Haven's chantry smelled like... cold. Cordelia marveled at the thought, even as she allowed herself to fall a few paces behind her companion's brisk strides down the main hall. It was a small attempt at privacy while she began to furtively, yet frantically, pat herself down. How could she have lost it? She'd had it when she'd awoken in the cell. She was sure of it.
The seeker she trailed—Cassandra, she reminded herself—paused with one hand on the knob of the heavy wooden door before them and looked her charge over. "Ready?" the seeker asked. And after receiving no response, "Trevelyan?"
Cordelia's fingers found the worn surface of the charm she sought. "Thank the Maker," she breathed, pulling it from her pocket and blushing when she caught the other woman's stone-faced expression as it fell on the bejeweled trinket. Having only just managed to convince her recent captor that she wasn't a murderous traitor, she wasn't too keen on replacing that assumption with the notion that she was a cosseted noble and a superstitious nitwit to boot. "I always wear it around my neck," she explained lamely. "My brothers. They gave it to me."
She was too surprised to protest when the seeker turned her brusquely, taking the fine clasp from her bandaged fingers to secure the gold chain beneath her hair for her.
"Family is important." Cassandra's hand returned to the knob without further explanation. "Shall we proceed?"
"After you, Seeker," Cordelia replied.
Thick, fragrant smoke billowed as soon as the doors were opened.
"What in the—" the seeker strode forward and vanished from sight. "Leliana! What is the meaning of this!"
"Isn't there some saying about how the right hand always blames the left? Well blame the commander this time, Cassie. He lit the confounded thing."
Unsure if she was meant to wait in the hall or not, Cordelia settled on tentatively peering into the room from the doorway as she attempted to locate from which blurry figure the Orlesian-accented retort came. She got a lungful of overly perfumed smoke for her trouble.
"If you will recall, I only did so at Lady Montilyet's insistence," a man's smooth voice called out. He was interrupted by a hacking cough that verged on a retch. "Protocol be damned," he gasped. "Pray tell me Ambassador, in which of your books is this procedure for greeting the chosen of Andraste outlined?"
A delicate hmmph, presumably belonging to the accused lady, sounded from somewhere to Cordelia's right. "We must have some pomp and circumstance if we are to be respected by all of Thedas. You clearly lit them wrong. At least make yourself useful and help me; the damned things won't blow out!"
"You can't," said Cordelia, in an inadvertent chorus with three of the voices. A beat passed in silence before the room erupted into commotion.
"Herald?
"She's up already?"
"Lady Trevelyan! How lovely to meet you!" A clatter, a smash, and a frustrated squeak of something in Antivan followed this last.
"Perhaps we should put the introductions aside for now and locate the extinguisher?" Cordelia offered. She pointedly ignored the odd honorific that she'd only just noticed the villagers outside using as well. "The candles are everburning. We must locate the snuffer to put them out properly."
"Oh! Like the Chant says. You know, I always wondered how they stayed burning through such long services."
The one called Leliana giggled at this. "Oh Josie."
A metallic glint caught Cordelia's eye and she began to shuffle into the room toward it. "Is it a silver snuffer?"
"Yes," said the man hoarsely. "Do you see it?"
She nodded, belatedly realizing that no one could see her. "Yes it's— ow!" She rubbed her forehead and reached out blindly to feel for the object she'd collided with, fingers brushing over metal and soft fur. Large hands grasped her shoulders in return.
The man was close enough that the fur he wore tickled her nose. "So sorry my lady," he said softly. "I meant to assist."
"Just be still for a moment," she said wryly, slipping from his grasp. "I believe I've located the object in question by your foot. And I've had rather enough bandages for one day."
After extinguishing no less than eight, fully lit candelabra and then waiting the better part of an hour with the doors to the Chantry flung wide to the brisk mountain air, they returned to the old chanter's alcove, now restyled the "War Room," not much worse for the wear. Though the commander had developed quite a nasty case of lingering allergic fits.
"Just a tickle," he attempted, eyes watering as he broke off into another trio of sneezes.
Cordelia looked at him in concern. "Here." She held out her handkerchief to exchange for his own, which was now soaked through and he took the cloth gratefully, settling the thick stack of scrolls he carried beneath one arm into a precarious heap at the far end of the table before wiping his eyes.
"Thank you. The fragrance, it—"
"Is disgusting," Cassandra finished for him, wrinkling her nose.
"Indeed. I am thankful that the Most Holy no longer uses—" Leliana broke off abruptly, a blank expression smoothing her face. "Used," she corrected.
Cordelia turned her gaze to the floor as the red-haired woman shared a sorrowful look with Cassandra. Despite House Trevelyan's strong ties to the chantry, she had never met Divine Justinia. It seemed rude to bear witness to the private mournings of her most inner circle, especially since it was apparent that she'd been exceptionally beloved. She caught the eye of the commander standing to her left, head bowed in a similarly discreet fashion, and offered him a small smile. He returned it readily with only the right side of his mouth. The maneuver was so surprisingly adorable that she flushed instantly and had to look away, suddenly supremely interested in the pair of puffed yellow sleeves that had just crossed the threshold.
"Well, now that that's settled..." Oblivious to the tension in the room, the olive-skinned woman breezed in, waving a quill cheerfully as she spoke and taking up a position at the far side of the table. A scribe's board was cradled in her other arm complete with fresh parchment and an open pot of ink at the ready. She looked to Cassandra expectantly. "Shall we begin?"
Muttering something about candles, the seeker moved to shut the door. "May I introduce Lady Cordelia Trevelyan of Ostwick. This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, Ambassador to the Inquisition; Commander Cullen Rutherford, leader of our forces; and Sister Leliana, Left Hand of the Divine and..."
Sister Leliana opened her mouth as if to explain.
"...Our spymaster," finished Cassandra.
The newly-outed spy raised one slender red brow. "Tactful, as always, Lady Seeker."
Cassandra shrugged.
Cordelia bowed her head slightly as each was introduced, relying on the comfortable routine of formality to cover how out of place she suddenly felt. "A pleasure to meet you all." Ambassador, seeker, commander, spy... And what was she? Prisoner turned bearer-of-a-useful-mark? The seeker had briefly explained their intention to re-form the Inquisition of old back in the cabin she had first awoken in after closing the rift. But she did not belong here.
"The honor is ours, Herald," replied the commander. His gaze was warm and well-meaning, but the use of the bizarre title did nothing to assuage Cordelia's doubts.
"Yes, about that," she began carefully, not quite sure how to clarify that she clearly was not who they seemed to think. "There's been some misunderstanding. I am here as a companion to my uncle, High Chancellor Byron Trevelyan? In representation of Ostwick Chantry interests at the Conclave." She looked at her new acquaintances expectantly, surprised to find that not a one seemed particularly moved by this news. "My father sent me to assist, you see."
"We are aware," the ambassador said brightly. I've already requested copies of your most recent scholarly activities to keep here at Haven for visiting dignitaries.
"Um, yes well…"
Cassandra scraped a chair out from beneath the table before them and sat down with a heavy sigh. "She is wondering why we are all calling her 'Herald.'" She put her head in her hands, rumpling her hair.
"She still remembers nothing?" the spymaster asked quickly, shrewd eyes darting between Cordelia and the seeker. She continued on when Cassandra gave no answer. "Well, we make do with what we have then. She was seen with Andraste. There is no reason for us to dispute that claim—"
"—I'm sorry. What?" Cordelia looked at her in shock.
"You noticed the villagers, yes?" Cassandra said, head still bowed. "We have multiple accounts of you falling from a Fade rift, guided bodily by Andraste."
Of all the things she might have anticipated from the seeker's lips, Cordelia certainly never would have guessed that. For that reason alone, she felt slightly less ashamed of the clearly audible hitch in her breathing. Was there really any other response to an accusation of having been shoved through the sky by a prophet?
"Maker," she finally managed with an uncomfortable laugh, taking a step back to lean against the wall. The pieces of her morning began to make a horrible sort of sense. "I— That's why that woman…" Cordelia bit her lip, recalling the desperate-looking mother who'd held out her baby, fat-cheeked and red with fever, to Cordelia as she'd followed the seeker down the crowd-lined path from the cabin she'd awoken in. "They think I'm holy."
The spy nodded. "An advantage we must press."
Cordelia stared at her in confusion. "Why in the Void would we do such a thing?"
"Because the Divine is dead," said Leliana bitterly. "Mages and Templars are in open warfare throughout Fereldan, Orlais, and the Marches and there is a hole in the sky which threatens to swallow Thedas entirely. If the belief that you are a blessing from the Maker will help us to solve that, any uncertainty about its truth seems a small price to pay."
The sister's argument was so flawed Cordelia didn't know where to begin its deconstruction. "Haven is a religious backwater. No where else would such a story be believed. The idea is preposterous."
"Is it?" asked Cassandra. "You were the only survivor. Of the more than six-hundred that were in attendance at the Conclave, you alone stepped from the Fade, with the power to control the rifts which plague us. We must consider that there may have been some divine purpose for your fate, as well as the mark on your hand."
"But that is no proof!"
"Can you say for certain that it was not Andraste behind you?" Leliana retorted.
I—" Cordelia pressed her lips together, willing her hazy memories to sort themselves. The last thing she could recall from that day was preparing to resume negotiations in the Grand Hall. Uncle Byron had forgotten his notes in his rooms, but was deep in conversation with First Enchanter Emmeline. She had gone back to retrieve them.
And then?
Nothing. She could not say if she had ever returned. A lump rose high in her throat. Her father's only brother was dead. Did Papa even know?
The commander shifted beside her with a soft "Lady Trevelyan…" and she looked up with a start, realizing that her discomfiture had become apparent to the rest of the room.
"Fine," she said, her tone more snappish than she'd intended. "I can no more deny Andraste's hand in this than I can say it was not a Tevinter dragon-god of old who guided me from the Fade." This last was meant to be glib, but really, it was a sobering thought. Anyone could have stolen her memories and altered her body without her knowledge. A list of increasingly nefarious possibilities as to why she might have a mark which could open and close holes in the sky began to grow within her mind and she shut her left hand tight, wishing she couldn't see the unnaturally green glow even through her glove.
There was a long pause before Cassandra finally spoke. "Let us believe in providence then. Because the truth is that there is no other explanation for the events that have occurred here."
"And you needn't worry yourself about misleading anyone, Your Worship," said Josephine kindly. "Be silent about the honorific if you must. Your actions risking your life to close the temple rift already speak for themselves, and the power you wield with that mark will deliver the influence the Inquisition needs."
"Influence?" Cordelia asked.
Josephine nodded. "We are a new faction. Most are unaware of the history of the Inquisition and those that are may be fearful of our intent. We must prove that we stand for an end to this chaos."
"And that we can be trusted to deal with both sides fairly," added Leliana. "Which is why it's vital that we are not too quick to cast aside your newly bestowed... title."
Cordelia tugged absently at her braid, feeling her head throb beneath the weight of these expectations and bound hair both. The spymaster was right. Without a Divine leading them toward reconciliation, the Chantry would be aimless until until a new one was appointed. Meanwhile, the Order would lash out at Circles with renewed fever over the disastrous Conclave, and vice versa. More Templars and mages alike would rebel, and further destruction would be wrought across Thedas.
"Alright," she said, realizing there was only one way forward. "I promised my help for your Inquisition, and you shall have it; I won't resist the title. But I will not encourage it." She turned to each of the advisors. "Please do not ask that of me."
Cassandra looked at her thoughtfully. "Spoken like a true servant of Andraste."
Cordelia sighed, deciding it would be best to move on from the subject. "So, what do you need me to do exactly?"
Leliana unfurled a thick map detailing the entirety of Thedas onto the battered table. "We collect allies—mages, Templars, and any Chantry contacts who haven't already denounced you as a heretic."
"Well that was fast." Cordelia raised a brow. "Won't that be a problem?"
"We have split from the Chantry by declaring the Inquisition," Cassandra said, waving a hand dismissively. "You are the figurehead of our opposition. It was to be expected."
"It is a loss to be sure, but not an insurmountable one," continued Leliana, drawing their attention back to the map. "There are plenty, even in the highest reaches of the Chantry, who doubt this official stance. It will take time to bring them to our side but it can be done." She pushed a wrought iron pin into southern Fereldan. "We should begin here. There are rumors that a mother sympathetic to our cause remains in the area and my scouts also report signs that Fade rifts will likely begin opening in these areas over the next three to four weeks, just as we saw here in Haven. Sending you to close these would increase our visibility and gain us support."
"There are more of them?" Cordelia looked up in surprise. "I thought once the temple rift that powered the... bigger rift was closed, the thing would just…" She drifted off, realizing how ridiculous that theory sounded.
"I'm afraid so, my lady," said the commander. "It would seem that closing the temple rift stabilized the larger Fade-defect. The Breach, as we are calling it. But it continues to allow new rifts to spawn. The theory is that until the Breach itself is closed, new rifts will continue to plague us. He gripped the hilt of his sword in a movement reminiscent of her Templar-trained father and brothers as he continued grimly. "And all manner of creatures will continue to enter our realm unimpeded."
Cordelia's palms went clammy. She was the only known method of stopping what he described. That meant she would face more of those—.
Sweet Andraste.
She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, nails pinching into her own skin in a painful, but welcome confirmation that she could still trust the sensations around her. She recalled the feel of slimy bodies beneath her daggers—the treacherous sneers as they'd whispered grotesque threats inside her own head while she'd cut them down. Her heart contracted, tripping over itself into a breakneck speed.
Demons.
It was the first time she had seen one since… A shiver ran through her, mind recoiling from the long-buried memory. Pure, primal instinct had driven her to fight through the putrid masses of demons at Cassandra's side, not her training. And certainly not bravery. She didn't know if she could stand to do it again. But if not her, then who? She swallowed, feeling guilty, and wincing as the dry tissues of her throat contracted together. She must try. The accursed mark, her family honor, and her conscience, demanded it.
Pushing a now sweaty lock of hair back behind her ear, she attempted to calm herself. "W-will I be going with the Commander?" She glanced at the tall, fair-haired man, still standing silently to her left and saw his eyes were already upon her. The urge to lower her lashes, ashamed at what he might have seen, hit her instantly.
"A small party would be best," Cassandra murmured, hunching over the map with Leliana to examine the local terrain more closely. "Myself, Solas, and—"
"No."
Cassandra looked up. "Excuse me, Commander?"
The man pulled himself straighter, looking away from Cordelia. "We cannot guarantee that she will be safe."
"Nonsense." Cassandra turned back to the iron pin. "She will be with us."
"And she will be a liability, until we have ensured she has had proper training."
"She can hold her own Cullen."
The commander gestured to her glowing hand. "And if she comes to harm or worse? What then? We have no strategy beyond the use of that mark."
"And we'll make no progress at controlling these rifts without her," replied the Seeker dismissively. "It is decided."
"Cassandra. No." The commander now had the attention of all the women in the room, though only three were looking at him in full. Cordelia herself stared fixedly at the scuffed toes of the borrowed boots she wore as he continued. "She is not prepared for this."
"Are any of us?" asked Leliana.
"Maker, is that even a question?" Cullen's mouth twisted in irritation. "More than her, yes. You fought beside the Warden-Commander herself, Leliana. Cassandra has spent years protecting the Divine and hunting the most dangerous mages and templars. And I…" his voice weakened slightly, before he seemed to recover his thoughts, "...I was in the Order for nearly thirteen years. He gestured to Cordelia. "What has she done that can possibly compare to what we have seen?"
Cordelia had a sudden desire to sink through the floor. "I have had training," she said quietly, more a reminder to herself than anyone in particular. Hearing the accolades of those assembled around her was doing little to bolster her confidence.
"And she is not untested Cullen." Cassandra pushed away from the table in full, setting down her handful of pins. "You forget that I have seen her in action."
The commander snorted at this and crossed to Cordelia's side, ignoring her bewilderment as he grabbed her hand. "Here. Show me how you block a rage demon."
"What, like a parry you mean?" Impatient brown eyes held her own.
"No. Your grip. Forward or reverse? Which is it?"
"Forward," she guessed.
"No." He arranged her fingers around his, as if she were holding the hilt of a blade. "This demon lunges into attacks reflexively. Forward grip and the demon will rush into the thrust, burning your hand at the very least." He moved her arm forward into his chest in demonstration. "A reverse grip is better."
Cordelia nodded in understanding, already rearranging her fingers around his in the proper form as he grunted approvingly.
"Yes. See? This way you can cut across the body with the last point of contact at the outside line." He pressed her hand against his chest at the new angle, guiding her through an imagined slash across the diagonal of his torso. "The demon will rush forward, but this time, will miss you entirely as it does so."
"You are a fast learner," said Leliana, arms crossed as she watched the display with a calculating expression. She turned her level gaze back to the map. "Cullen is mothering. We clearly have nothing to worry about."
In retrospect, the forceful rush of air pushed from the commander's powerful chest far too quickly should have warned her. Or perhaps the nearly imperceptible tightening of his fingers around her arm, which he still held to his side. But Cordelia noticed neither of these. And so she was just as surprised as the rest of them when he dropped her hand, bringing his own down on the war room table with no small amount of force.
The ambassador startled at the sound, losing control of her ink pot and scattering the liquid within. Black splotches fell over the commander's glove and the small portion of northern Orlais now torn beneath his fist.
"Did you not hear me?" he said. His voice was quiet, but the timbre had changed. Darkened. Cordelia felt acutely aware of the width of his shoulders and the sword at his hip.
"Calm yourself Cullen," Cassandra ordered, brows raised high in disbelief.
"Just as soon as you two stop playing at our military strategy," he said fiercely. "Lady Trevelyan is a noble. She has no combat experience and no training of any sort, beyond that which her family deemed fit to purchase for her in the form of tutors. She carries our only hope of salvation and yet you are willing to send her into battle with little more than a scouting party? Herald or no, she is a child.
Cordelia's mouth fell open at his scathing appraisal and felt her cheeks grow hot. "If I may say, I trained with Chevalier Arceneaux for years. He was a skilled veteran awarded the Lion D'or by Empress Celene herself."
The commander looked at her blandly. "Such exertions may have helped you keep a slender figure, as your parents likely intended, but I can assure you they've done little more. You cannot kill a blood mage by swaying your hips at him."
"H-how dare you!" she sputtered, stung by how close to the mark he hit.
"I dare because I am the commander of our forces and as such, I must keep you safe. For all our sakes."
The fear that she had felt only moments ago was rapidly being replaced by anger. "I am not a little girl, Ser Rutherford. You would do well to—"
"Well you are certainly behaving like one," he shot back. "The issue at hand is bigger than you are." He was somehow managing to look incredibly condescending despite his sneeze-reddened nose.
She had completely misjudged him, the flaming cad. An overwhelming desire came over her: to wrench her handkerchief, still clutched in his large hand, back from him and stuff the cloth down his stupid arrogant mouth. But supposing such behavior would not be deemed very Herald-like or mature, Cordelia restrained herself, feeling her nostrils flare as she attempted to control her breathing.
"You do have a point," said Leliana finally, breaking the tense silence. She surveyed the commander with something that looked suspiciously like amusement. "Cullen? I assume you have an alternate suggestion?"
"We send her out with a full squad," he replied, without a moment's hesitation. "They can clear the area of any combatants and the Herald will be free to close the rifts without additional danger to herself."
Cassandra considered his suggestion. "Not a bad idea. But we risk becoming a far more visible target to any tracking us. Plus, the Herald truly does have excellent form, Commander. You did not assess her capabilities fairly."
Cullen folded his arms across his chest. "I am not doubting her form. I'm doubting her experience."
Cordelia felt her cheeks redden further at the continued slight.
Cassandra clapped her hands to the table with an air of finality. "Then that settles it. Cullen, you will direct the Herald's teaching. In the meantime, Leliana's scouts can search for more information regarding the precise location of any new rifts in Ferelden, and the mother we seek. Hopefully, by the time they have found her, Lady Trevelyan will be decently prepared to proceed with our original plan."
"Can't you teach me?" Cordelia blurted, immediately regretting how petulant she sounded. "It is you I will be fighting with after all, Seeker."
Cassandra exchanged glances with the Commander. He bowed his head in assent.
"I will instruct you in small-group tactics," agreed Cassandra. "But Cullen was a Knight-Commander and is better suited to training new recruits in demon-hunting. Varric and I have some business to attend. We will go now. When I return, we can begin."
"Have we a plan then?" asked Josephine.
"Yes," chorused the other three.
"Excellent. Meeting adjourned."
Cordelia could do little more than stand there, silently fuming, as the party dispersed. As her parents intended… ugh! She'd never been so humiliated. Who did this man think he was?
She turned to leave, nearly running headlong into Knight-Commander Arrogant himself who was, of course, blocking her exit. "Excuse me," she said coldly, attempting to maneuver past him.
"Your Worship, I'm—"
Her brows shot up as she abandoned all pretense of civility. "So I'm 'Your Worship' again then? Not 'child', or perhaps, 'my useless lady-noble'?"
If she hadn't known better, Cordelia would have said that Commander Rutherford looked almost regretful as he gazed back at her.
He said nothing.
"And I am more than capable of defending myself," she continued haughtily.
"Are you?"
"Yes!"
He sighed and shut the door behind him with a nudge of his heavy boot, eyes never leaving her own.
"What are you—" She stepped back as he strode to her, stopping only when her backside hit the table and feeling her heart pound as he leaned in, unsettlingly close.
A hand brushed her own as he braced himself on the table behind her.
"You are bluffing my lady," he whispered, his breath briefly hot against her left ear. His free hand cupped her face, fingers brushing along her hairline, still damp with telltale sweat. "You looked positively ill when all that talk of demons began."
"You were mistaken," she hissed, pulling his hand away in embarrassment.
Her face burned as she watched him rub the perspiration he had found between his thumb and forefinger.
"I suppose we shall see tomorrow then." He released her, turning to the door. "At sundown. Don't be late."
Cordelia sank back against the table as she watched him leave, rage roiling thick and heavy in the pit of her stomach. She supposed she should thank the commander. At the very least, the infuriating arse had given her a good deal more to think about tonight than her fears.
She smiled, feeling slightly vindicated at the sound of three sneezes issued in quick succession from somewhere down the main hall. At least the man still suffered a little.
