Chapter Text
Grace gave one last kiss to Wiggles before bounding down the stairs. Father called for her again and she shouted back that yes, she was on her way. She just had to check on Sami and Lola and then she’d be done. If only she could take them with her, Wiggles too. But Mother hadn’t allowed her to take anyone.
She patted Sami. “You be good. Try not to have too many kittens while I’m away,” she said. “And Lola, no fighting.”
Both cats spared her a brief glance of disdain before closing their eyes and settling down on their cushions.
“Grace, come on!” Sebastian this time. “If you hurry, I’ll give you a piggy back all the way to the docks!”
Grace squealed, hopped and skipped out the house, waving goodbye to the gathered servants and leapt onto Sebastian’s waiting back. “Onward, noble steed!” She laughed as he started running. Grace turned back to Mother and Father. “We’ll race you,” she called. She caught a glimpse of them shaking their heads as they climbed into the waiting wagon.
“You can’t hope to beat them,” she said, but Sebastian had already started running.
“Watch me.” He adjusted his grip on Grace as he wound and weaved his way through Ostwick’s cobbled streets. Streets they both knew by heart. Streets they’d grown up on. Camden’s Sweets and Tyme’s Books passed in a blink as Sebastian jiggled Grace down the hill. He ran along Butcher’s Ally, in the middle of the road, dodging carts filled with bleating sheep, leaping over the old dogs that hoped for a stray bone. Once he cleared the tanners, he had a clear run to the harbour. Nothing but sunshine and salt and fish and seagulls. Ships off all sizes moored at the dock but Sebastian had eyes for only one. With no sign of Mother and Father’s carriage ahead or behind, Sebastian slowed to a walk, then dropped Grace to the ground.
“Look.” Grace pointed. “Have you ever seen anything so wonderful?” The ship may not have been the biggest she had ever seen, but for a week the cog would be her home. Squat and sturdy with one tall mast and room enough for the three Trevelyans and crew.
Sebastian stood next to her, panting, his arm around her shoulder. “You will be okay, won’t you Gracie?”
She looked up at him, wary of the concern in his voice. She’d be fine. She had Mother and Father with her and they’d be travelling well beaten roads.
“I wish I could come with you,” he said. “But, duty calls.” He sighed. Grace followed his glance at the Chantry far up the hill behind them, then back to the cog. “A grand adventure! Try not to have too much fun without me.”
Grace squeezed her brother and promised that she would be fine. She was nervous, yes, but oh so excited, delighted at the prospect of adventure.
Their parents’ carriage rolled up woefully late and Mother and Father pulled Sebastian into a crushing hug.
“You behave yourself, Sebastian,” Father said. “Listen to your Knight Commander, follow his orders.”
“Do us proud, son. And try not to get anyone pregnant, please.” Mother said, dry as always.
Sebastian put his hand over his heart and promised to behave. “I’ll be a Templar when you get back, you have my word.”
One more tight hug and three Trevelyans boarded the ship, leaving one on the docks.
Grace raced along the deck, avoiding the crew throwing ropes around and loosening ties. The pair yelled endearments to one another, Grace reminding Sebastian to feed her cats and Sebastian reminding Grace not to bring any more home with her.
The horn sounded and the captain called. With a lurch, the ship pulled away from the dock and into the harbour.
“Goodbye, Gracie! Next time I see you, you better have a husband!” Sebastian called, waving frantically.
Grace laughed, waving and blowing kisses. “A new brother for you, brother!”
They continued to wave and shout until their voices couldn’t heard and their arms were sore. Grace leaned against the railing, still watching as Ostwick grew smaller and smaller. Tears welled and ran into her smile, happiness and anticipation mixing with sudden homesickness. She took a shuddering breath and wiped her face. All would be fine. They’d cross the Waking Sea, land in Jader, ride to Haven, attend the Conclave, then travel through Ferelden, stopping at a few key estates that held Trevelyan interests. And maybe, hopefully, if all went well, Grace would meet the man of her dreams and he’d return to Ostwick so they could have a summer wedding and--oh, how perfect it will all be!
Once Sebastian was nothing more than a speck in her eye and the Chantry a dot on the hill, Grace sighed and turned away. Down in the cabin, Mother would have their quarters all laid out and maybe even some food.
*
The ocean heaved and rolled and for the upteenth time, Grace leant over the railing, voiding her stomach into the sea while her mother rubbed her back. She didn’t care how long it took, their return trip would be by land. Barely kept a meal down since leaving Ostwick and not even the first mate’s special seasickness concoction helped, though from the taste of it, Grace suspected it was nothing more than fermented sea water.
“You never were one for the sea,” Mother said.
“How much longer?” Grace shivered despite the cloying heat of her clothes.
Mother wiped Grace’s hair off her sticky forehead. “Two more days, darling.”
Grace groaned and threw up again.
*
The Iron Bull tapped the end of his quill against his eyepatch as he pondered how to start his report. In the tavern downstairs, music and voices, and ale flowed freely from casks. Feminine giggles came through the wall next to him and he wondered which of his boys had managed to score. Rocky, probably. Maybe this time he’d last more than two minutes. Par Vollen didn’t need to know about the proclivities of his mercenary band. Short and to the point. That’s all they needed. Any flourishes and they’d get suspicious. Couldn’t have him having too much fun out here. He consulted his cypher then put quill to paper.
Duke Charlon proved to be a decent enough employer. He contracted the Iron Bull’s Chargers to clear his summer house of those massive spiders the south cultivates. Too nervous though. Orlesians. Always hiding something. Didn’t want us going into the basement but we did anyway. A door poorly concealed behind a rack of casks lead to a tunnel that went far underground. This must be the tunnel Tallis-559-824-153 suggested, the one that links to the Deep Road entrance near Lydes. I will send word to her, too. She can flush out the lyrium smugglers.
- Hissrad-558-987-454
Done. The Iron Bull let the ink dry then folded the note, stamped it, and set it safely away for delivery. Now to see if Rocky had left any willing partners for him.
*
After seven long days at sea, the Trevelyan’s cog docked at a rickety old jetty that looked like it was one good storm away from being swept away completely. Some place Jader was, with dockyards tinier than Ostwick’s.
Grace rushed off the gangplank and almost fell to the ground. Dry land. Oh how wonderful to be on dry land. She wobbled, like she was still on the sea. Father caught her before she fell completely.
A sharp laugh made her look up.
“Not got your legs back, Marcher?” A boy, no older than her, sneered at Grace as he hauled rope. Her cheeks flushed red and she concentrated on the ground. One foot in front of the other until she reached the wagon that would take them to Haven. She slumped in the back, exhausted and homesick.
*
Jader felt so long ago but they’d only been travelling a couple of days. Winding up and up a pass barely wide enough for the wagon, Grace, Mother and Father bounced and jostled in the back, watching the Frostbacks grow ever bigger. Maker, real mountains with real snow. The coach driver, Henri was quite the delight. When he wasn’t chatting to the horses, he’d point out peaks and rivers and little snippets of history related to them. He made excellent tea and could rustle up a dinner even during a complete blizzard. Every now and then he’d ask Father a question about the family that gave Grace the impression that he was more than just a hired coach.
“Will you make contact with old Aunt Anne while you’re in Ferelden?” Henri asked Father. He spoke around a pine needle that stuck out between his teeth.
Father pursed his lips and Mother scoffed. “Ferelden’s a big country, Henri,” Father replied.
Henri plucked the pine needle from his teeth and barked a bitter laugh. “That your way of saying you can hide from her? How’d’you know she won’t be at the Conclave?”
“Maker preserve us,” muttered Mother.
“Last I heard she’d moved to the coast on the advisement of her doctor. Something about Denerim making her humours damp,” Father said.
Henri laughed again. “Like Amaranthine is any better! If she wants sunshine she should’ve moved to Antiva.”
Grace watched the exchange with wide eyed wonder as it lapsed into not-altogether-pleasant reminiscing. Grace knew Aunt Anne as the relative that her exhausted parents threatened to send naughty children to, but when Henri said by-the-by that she probably still held a grudge against him for stealing a handful of boiled lollies when he was three, all the pieces fell into place. “Henri! Are you a Trevelyan?”
Henri turned and gave a slow nod. “Yup. Got Trevelyans all over the Thedas. Even in Tevinter. My great grandmother said we came from there, even. Our side of the family always were a little loopy, right, Seamus?” He winked at Father then turned back and gave the horses a clip.
“No! Really? Tevinter?”
Father grinned. “Really.”
Grace sat back, stunned. She’d had no idea. The Trevelyans were the oldest and most noble family in Ostwick, long supporters of the Chantry, sons and daughters filling the Chantry and Templar ranks for generations. She knew they were a big family, too, if the numbers of people coming out from everywhere to join in the Wintersend festivities were any indication. But Tevinter! That was as far north as you could get! Well, as far north as humans could go before wandering into the qunari of Par Vollen. But as large and as important as her family was, she’d not learned much about them. She really only felt close kinship for Mother, Father, and Bassy. They were all she needed. Any more and she forgot their names.
Henri navigated the travelers safely through the Frostbacks pass and down into Ferelden in only a handful of days. Each night the party pulled up in a clearing and pitched tents. Once the fire had been started and dinner cooked, they retired for bed. Night came quickly under the pines, forcing Grace to close her book early. She fell asleep easily, used to lumpy bedrolls and piles of furs.
One morning, as they wound their way through icy paths, their wagon rolled up to a pair of wizened old men walking with staffs, their bags slung over their shoulders.
“Should we offer them a ride?” Grace asked. The men looked awfully old and cold. They didn’t even have boots on, just soft shoes like you’d wear in a castle.
On Father’s nod, Henri pulled alongside the pair.
“Fancy a lift, sers?” He called.
The men turned in unison, eyeing the wagon with suspicion. One of them gripped his staff, angling it forward. Grace flicked between him and his companion. Their staffs were made of gnarled wood, topped with round crystals. Mages!
“We don’t mean to cause trouble. We are only headed to the conclave,” one said. His voice croaked, as if he hadn’t spoken for ages.
“We’re going there too. Please, you’re welcome to travel with us.” Father held his hands out and spoke like he was placating an angry mabari.
Still they hesitated.
“Listen to the good man. Even by horse we’re still two days out. Think you’ll make it in this weather?” Henri said.
The men continued to stare, as if frozen in place. Why wouldn’t they just get in?
Father leaned forward and spoke in a low tone, though no one else was around. “We’ve no problem with mages, apostates or no. Please, ride with us.”
The men looked at each other and appeared to have an entire conversation with only their eyes. They looked back at Father. “Very well.”
Grace and Henri jumped down to help the men into the cart while Mother and Father made space amongst the luggage. Once they were comfortable and Henri had roused the horses, they introduced themselves, Cedric and Westby. Grace offered the visitors cheese. They nibbled as Mother asked where they had traveled from.
“Jainen, serrah.”
Jainen! That was all the way on the Ferelden coast! Grace held her tongue but her surprise was shared by her parents.
“Have you walked all this way?” Mother asked.
“What choice did we have? The young mages, drunk on rebellion, burnt our Circle to the ground. We were left homeless. Even the templars wanted nothing to do with us. We heard about the conclave from a tavern and hoped…”
Grace watched them talk and realised they weren’t nearly as old as she’d first thought. Their faces were brown and weatherbeaten, their wrinkles recent rather than woven over time.
“We’ve never walked so far in our lives,” Cedric said. “I hope never to walk again. Just lay me in a bed when we arrive, will you Westby?”
Westby took Cedric’s hand in his and gave a feeble squeeze. His attention returned to Father. “And where have you come from?”
“Ostwick. We’re the Chantry’s delegation.”
“Ah, Trevelyans?”
“You know of us?” Grace couldn’t help herself so surprised was she.
“You’re well known, even on this side of the Waking Sea.” Westby said with a hint of mystery.
“Wasn’t there a Trevelyan at Jainen? A Templar. Not nearly as kind as you,” Cedric said. He shivered, a bone-wracking shudder that threatened to shake his very body apart. Mother threw another fur around his and Westby’s shoulders and soon the pair fell asleep, leaning against each other.
As they got closer to Haven, their company increased. Numerous travellers to the Conclave joined the track from other mountain passes. Henri called out to a few wagon drivers, recognising them and passing friendly insults.
Two days later the wagon rolled into Haven. Henri was reduced to a crawl as people rushed past going all directions. Grace looked around in wonder. Such a small village! And hosting such an important event. And the noise! After so long at sea, and then just with family, the cacophony of strangers roared in Grace’s ears. Oh, and the smell.
Haven didn’t even have cobbled streets, just muddy tracks lined with muddy snow. Straw had been thrown onto the muddiest parts but carts still got bogged down and any unsuspecting pedestrians could find themselves ankle deep in disgusting, freezing water if they weren’t careful. Grace peered down at them, glad that she wore her hunting boots. Thick leather laced up to the knee with a heel that gave a nice clop when she walked over cobbles but stayed soft when she skulked through forest.
Henri pulled up outside the only tavern and helped Cedric and Westby down. When they shouldered their bags, they slumped and once again they became old men.
“Thank you, Trevelyans. We will remember your kindness. And who knows, maybe we will see you at the meetings.”
Grace waved goodbye, sad to see her companions go. She worried for them, too, but they had come all this way on their own so surely they would be okay now.
*
Snow fell in thick clumps, all sleety and wet. Grace had finished reading the box of books she’d brought from home on the fourth day and with little else to do but shiver in the wooden shack her family had been assigned, she went outside in search of adventure.
Alas, the locals proved to be hostile, displeased at having their village turned into a circus. The tavern, while warm, was full of people Father had warned her to stay away from. She’d’ve gone hunting if only she’d brought Nathalia. A bowl of fresh goat stew wouldn’t go amiss in this weather. Pity the cooks didn’t know how to cook a decent broth. Fereldens shunned garlic on account of it being too Orlesian, apparently. Heathens.
With nothing better to do, Grace tugged her fennec fur coat tighter around her and trudged up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes to see what all the fuss was about. The Divine herself was here, presiding over the talks that would reunite the mages and the templars. Maker, what a job. Better her than Grace. Sisters and Templars recited the Chant of Light as they stood around braziers, warming their hands. They sounded dead and cold, reciting the prayer on reflex, the meaning long since lost to them. Grace frowned and walked faster, though she knew the chanting and incense would only be worse inside the temple itself.
A pair of large grey qunari stood guard at the gate, solid and intimidating. They looked identical, deeply set eyes and grim expressions carved into their faces, both with horns that curled back and under--like a ram’s. They could have been statues but for the way they turned their heads to assess Grace.
“Do you have a pass, my lady?” The one on the right spoke with a low Ferelden accent. The dissonance caught Grace by surprise and she jumped before digging through the purse at her hip to find her stamped pass. She held it up to the qunari. He took it from her and read her name aloud. The other qunari nodded. Grace took her pass back and the pair let her in.
First Enchanters and Knight Commanders from all over Orlais, Ferelden and the Free Marches gathered in the main hall, sat around a round table in the centre. The seat of the Most Holy Divine Justinia and the two either side of her sat empty while Grand Clerics from each of Thedas’ countries fanned out around the table. Mages and Templars, representatives from Circles and noble houses filled the rest of the hall, silent, concentrating on those speaking at the centre.
Grace slipped along the back wall, finding a spot close to the fire. She craned around those in front of her, up on tiptoes, and spotted Mother and Father at the table next to First Enchanter Michael and Knight Commander Elizabeth. She smiled at Ostwick’s delegation, well dressed in furs and armor so shiny it gleamed. The Trevelyan crest sparkled on Father’s breast plate.
She picked out other delegates either by recognising their faces or crests. But once the talking started in earnest, her eyes glazed over. She fixed a smile like she’d been taught and let her mind wander. The qunari at the gate had been a surprise. They weren’t like the few that had come to Ostwick after that mess at Kirkwall. Mother had told her to stay away from those ones and from the tone she’d used, Grace hadn’t felt like disobeying her just to sate her curiosity. But those ones at the gate--Maker, they were so much bigger than she thought they’d be. And… rugged! She’d have to ask Mother about them, find out why they were allowed here.
“My mages will never be collared to the Circles again.” That was First Enchanter Michael! “We have endured enough at the hands of the Templars. We all know what the chant says: Magic is meant to serve man, not rule over him. But what has happened to us? The Chantry does not allow us to serve, so fearful they are of what they do not understand.”
Maker, he always seemed so nice but here he was yelling. Beside him, Knight Commander Elizabeth pursed her lips and stared at the table.
“In the blessed name of Andraste, are we going to argue hermeneutics all day?” Grace didn’t recognise the speaker, and didn’t know what he meant, but the majority of the hall must have for they all erupted into shouts and jeers.
Grace gritted her teeth at all the arguing and fought to get out. She had to force her way back through the crowd, arms up around her face to avoid wayward elbows and pointing fingers. She made it to the door and ran down the corridor, not caring which way she went. Maker, how awful! And Mother and Father had sat through four days of that already? They’d never made a decision if they carried on like that.
As she stopped to see where she’d actually ended up, a flicker caught the corner of her eyes. Too big to have been a rat. Faint skittering came from the direction it’d darted in. A cat? Maker, please let it have been a cat. Without pausing for a second thought, she went in search of whatever it was.