor my last, and far more perished that night than the ones I personally put to the sword.” Her smile did not waver as she leaned toward him, not enough to stir her horse, but enough to make him reflexively inch away. “Of those eleven, five were templars, who attacked me when I attempted to stop them from killing people who weren’t mages.”
Ser Earnest opened and closed his mouth like a fish, and Hope thought that was the end of it, until--
“I’m sure they were simply confused, and frightened, my lady,” he said. “The templars would never--”
“Do you know who else was confused and frightened that night, ser?” she asked. The inflection on the last word made the knight flinch. “Give yourself a moment to think. I’m sure it will come to you.”
With that, she urged her horse into a canter and, as her mother would say, tried to return her heart to her chest. She had let her temper get the better of her again, which did not bode well for her efforts at the conclave. All that time spent teaching her tact and charm would yield nothing if a simple conversation with a close-minded fool could have her snapping like a wild dog.
Still, Ser Earnest did not speak another word to her for the rest of the day, and despite her lingering guilt, Hope’s mood was the better for it.
#
The Temple of Sacred Ashes was surprisingly warm, partly because of the enormous braziers located in the main hall, but mostly because there were so many people crowded into the space. While Hope knew she should have been admiring the building--lovingly restored by the Chantry--and feeling awed at the holiness of the sacred site, she was mostly tired from the journey, past ready to bathe and retire. The longer she waited for someone to locate her room, the less pious she found herself, and part of her was ashamed for that.
At last everything was sorted, and she was led to a chamber with a dozen wooden bunk beds, each with a single trunk at its foot. She had a sudden pang of nostalgia for the barracks in Kirkwall--trying to sleep through the ceaseless din of the common room, the snoring from other bunks, the way Lia sometimes hummed softly to put herself to sleep after a bad night. Some of the beds appeared to be taken already based on their contents, which ranged from articles of clothing clearly meant as territory markers, to actual people, asleep or trying to be.
“This is preposterous, my lady,” her maid Howell murmured from one corner of the room. Hope joined her, finding what she assumed were the bathing accommodations, which consisted of one ewer, empty; one bowl, full of murky water; and a pair of chamber pots, slightly odorous.
Hope regarded the problem with a serious expression. “I'd suggest we move the pots to strategic locations near our new associates, but we cannot be sure which of them is responsible for the… kind welcoming gifts.”
“I shall fetch a chambermaid,” the other woman announced with a sniff, and Hope suppressed a smile.
Sanders approached her next; tall as the man was, she had to crane her neck to look up at his dark eyes in his darker face.
“My lady,” he said. “I would humbly suggest we seek out any others from your house who might have arrived, in order to reacquaint yourself with them over supper.”
Hope eyed her bed and sighed. No rest for the weary. “Lead on, Sanders,” she said. “I'm sure you'll recognize more people than I will.”
And hopefully smelling nice wasn't a prerequisite to polite negotiations, because Hope was also sure anyone in attendance would smell her coming from across the hall.
#
The last few days leading up to the official conclave were a never-ending string of meals, meetings and paperwork.
Hope didn't know what her parents paid Sanders for his services, but she didn't think it could possibly be enough. Within hours the man had located nearly every noble of note within the entire Temple, with a detailed map to their rooms, an itinerary for when and where to meet them, and suggestions for topics of light conversation pertinent to their interests. He even handled most actual negotiation overtures, giving the slightest cough at the appropriate time and passing the relevant papers to Hope, who passed them to the other noble, who passed them to their own version of Sanders. All Hope had to do was follow him and refrain from saying or doing anything foolish.
It was harder than she expected. She was glad her mother had taken such pains to reinforce the etiquette she'd forgotten from her youth. She was also glad she'd had her argument with Ser Earnest, because it left her better prepared for similar conversations with others.
“The Trevelyans are devoted servants of the Chantry,” she repeated more than once. “We will, of course, abide by whatever Her Holiness deems just. We are certain the Divine’s wisdom will guide us to a lasting peace between templars and mages.”
What she wanted to say was, “Kirkwall was a bloody nightmare,” or, “I wasn’t at the White Spire or Dairsmuid, but they sound like bloody nightmares,” or, after a particularly testy encounter, “templars are about as hard to kill as mages or abominations, in my experience, so perhaps we should lock them up as well,” but that would hardly endear her to anyone, or do her family any good. She had to think of them first, and pray the Divine would have the real negotiations well in hand once they began.
#
On the third day, Hope insisted she needed to get some air. Her sleep had been thin and troubled, and she had an awful feeling--instigated by a comment from Sanders--that one of the nobles was working his nerve up to propose to her. While she could reasonably avoid responding by claiming she needed to consult her parents, she’d still have to face the man afterwards.
She almost envied Ser Gertrude and Ser Earnest, ensconced in Haven with the pilgrims, extended retinues, and templars and mages who weren’t part of official delegations. Briefly, she considered making the journey down the mountain to see them--well, Ser Gertrude, anyway--but it was a long, winding way, and Sanders would be forced to rearrange her schedule further, which might lead to a diplomatic incident.
So, she settled for taking a walk outside and gazing wistfully at Haven in the distance. For all that it was spring, there was still snow on the ground this far up in the mountains. Hope’s experience with snow in Ostwick was the occasional light dusting, so she found the experience enchanting until her face began to burn from the cold, reminding her of how she got the scar on her cheek. She passed a number of mages quietly summoning fire to warm each other, trading off back and forth as they tired of maintaining the spell.
Sanders trailed after her, though Howell had stayed inside, claiming it wouldn’t do for both of them to catch cold, because who would take care of Hope then? One of the many Chantry sisters or mages, Hope thought, but she wasn’t going to argue about it.
The small town looked so peaceful from far away. Easy to believe Brother Genitivi’s stories about people living there in isolation since Andraste’s time, guarding her ashes from outsiders until the Hero of Ferelden found them.
Just north of town, on the shores of a frozen lake, she noticed a small but orderly arrangement of tents. They flew no banner that she could see, but they must have been soldiers of some kind, because several of them appeared to be engaged in training exercises in an open area presumably cleared of snow for that purpose. The sunlight glinted off their armor and swords as they moved, and Hope had an irrational urge to run down and join them.
“Do you know who that is?” she asked Sanders, pointing.
The man squinted and raised a hand to shade his eyes. “I believe they arrived with the Right Hand of the Divine. Beyond that, I could not say.”
“Does she normally travel with so many guards?”
To her surprise, the normally stoic Sanders chuckled. “I would not expect them to be her guards. I understand she is an army unto herself.”
“Perhaps she is the Divine’s secret weapon for ending the war, then,” Hope said, glancing sidelong at her secretary. “Everyone play nice, or she’ll send the Right Hand to give them all a spanking.”
Sanders fought to suppress a smile. “Decorum, my lady,” he said. “To impugn the Right Hand is to invite her wrath.”
“I’ll hold my tongue, then, for I certainly can’t face down an entire army alone.” She watched the soldiers drill for a few minutes longer, wondering, yearning, until Sanders finally guided her inside for yet another meeting.
#
The day of the Divine Conclave dawned much like the others, bright and cold, the air sharp and smelling faintly of smoke. If Hope had thought the Temple crowded before, it became doubly so as many of those who had been waiting in Haven began to arrive. Morning prayers were led by one of the grand clerics, as the Divine had been sequestered since she arrived, not wanting to appear to show favor to any of the aggrieved parties. The woman’s sermon focused on faith, humility and forgiveness; Hope thought the assembled templars and mages were not terribly inclined toward it given the dark faces many of them made. Some wept, quietly or openly, and were comforted or berated by their fellows.
How many of them had lost friends, family, lovers? Hope wondered. She knew the cruel gift that was survival, to wake with the knowledge that others wouldn’t, and to think that maybe if you had done something more… But the past was immutable, the future uncertain, and all they could do was attempt to rebuild a broken world so that everyone could live without fear.
And maybe I’ll ride home on a griffon, Hope thought sourly. But as long as I draw breath, I’ll do what I can to help, whatever that may be.
A faint smile touched her lips. That can be on your new memorial, she thought. Hope Trevelyan, fond of swearing dramatic vows, helped people until it killed her.
Perhaps because of the impending proceedings, Sanders had left her schedule blissfully empty. He no doubt expected her to mingle, and listen, and consider what role she might ultimately play, which is what her mother likely wanted her to do. Or perhaps he thought the Divine herself would summon Hope to hear her story, or to speak to some assembled dignitaries whose opinions she might sway one way or the other.
Hope had no such delusions of her own importance, and she found the greater volume of people uncomfortable, stifling even. As soon as she could, she sent Sanders and Howell on trivial errands, stripped out of her ceremonial armor and dressed in lighter traveling leathers, resolving to go for another walk outdoors. It might be the last time she would see the sun for days, if testimonies and negotiations did end up keeping her as busy as she had been thus far. She even, in a show of unbridled optimism, packed a book in a small satchel that she slung around her chest.
Unfortunately, just as she was about to escape, a summons came for her. Not from the Divine, of course, but from the noble who was probably going to make an offer of marriage. Maker’s breath, she didn’t want to see the man, and she wasn’t even properly attired. Sanders and Howell would have kittens when they found out, but it would be rude to keep him waiting, and she still might make her escape if she hurried.
Perhaps seeing me dressed less formally will put him off the subject entirely, she thought.
She followed the servant back to his quarters, trying to remember the route they were taking so she could take the same one back later. Her stomach churned like a rough sea on a rocky shore. This matter was delicate, and she didn’t have Sanders to help, and she was certain to make a mess of things.
Stop it at once, Hope admonished herself. You’re a Trevelyan, and you will act like one. Tell him you are flattered and that you will deliver his petition to your parents as soon as possible, but you cannot possibly accept immediately.
She had no intention of accepting ever, but she’d leave it to her mother to smooth that over.
The servant showed her into his quarters, which were very like hers, including the pair of chamber pots. He paced between the bunks, hands clasped behind his back, head forward like a bull preparing to charge.
“My dear Lady Trevelyan,” he said, smiling when he saw her. If her wardrobe perturbed him, he gave no sign.
“Lord Darrow,” she replied, inclining her head. “You wished to speak with me?”
“Indeed, my lady. Before the Divine consumes the remainder of our time here, I had hoped to discuss a somewhat delicate matter with you.” He rocked back and forth on his feet, hands still behind his back. A terrible nervous habit, Hope thought, and prayed she could be gentle with him.
“Of course, my lord,” she replied. “At your leisure.”
He summoned up his courage from wherever he had hidden it, though this close she could see that he was sweating. “My lady, I am--that is, my family is prepared to, make an offer to your esteemed house--”
Hope plastered a genial smile on her face. “Yes?”
“--for the hand of your sister Prudence, in marriage.”
Her expression must have conveyed her surprise, because Lord Darrow immediately began to explain. “I am aware of her somewhat advanced age as regards childbearing, if you will forgive my impertinence, but we met some months ago and I found her to be most agreeable. I--that is, my family believes such an alliance between our houses would be mutually beneficial.”
“I see,” Hope replied, struggling to control her simultaneous relief and embarrassment at being so mistaken as to his motives.
“You do not approve?” His tone edged toward chilly as he searched her face.
“It is not for me to approve, my lord. I will send a missive to my parents immediately. And Prudence, of course.” She allowed herself a rueful chuckle. “I confess, I came here under the impression you intended to proposition me instead.”
“Marry you? Maker, no!” he exclaimed, then blushed like a virgin at a brothel. “That is, I mean no offense, my lady, for you are… quite becoming, and will no doubt make, eh, a very excellent match for someone. If you desire.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow.
“Thank you, my lord, that is kind of you to say.”
“I simply, that is, eh, do not find myself in need of a wife with your particular, eh, set of martial skills. I am sure they are very useful to your family, and you have many other admirable talents, but--”
“I take no offense whatsoever, my lord,” Hope interjected. “Do send me your family’s generous offer, and I shall have my secretary look it over and send word to my parents at once.”
He stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Well. Yes. I do thank you again for your time. Messy business, this conclave, but perhaps some good will come of it for us.”
“Perhaps it will,” she replied. Though she had a feeling Pru might not be as amenable to the arrangement as Lord Darrow anticipated. That was between her sister and her parents, though.
“Please, do not let me detain you further, Lady Trevelyan,” the man said, his relief at acquitting his duty nearly palpable. “It has been my pleasure to enjoy your company these past few days.”
“The pleasure is mine, my lord,” Hope said, offering a polite bow before leaving the man to his own devices. Probably dry heaving into one of the chamber pots.
Maker’s breath. Her particular set of martial skills. She'd like to see him try that line on the Queen of Ferelden. Or the Champion of Kirkwall. Or the alleged one-woman army that was the Right Hand of the Divine. Though certainly none of those women would give poor Lord Darrow a second look, she mused.
Hope was so busy composing her letter to Prudence in her head--trying to decide between “sweet, but a bit of a tit” and “nug-brained fop”--that she didn't realize she'd gotten turned around at some point until she found herself in an unfamiliar hallway. It curved a bit at the end, so she couldn't see what lay beyond, and given the lack of servants rushing about, she assumed the area was in disuse. Odd, that, given how tightly packed the delegates were in their rooms. Perhaps everyone in the area had simply gone to the main hall already, to be in position when the Divine emerged from her quarters to speak.
The hall suddenly felt strange, thick and heavy, like the promise of a storm. Hope went still, the hairs on her arms rising as her skin prickled. It was a familiar enough sensation, unfortunately, after years in Kirkwall.
Magic.
But where was it coming from? She needed to tell someone, maybe find the Tal-Vashoth mercenaries in charge of security. Maker’s breath, she didn't even have her sword, and of all the times to be wearing nothing but leathers, pauldrons and a coat--
“Someone help me!” a voice cried. It seemed to have come from the end of the hall.
Without a second thought, Hope raced toward the sound and found a large pair of double doors with the Chantry sunburst above them. Maker preserve me, she prayed, and shoved the doors open with all her strength.
“What's going on here?” she shouted.