"Herald."

"Cullen, hello," she said turning to look at him as they met in the square. It looked like he just come down from the chantry. She smiled at him and they began the walk down to the practice grounds together.

"I think you have a problem with one of the team leaders."

She made a face. "Let me guess. Jem?"

"That would be him." Cullen nodded. "He's a bully."

"Thought so. He's decent with a bow. A poacher, I think. I was thinking of switching him out with Adelaide, that big blonde girl."

"Good choice."

Evelyn grinned up at him. "Of course it is. I'm the one who made it."

Cullen chuckled and they parted ways at the gates.

She went down the hill and stopped behind Jem. She crossed her arms and waited until he noticed her. It took a while, because he was busy criticizing his teammates and strutting about like a rooster.

"Hello Jem," she said coolly when he looked at her with a start. "You will switch places with Adelaide." She nodded at the farm girl. "Congratulations Adelaide, you are now team leader. I do suggest, however, that you don't think you are so above everyone else that you do not have to participate in the exercises. Everyone participates." She kept her eyes on Jem. Adelaide moved to the front of the group, the ghost of a smile on her face.

Evelyn joined her recruits in exercise, her glutes protesting at the squats. Maker were they tight. She would have to start mobility exercise along with everything else. More for her own sake than theirs, she added a jog around the lake. She had spent too much time in reflection.

When the group huffed and puffed back into the practice grounds, Evelyn dismissed them.

"I will meet you here a half glass after sunrise." She turned to leave them. "Oh," she paused. "And Jem," she said over her shoulder, "do another run around the lake. Team leaders, make sure he does."

She did not wait to see the slow smiles on his fellow recruits' faces. She did not have to. Point made. Now she had to wait and see if he learned his lesson or not.

She had her jug refilled at the tavern and grabbed a potpie. Nug, she thought, as she nibbled the cooler edges on the way back to her hut. She knew that smell anywhere. Evelyn was pleased to see the writing supplies sitting neatly on her table just as Josephine had promised, along with the small looking glass she had requested.

Josephine had been supportive after her confession, and had eventually convinced her that asking for her family's support would be a good option.

"Herald. They sent you to the Conclave. The Trevelyan's have been actively involved in the debates since the rebellion began. They would not have sent you if they did not trust you," Josephine had argued.

"You think so?" She hated herself for the whine in her voice.

"Absoloutely."

Josephine was to write a formal letter and Evelyn to send a personal letter tucked inside.

She set the jug and pie on the table next to the pile of parchment and stripped out of her leathers. She set them neatly in the corner and changed into a simple tunic and loose breeches. After she stoked the fire, she dragged the table up close to it. Evelyn filled her mug and ate her supper in quiet.

When she was done, and had swept the crumbs from the table, she set about trimming her quill and mixing ink. Preparation complete, she looked down at the parchment.

Dear Father, she wrote in her spiky script.

I am alive.

She took a drink.

Emmerson is not.

She took another.

While the whereabouts of his person are unknown, it is certain he perished in the explosion at the conclave.

Another.

There is no way to identify him. Such was the violence of the blast.

And another.

The feet of her chair squealed as she pushed back from the table. She took in a deep breath and closed her eyes. She felt pressure building in the center of her brow; it ached. She gasped and swallowed hard.

She missed him. She missed his quick wit and constant one-liners. His humour was dry, and at times cut deep, but was always spot on. She missed the gleam in his eye when they planned the route of their next hunt. They had loved each other, in their own way. They were friends. Comfortable. But there was no lust. No heated couplings in the dark. Emmerson chose to share his tent with those of his own kind. Preferably the hairy ones.

"They're like blankets. Perfect for a tent on an autumn night," he had quipped once.

Marrying each other solved each other's problems. A collective sigh of relief went through the family ranks when the news of the decision was announced. Two problems solved.

By marrying, Emmerson would gain access to his allotted lands and title accompanied by a dollop of respectability. In turn, Evelyn could freely run around the countryside with her bow. It was not a perfect solution, but it did have its enticements. Mainly, freedom neither had before. They could live their own lives as they saw fit, neither of them minding what the other got up to. They would have to create an heir, of course. That task would be awkward. They had both steadily ignored that particular topic when they were together. They would deal with that issue when it came.

And now he was gone and it was no longer an issue. She gripped her glass tightly and sobbed; her body jerked with the force of it. She sobbed again and it stuck in her throat. The empty mug fell from her hand and she crumpled to the hearth. She curled into a ball, forehead to knee, and allowed herself to cry for the first time since the explosion.

She fell asleep on the hearth with damp ash smeared across her cheeks.

Evelyn woke a glass before dawn. Her body was stiff from both sleeping on the floor and the unaccustomed exercise the day before. The skin around her eyes felt tight and her head throbbed. She broke the ice in her wash basin and splashed her face, gasping at the cold. With the looking glass Josephine had kindly provisioned her with, she shaved the sides of her head, cleaning up the growth she had left in the past few weeks. No reason to appear shabby.

She ate a day-old roll and took a swig of the cold, yet flat, ale.

When finished her breakfast, Evelyn glanced at the unfinished letter. She looked out the window to gauge the time. She had enough to finish the task. She wet the ink and dipped her pen.

Dear Father,

I am alive. Emmerson is not. While the whereabouts of his person are unknown, it is certain he perished in the explosion at the conclave. There is no way to identify him. Such was the violence of the blast. I am told I am the sole survivor. Enclosed is a letter for his parents. Could you please see it to them?

I will not dwell on how I feel, but it would be accurate to say that I feel his passing deeply. He was a good friend. I try to find comfort in Transfigurations 12.

Seat me by Your side in death
Make me one with Your glory
And let the world once more see Your favour

I do not know what tales have reached Ostwick. I cannot add much more to Lady Montilyet's account of events, save that this mantle of Herald does not sit comfortably upon my shoulders. Any advice you would give this poor daughter would be appreciated. I will do as I must.

I will stay here and help bring order back into the world. The power that has lodged itself upon my hand has seen to that.

There is a matter concerning Maxwell and Henry. Have you heard from them? The tales concerning the Templars are true. They have broken from the Chantry, and indeed, publicly assaulted a chantry sister in the market of Val Royeaux. Lord Seeker Corin appears to have gone mad with power. I fear for them. Call them home, father, or we will lose them to chaos.

I must go. I have a small contingent of recruits awaiting my instruction. It appears my skill as a hunter has other practical applications.

Give mother my love. And Edward and Amelie.

Sincerely,

Evelyn

It would have to do.