Rhys found the snow fascinating.
It fell soft and quiet, bleeding the color from the world. It caught in his hair and on his skin, leaving wet trails like tears, the tracks of a metaphysical force weeping over the muted beauty. His boots sank into the drifts, and the flakes clung to the supple leather, like burrs - alien passengers hitching a ride to the next dune made of their brethren. The snow hung heavy in the trees, dragging their branches down toward the powder like it wanted to consume them. It was simultaneously beautiful and unnerving; a soft facade that concealed much and left everything to the imagination.
He lifted his face to the sky and squinted against the drifting crystals, but they caught in his lashes all the same. The sun should have been directly above, but the thick blanket of clouds turned the sky gray, a deep slate pregnant with the threat of more snow to come. It never snowed in Ostwick. Cold, yes; rain, sure; but never enough of either to produce the heavy flakes and thicks drifts through which he currently shuffled. The most exotic weather Ostwick ever saw was the occasional fog bank rolling in off the Waking Sea. Rhys' breath plumed in front of him, the vapor melting the flakes that fell through it. A small curved his lips - he was reminded of playing at being a dragon with his sister when they were young, exhaling great breaths into the winter air and squabbling over whose had the most reach.
"Rhys! Keep up!"
His brother's voice shattered the fragile stillness, and Rhys let his gaze drop. Callum waited for him further down the path, at a bend in the trail. The sun glistened off his silver armor, the sigil of the Templar Order emblazoned in scarlet on his chest. His senior by four years, Callum was Rhys' opposite in almost every way. Where he was lean and wiry, Callum was stocky and built to swing the greatsword he wore across his back. His red-blonde hair was swept back from his face in a careless wave, cheeks flushed with the cold and exertion. He was handsome in a way that made men and women alike take notice, with high cheekbones, sun-kissed skin from the Rivaini heritage somewhere on their mother's side, and full dimples when he smiled.
By comparison, Rhys, who took after their father, was more "classically handsome," as their mother like to put it. His cheeks were slightly sunken, cheekbones almost sharp enough to cut. An aquiline nose and fair skin coupled with thick eyebrows gave him a brooding appearance, to the point where his siblings had teasingly christened him "Owl" as children in response to his penchant for late nights and near-constant scowl. Add collar-length brown hair and his perpetual stubble, and it was no wonder his parents finally took notice.
His father's parting words drifted back to him on the winter wind: It is your duty as a Trevelyan to join the Chantry, and as you've missed the cut-off for the templars by some years, you'll take your place as a cleric. Callum will make the introductions. No goodbye; no "we'll miss you;" no "I love you, I'm proud of you." Caius Trevelyan had no time for such things when it came to his least son.
As if his thoughts were a summons, the wind mustered its strength, biting through the thick coat and fur mantle Callum had procured for him. Rhys shivered and quickened his pace, coming alongside his brother. Callum grinned, his cheeks and nose ruddy. "I haven't asked you: what do you think of Fereldan?"
Rhys shrugged. "It's… different." Truthfully, he'd seen little of the country. After crossing the Waking Sea and landing on the northern coast, it had been all mountains and tiny hamlets before reaching Haven, where his guide had unceremoniously dropped him and his cousins at Callum's feet before heading back the way they'd come. He wasn't even sure how he felt about the snow, much less Fereldan itself.
"You'll get used to the weather; the only thing that still vexes me is the wet dog smell." Callum scrunched his nose, the skin around his gray eyes crinkling. They were the same shade as Rhys', the only physical trait they shared. "I'll requisition some warmer clothes for you as soon as I get the chance. Father really should have seen to it before you left."
"Ferrin had a hunt scheduled that day."
Callum grimaced. "And Maker forbid he miss that. I'm sorry, Owl." Rhys glanced sideways at his brother, surprised by the childhood epithet. "Come on. I'll show you something to lift your spirits." He jogged ahead, seemingly ignorant to the weight of his armor and weapon. Rhys hurried to catch up, and as he turned the bend, the Temple of Sacred Ashes loomed into view. Callum lifted a hand toward it and turned back to Rhys, eyebrows raised.
It was impressive, he had to give it that. A massive rectangular fortress, its towers stretching toward the sky, as though inviting the Maker himself to reach down and touch the weathered stone. Gargantuan marble statues kept a watchful eye from each of its four corners. A formidable stone gateway guarded entry at the top of the steps, its mouth yawning wide in both welcome and warning. Rhys had read Brother Genitivi's account of the temple backward and forwards after its publication, his imagination eager to leach every detail, but someone else's words couldn't have prepared him for the real thing. By no means was he devout, but something about the place almost made him consider believing, as if the Maker would suddenly appear to greet his long-dead bride, returned to life - as a dragon if the cult Genitivi described was to be believed. Rhys glanced down at the snow under his feet - Fereldan's king and queen had stood here once, a decade previous, staring up at the same ancient walls.
"Callum!"
Rhys winced. King Alistair and Queen Ruari must have found the temple a mite quieter, that was certain. A collection of people milled around the steps and gateway, most bearing Chantry or Templar symbols on their clothing, and one of the former jogged toward them. He reached Callum and clasped his wrist tightly. Rhys' brother returned the gesture, his face split in a wide smile. "What kept you? Your cousins came through half an hour ago."
"Had a little catching up to do." Callum released the other man's arm and gestured at Rhys. "Simon, meet my younger brother, Rhys. He'll be joining the Chantry once this farce is over."
Simon laughed, but it was strangled, and Rhys didn't miss the nervous glance he cast about them. Clearly, not everyone regarded the Conclave with Callum's flippancy. Rhys held out his hand, and Simon seized it, grateful for the distraction. "A pleasure. Formally, I'm Brother Simon Dimont, but just Simon is vastly preferred. You'll be joining us clerics after the Conclave?"
Rhys smiled tightly. "So I've been told." This time with a seriousness in his father's voice that hadn't been there before; an empty threat no longer. Something about the destruction of Kirkwall's Chantry had changed Caius, had made him harder - but Rhys never dared to ask why, nor expected that his father would actually answer.
Callum clapped him on the back, and Rhys gritted his teeth against the bite of the metal gauntlet, unpleasant even through the heavy cloak. "I'd much rather he be with the templars - the things he can do with a bow are magic - but the Chantry is lucky to have him." Rhys glanced sideways at him, surprised. How did Callum know about his training? Did Lyse tell him? He was fairly certain their parents didn't even know, and Ferrin was too wrapped up in their father's succession to care. "Anyone you think we should 'run into' while we're here?"
"Sorry, Cal, but it's not the best time." Simon glanced around again. "Most of the leaders are shut up with the Divine, save the Left and Right Hands. Everyone else is rather busy dealing with…" He trailed off with a meaningful look.
"With the rabble." A scowl darkened Callum's features, and Rhys sighed inwardly. His brother rarely referred to mages by name, just a variety of colorful insults. "Have they exploded anything yet?"
"Careful what you say, and who you say it around," Simon warned. "Most of us feel the same way you do, but there's still plenty who will report even the most offhand comment to the Hands." He grimaced, as though the word left a sour taste in his mouth, then forced a smile. "Find me after the Conclave, Rhys. I'll make all the introductions you need. For now, I should be getting back to the other clerics."
"Can't wait." But he could; he had for seventeen years, ever since he was the same age Callum had been. His parents had never brought it up, and he'd assumed he was free. How naive. Rhys returned Simon's shortened bow, and the cleric clasped Callum's wrist again before hurrying away. They watched him go, the hem of his habit sweeping through the snow. "He seems nice."
"He is. He's also a coward." Rhys glanced sharply at Callum, but his brother was already turning away. "Come on, I'll give you a little tour." He started up the stone steps, and Rhys trailed after him, watching the line of his shoulders beneath his armor. The Callum of his childhood would never have been so dissembling, presenting a friendly face to Simon while cutting him down when his back was turned. Did he do that when Rhys wasn't around? It made him uneasy - what had Callum experienced to make him so duplicitous? Then they passed through the gateway and the temple's interior stole Rhys' focus.
The vestibule just inside the gate was spacious, its stone roof soaring up in a high arc. Braziers line the entryway, the firelight flickering off the polished marble, and a small bonfire crackled merrily in a firepit recessed at the very center of the room. Tall pillars rose from the floor to meet the ceiling around the edges of the room, and on the other side of the fire, a flight of stairs led upward to a higher landing. More statues and carvings, so ancient Rhys couldn't properly identify them all, peek out around the pillars or rose from the wall in intricate detail. There was some weathering and a few attempts at restoration, but overall everything was remarkably preserved.
More clerics filtered up and down the stairwell, accompanied by a handful of templars and servants. Most of the latter were elves, Rhys noted, which is why he almost overlooked the delegation at the top of the stairs.
"That is unacceptable!" The shout, musical despite the fury it carried, echoed around the vestibule, drawing Rhys' eye, and everyone else's, back to the cluster of elves on the landing. A harried clerk blocked the path further into the temple. The speaker, a tall elven man with shoulder-length fiery hair twisted into countless braids and blade-sharp features, leaned toward her, face contorted with outrage. His hand rest on a lump beneath his thick hide coat; Rhys couldn't see the weapon, but he was sure the elf gripped his hilt of a dagger. He felt Callum tense next to him, and another templar started to stride toward the group.
The elf opened his mouth to continue his tirade, but a female elf - the only woman in the group, Rhys realized - reached out to grip his shoulder. "Be still, Taevel." Like his, her voice was lilting, the words a rolling melody of inflections. She shifted her attention to the clerk, acknowledging the templar with a glance. "Please forgive my companion's… enthusiasm. We will need a moment to confer." She tugged on the man's arm and pulled him back to the rest of her people. They all turned inward and began whispering to each other.
Rhys let his gaze sweep over the cluster of elves. Ten or twelve in number, they were all clad in thick hides and leathers lined with fur. Each one bore an elaborate facial tattoo, some of them similar and others wildly different. All were armed, mostly with bows and daggers, though one particularly large (for an elf) fellow had a massive hammer lashed between his shoulders.
He shifted back to the woman. Her position in the center of their little circle marked her as the true leader, no matter how loud her companion was. She was built like a reed, with a shock of curly auburn hair pulled back in a tail and the sides of her head shaved down to the skin. A white-wood staff hung from a strap on the back of her silver fur cloak, its tip tapering down to a metal-capped point.
"Dalish," Callum grumbled, and Rhys started a bit, having forgotten his brother's presence. "With a mage, to top it all off. Why the Divine hasn't thrown them out yet, I have no idea." He elbowed Rhys in the ribs. "Maybe she plans on adding new kitchen staff."
The female elf stiffened, and then she glanced back at them, meeting Rhys' gaze. Her dark green eyes were jewel-bright against her copper skin and the black lines of her tattoo, and they held so much quiet anger that Rhys found himself shaken. He broke the gaze and gave Callum a rough push. "C'mon. Weren't you supposed to be giving me the tour?"
"Well, yeah, but I don't fancy trying to push past that lot," his brother groused. "Besides, you won't be staying here until after the Conclave, anyway."
Rhys raised an eyebrow. "And until then?"
"With the rest of the troops in Haven." Callum jerked his thumb in the direction they'd come. "Little chilly, but you should see what they've done with the cottages. You wouldn't believe they housed a bunch of dragon-worshipping Tevinter cult bastards only ten years ago." He tugged at Rhys' sleeve. "Let's go. The general will want to meet you, anyway. Maybe the Right Hand, too, if you're lucky." Callum's grin faded as he glanced back up at the Dalish elves. The mage was speaking to the clerk again, the human woman a good sight calmer than before. "We'll leave them to it; at least one of the savages has a little diplomacy. Simon can give you the tour later."
Rhys wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the elven mage bristle in response to Callum's slander. Eager to escape her attention, he hurried back out into the snow after his brother. Once he caught up, he shot Callum an annoyed glare. "You know elves have heightened senses, right? She could hear everything you said."
"So? You think I care what an uppity apostate savage thinks?" Callum shook his head and glared up at the sky. "They're only here to stick their pointy ears where they don't belong."
"She's a mage. I think that means this whole thing has some bearing on her."
"She's an apostate, Rhys, not a Circle mage. The Dalish only care about how the outcome of the Conclave affects them, not the rest of Thedas. She's not here to defend anyone but her own people."
Rhys followed Callum in silence for a few steps, watching the snow swirl around his feet as he pushed through the drifts. "What did their Keeper say to Justinia to convince her to let them stay?"
"Hell if I know." Callum waited until Rhys was under a particularly laden branch before tugging it and sending the snow raining down. Rhys, used to his brother's antics, ducked out of the way before it fell on him. His glare did nothing to diminish Callum's cheeky grin. "I'd say magic had something to do with it if I didn't think the Hands could smell it. Whatever their reasoning, they're just one more torch on this powder keg."
"What do you mean?"
Callum turned to face him, suddenly serious. "Look, little brother, you just got here. You don't feel it yet. Things have changed since Kirkwall, and it gets worse by the day. The Divine's forces and the Hands have been able to keep the peace so far, but I don't know how much longer that will last."
Rhys frowned. "That's all very vague, Cal."
"You'd know if you'd been out of Ostwick in the last few years." There was no accusation in Callum's tone, but it stung all the same. "The Circles are in chaos; the Order isn't much better. Most of the country's mages are classified as apostates now, by their own admittance, and we're stretched thin trying to keep track of them all."
"But the Ostwick Circle -"
"The Ostwick Circle is loyal. It's also an anomaly," Callum said. He started to count off on his fingers. "But the Gallows? Kinloch Hold? Even the White Spire has broken away from the Order and the Chantry. The College of Magi is completely fractured, and rumor has it that the Grand Enchanter is on the run in Orlais. No one's in charge. Our world is in tatters, and I'm not sure it can ever be put right again." He reached out to grip Rhys' shoulders, uncharacteristically solemn. "Truthfully, Rhys, the Dalish aren't the only reason I want you to stay in Haven until this is over. The delegates, mage and templar alike, are holed up in the temple, and I don't want you caught in the crossfire if something goes wrong."
"Callum -"
"I mean it, Rhys. If something happened to you, I -" Callum's voice caught in his throat, and his gaze fell from Rhys' face. "Well, let's just say Lyse wouldn't let me leave this frozen Maker-forsaken hell-hole alive." He managed a weak smile and clapped Rhys' shoulder, more gently than before. "But enough of all this doom and gloom. Let's get you settled, eh?"
Rhys watched Callum walk away, head high and shoulders straight. His middle brother was one of the strongest people he knew; to see him so shaken, so worried for Rhys' safety was more unnerving than if the Divine herself had delivered the warning. He suddenly felt small and foolish; he'd spent the years since the fall of Kirkwall's Chantry ensconced within the walls of his family's manor, whiling the days away reading in the library or practicing his marksmanship in secret. Meanwhile, Callum had been on the frontlines of a war, one that could tear the very fabric of Thedas apart. And yet, his first concern was Rhys' safety.
"Owl?" Callum's voice pulled Rhys back to the present. "Something wrong?"
Rhys shook his head. "No. Let's go, brother." He jogged to catch up with Callum, managing a weak smile as his brother threw an arm over his shoulders.
Despite the warmth of his coat and mantle, the snow was suddenly colder than before.