In Their Blood
"Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.
In their blood the Maker's will is written."
- Benedictions, 4:11
Evelyn tugged at her collar, trying to pull it loose of the gorget that chafed at her throat. Templar armour was in equal parts ornamental as it was practical, the plate light but tough. In truth, Evelyn missed her hunting leathers, well-worn from many a trip into the forests around Ostwick, toughened and inscribed from quillback skin, light as a summer's wind but tough as an autumn storm. However, delegates of the Chantry were expected to have a certain prestige about them, and a squad of Templars dressed in their parade best standing at attention was apparently the message Mother Angelica hoped to send: disciplined, united, strong, just.
Apparently, personal comforts weren't high on the list of priorities for the Chantry's enforcers.
Still, Evelyn couldn't complain too much. While the armour wasn't particularly well-fitting, having been hastily assembled in time for the Conclave, it was made of silverite, and thus afforded her the best protection gold could buy while remaining remarkably light. An accordance offered to the officers, Evelyn suspected, spotting the reflection of the Knight-Corporals assembled behind her in Knight-Captain Ioren's shield. Paragon's Luster really wasn't the most comfortable or most protective of metals, but it served its purpose well enough for the newer Templars. Still better than the cheap iron plate given to the recruits at the back of the parade. Evelyn shook her head at the memory of those awful, hellish weeks which had made up her brief internship in the Templar Order. No sleep, cheap equipment, pious teachers, grumpy Knight-Sergeants, hostile mages; it had almost been enough to make Evelyn miss her days as a lay sister at the Ostwick Chantry.
Even now, standing in rank with the Knight-Sergeants, the memory was enough to make Evelyn feel a little bad for standing amongst these anointed Templars who had earned their place as officers within the holy order; they had paid blood, sweat, tears, and lyrium to reach where they were. All Evelyn had to offer was birth, looks and talent, and she knew which of those had seen her carted off to the armoury for a set of ceremonial armour. With her brothers and sisters in Nevarra, Antiva, Tantervale, Orlais and Starkhaven, her noble lord father had summoned her to his solar, slapped a writ in her hand, and then given her a few hours to pack. When she'd protested, asking why her already-Chantry siblings couldn't go, wouldn't they be better suited, Father I don't even know half of the verses in the Chant, he'd merely assured her that her horse was already saddled and her retinue ready to leave at her word, before dismissing her with a casual wave of his hand.
Bann Trevelyan had always been talented at selective hearing.
Knight-Commander Gerald hadn't been too impressed by Bann Trevelyan's letter of application either, judging by the way he'd glowered at her after reading the terms of her service, but apparently the Maker saw more sense in gold than honour. Even Templars needed to buy food and equipment when the Chantry was too busy dealing with things like mage rebellions across the world to pay mind to little things like collecting tithes and providing supplies. So, with his gaze burning a hole in her highborn forehead, Gerald had agreed to admit her into the Templar Order, including a fancy induction ceremony introducing her to her future brothers and sisters as Evelyn Trevelyan, Knight-Sergeant of the Templar Order, and Champion of the Just. Evelyn didn't miss the notable lack of a 'ser', even though Templars automatically earned the title upon admission into the Order. Evidently, Evelyn was expected to earn her title and knighthood the way other nobles did: good connections paired with either noble deeds or a fat purse.
Neither of which was likely in the foreseeable future, Evelyn reflected gloomily, as the great doors of the Temple of Sacred Ashes began to creak open. Father had gifted her a chest of gold to spend on personal comforts, but it, along with most of her personal items, had been left in her quarters at the Ostwick Circle when the Knight-Commander had informed them that they were to march to Haven in Fereldan for the Conclave, and that they were expected to travel light, so as to make good speed. Only the essentials were to be packed. Why ceremonial parade armour in addition to standard-duty armour was an essential, Evelyn would never understand.
Evelyn touched at her throat again, this time fingering the amulet underneath the gorget. A present from Morris, Master of Game at Equus Point, the amulet had the Trevelyan coat-of-arms etched on one side, the proud horse rearing high. But on the other side, painstakingly carved and by no means elegantly, was a crude sketching of Justinia, disciple of Andraste. A gift that was both a comfort and a promise.
"Surprisingly pious of you, Morris," Evelyn had joked as she unstrung her bow. "It seems that everyone in this castle is obsessed with the Chantry in one way or another."
The old man had laughed, a big, bawdy bark. "I sing the Chant as often as any man does, true, but that's not what this is, girl." As was often the assumed privilege of the old who knew the young when they were younger, Morris rarely if ever referred to her as 'Lady Trevelyan'. Instead it was 'girl', or 'lass', or 'bugger off and stop taking the dogs hunting without telling me you wretch', but always with that fond twinkle in his eye. "Do you know what that amulet is made of?"
"Wood would be my first guess. It would." Evelyn had replied, delighting in the cheery banter.
Morris had laughed again, shaking his head. "You would be right, lass. It is wood. But not just any wood. No, this is ironwood, bought from them Dalish. I was meaning to carve a new shield for Ser , but found I had a little left over. So, here it is. I decided to make something special out of it for you. Hope that you appreciate it. Broke quite a couple daggers trying to carve into ironwood."
Evelyn had turned the amulet over in her hands, a new respect for the rough artwork.
"Being the sentimental old granddad you are, I imagine that you've a reason for blessing me with this token?" Evelyn had teased.
Morris had chortled as he took her quiver from her.
"Aye, you know me too well lass. So, yes, you'd be right in thinking that way. This is a gift meant to have you weep joyful tears at my thoughtfulness." He'd taken the amulet from her and held it in front of her, showing both sides. "You know who and what these are?"
Evelyn had made a great show of looking hard. "On the one side is the arms of my house, the great House Trevelyan, one of the noblest and important-est houses in all of Ostwick. It is rarely mentioned elsewhere in the Free Marches, much to my lord father's discontent and my great-aunt's ruinous envy. Upon it is the horse, our chosen sigil, selected because of it is noble, yet hard-working, both gentle and fearsome, and because all the impressive animals had already been taken. On the other side, there appears to be some monkey dressed up in imitation of Blessed Andraste."
Morris had swatted playfully at her with a pair of leather gloves. "See if you can draw any better, gal. I've seen your attempts. But if you must know, this is Justinia."
"Our Most Holy?" Evelyn had asked. She'd pulled off her sweat- and grass-stained surcoat, handing it off to one of the servants passing by. "Somehow, despite her age, I've been assured that our Divine doesn't have quite the same resemblance as your blasphemy."
Morris had rolled his eyes. "Maker save me, it breaks my heart to think of all that time you spent as a lay sister. Did you learn nothing during your time at the Chantry?" He held up the amulet again, holding it close to her. "This, lass, is Justinia, disciple of Andraste, freed slave, and close friend to the Maker's wife."
"You mean the one nobody really remembers nor cares about? She's barely in the Chant at all." Evelyn had commented as she tried pulling twigs out of her long brown hair. She'd been hoping to cut it, but Father had refused. No doubt long hair helped her look prettier. It did cover up the nasty scar on her temple, so Evelyn wasn't too upset with the ever-oppressive influence of Bann Trevelyan, but it was very impractical in the woods.
Morris had nodded knowingly. "Aye, you're right, lass. And that's why I carved her. Because she's not too dissimilar from you."
Evelyn had given him an odd look at that. "Was Justinia an archer? Beautiful? Constantly heckled by her master-at-arms for setting arrows on fire?"
"No, girl. She's like you because people forget about her."
Evelyn had stood up at that, twigs forgotten. "Why do I get the feeling that I'm not going to like where this conversation is going?"
Morris had leaned forward, his expression warm and understanding. "Look, gal. I know that you're not too happy with your lot in life. Youngest child, sixth in line, with no prospects of marriage. Nothing but the Chantry or Templar life ahead of you, a life already led by Jenna and Percival and Harwill. You're not like to become a Sister anytime soon, so I'll bet that your lord father's planning to send you to the Templars instead. A noble cause if ever there was one, but somehow I get the feeling that you won't be too happy with that life. You'd always be looking for something more."
Evelyn had bit her lip, looked at the ground. Bitterness wasn't a good look on her, so she'd held back her resentments for most of her life, choosing easy smiles and light jests. But Morris had always been there for her, a father and mentor for when Bann Trevelyan had been too preoccupied with his work. "It just… doesn't seem fair, you know? Everything that House Trevelyan is expected to do's already been done. All my brothers and sisters have already started their lives going to greater things, and I'm expected to just follow in their footsteps. I just… I don't know, I mean, I love them, most of the time. But I wish that Father would give me the opportunity to do something else. I could do it. I know I could. I don't know what, but I could."
"Aye, I know what you mean." Morris had said. He'd clasped her shoulder, looked at her with that encouraging smile. "Lass, ever since I grew up in Starkhaven, I've been all over the Free Marches, and I'd be hard-pressed to find someone as talented with a bow as you. Trouble is, few folks give archery the respect it deserves. It's not all fancy bladework or shiny shields or giant fireballs, so people yawn and say it's boring and easy. But let me tell you this, girl: with your bow and arrow, you're ten times the soldier any of your warrior siblings are. You're also good with them poisons and daggers too, and heaven knows you've broken into my workshop enough times for me to know that you're a frightful good at picking locks too."
"What does any of that matter, anyway?" Evelyn had said, irritated, and disgusted with herself at her own irritation. "All I'll be doing is just standing in line with a bunch of other Templar archers and shooting arrows at mages anyway."
"I think you're looking at this all wrong, girl." Morris had held up the amulet again, showing Evelyn the side with Justinia. The original Justinia. "See this girl? She was a slave, a nothing, destined to die in service to the Imperium. She had nothing ahead of her. Until one day, Andraste comes and frees her, and says 'You've been told you're a nothing all your life, you've felt like a nothing all your life. But here, I'm giving you a chance to be a something.' And you know what? Justinia took that chance. And so, she went from being a slave to being one of Andraste's best friends and disciples, and stood by her throughout the whole war."
Evelyn had raised her eyebrow at that. "You do know that Justinia dies with Andraste, right?"
Morris had shrugged. "We all die, lass. Some of us at least get to choose how we die. Justinia, she chose to die doing something. Being a something. History has largely forgotten her, true. We remember all the others from the Chant. Andraste, Hessarian, Maferath, Havard, Hector. Even the ones we're not supposed to remember, like Shartan. Justinia is left by the wayside, yes. But do you think that she cared? She got to be someone. She could have chosen to run and hide when Andraste freed her. Lots of slaves did, nobody would have cared. But she took the challenge, and she made something of it. And now, it's your turn, girl."
Evelyn had looked at him, confused. "What?"
"The Chantry is calling to you. Andraste's calling to you. You get to be one of her holy warriors, a Templar, to fight the injustices of the world. Are you going to duck your head and worry and complain about how unfair it is, how people remember everyone else instead? Or are you going to take the challenge head on, and do something that's worth remembering?"
"My lady?" Evelyn had turned around to see her father's steward, Timeon, at the door to the workshop. "Your lord father requests your immediate presence. He has urgent need of you."
Morris had leaned back, crossing his arms.
"Seems that your time's come, girl. Better go see your lord father. No doubt it's important. Here, take the amulet, and remember what we talked about. Might be you'll find the answer sooner than you think." As she'd stood up, confused, wondering what her father needed, Morris had bowed low, smiling gently. "My lady Evelyn."
It was that memory, the memory of Morris showing both his affection for the girl Evelyn as well as his respect for the lady Trevelyan, that warmed Evelyn during the cold nights in the Frostback Mountains, that straightened her back beneath the weight of her bow, quiver and armour, that kept her marching alongside men and women who didn't know her and yet resented her all the same, for her birth and her bow and her station. As the doors of the Temple of Sacred Ashes opened fully before them, letting loose the noise and light and warmth of countless individuals gathered for a tense truce, Evelyn couldn't help touch at her amulet again.
If she was ever to make something of herself, if she was ever to start down the road to prominence, if she was ever going to be able to look in the mirror and think "This is someone. This is someone more than the cheeky, forgettable youngest child of a semi-important Bann. This is someone who's going to do great things"…
If she was going to be someone, then this was the place to do it. If she was going to leave her mark on history, if she was going to be remembered, what better place to start than here? What could possibly be more important than the Conclave called by Divine Justinia herself, to determine the future for not only mages and Templars, but for all of Thedas?
Knight-Commander Gerald held up a clenched fist at the very front of the column. Then, he signalled forward, and as one the Templar Order marched forward to determine what would become of their fate.
And Lady Knight-Sergeant Evelyn Trevelyan marched with them.