Chapter 7: Heaven Filled With Silence

It was a compromise, enough to keep the Revered Mother, and by extension the Grand Cleric, happy for the time; and to keep Bann Trevelyan relaxed in the event that Gavriel's illness returned and the worst should happen. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Even Theo.

It wasn't ideal, but it was better than being shuttled off to the Chantry for good. And as an initiate, Theo had access to parts of the Chantry that he'd never seen before. The Sister tasked with showing him around had let slip that nearly all Chantries were set up the same way, which meant that once he knew the layout well enough, Theo could easily slip in and out of any Chantry.

Nothing was set in stone, but he was already planning his eventual escape.

He didn't know what the state of the Chantry was in Orlais or Ferelden; but in the Free Marches, the Chantry was on edge. He'd gotten good at listening, being so quiet that people tended to forget he was present; he absorbed rumors and gossip and facts. He rarely saw his uncles anymore; they'd been dispatched to guard the Ostwick Circle, where his sister Maranda lived. Kirkwall, to the west, was a crucible of tension between mages and templars. Rumor had it that the Knight Commander wanted to annul the Kirkwall Circle.

Then the Kirkwall Chantry exploded, and with it, the rest of the world.

Suddenly cataloguing texts and making sure the censers were polished weren't important; the censers were always in use as the Chantry filled with terrified parishioners praying and crying to the Maker. Theo stayed behind the scenes, listening to the steady stream of voices from the sanctuary, lifted in dissonant prayers. He caught snatches of the Chant. The Revered Mother tried to preach sermons at first, and then gave up and guided the Chant and comforted the frightened.

The Chantry was filled at all hours of the day and night, and the quiet that had made his work bearable was long gone.

The louder they prayed, the less the Maker seemed willing to answer. This is my answer, the silence seemed to say.

Theo knew what it was to cry out in desperation and receive no answer. He should have been disconcerted by the Maker's silence, and sympathetic to the peoples' prayers. But he couldn't feel it.

It was late, long past the time Theo normally left the Chantry most nights. He didn't know quite where he belonged anymore. He was years older than the regular initiates, and not quite a brother. The Chantry did not hold his leash; but he never felt quite welcome or comfortable at the Trevelyan manor anymore. But this was one of the first nights in a very long time—probably years—that the sanctuary was empty. He paused in the dim light of the low-burning candles. He was so accustomed to the scent of incense that he hardly smelled it anymore. His footfalls echoed on the flagstones as he headed for the front door.

The hinges creaked and the door opened, letting in a breeze of fresh, salty sea air that made him ache for his freedom. His stomach flipped and his heart leaped in his throat when he saw his father standing on the threshold.

They faced each other for a long, silent moment. Theo dropped his eyes to the worn crimson runner at his feet and felt his cheeks burning. He could never shake the feeling that he'd done something wrong, simply by existing. Finally his father cleared his throat. "Come pray with me, son," Bann Trevelyan said in his stiff, formal voice, as he strode past Theo and let the door close behind him.

Theo inhaled the last of the fresh air as he turned to follow his father. The two knelt in the quiet before the prayer altar. Bann Trevelyan lit a candle. "How shall your children apology make? We have forgotten, in ignorance stumbling, only a light in this darkened time breaks. Call to your children, teach us your greatness. What has been forgotten has not yet been lost," he prayed from the Canticle of Andraste. Theo kept his eyes closed and mumbled along with his father.

They sat in silence for a long while. Theo was sure he could hear his blood running in his veins. He wanted to get up and leave; or say something; or find an excuse to duck into the back. But being around his father paralyzed him.

"There is to be a conclave held in Ferelden," Bann Trevelyan finally said. "Her Perfection seeks one last effort to reconcile the mages and the templars." It wasn't news to Theo; he'd overheard some of the clerics and sisters discussing it. "Ostwick has always served the Chantry; and the Trevelyan family most of all." Also not news. Theo held back a sigh and stared at Andraste's marble feet.

Bann Trevelyan looked up at Andraste's bowed head. From this angle he could probably see her face, probably imagine her tears of pity for the Maker's wayward children. "What comes of this conclave will affect the future of all of Thedas. Our family's devotion to the Chantry must be evident, and our interests must be seen to."

Theo nodded. He was a bit bewildered by what his father was sharing with him, when normally the Bann was content to pretend he barely existed. But he was mostly tired. He wanted to go to sleep, have a few hours where he didn't have to pretend to care about Chantry business.

"You will go as an envoy of our family."

Theo looked up. He felt the blood drain from his face and turn cold in his veins. "I can't." Thoughts of Chantry vestments and hours of prayer and the careful dance of politics made him feel sick. His father's face was almost sinister in the flickering shadows cast by the prayer candles. He couldn't explain his hesitations or his reservations, at least not in a way his father would understand.

"Your uncles will accompany you, as well as a handful of our best troops."

"I can't go, I don't want-"

"When the conclave is over you will serve as a full brother."

"But—"

"It took me a great deal of effort to curry enough favor with the interim Grand Cleric to allow you to skip the rest of novitiate training," Bann Trevelyan said without looking at his son. "This is nonnegotiable. We all have our duty to the Maker, Theodane."

Theo's mouth was dry, but his palms were sweating. He felt the burning at the back of his eyes and was terrified he might start crying in front of his father. He would be twenty-three soon, as the summer waned and autumn approached. He was a grown man and could not—would not—cry in front of his father.

He watched as his father rose and walked down the nave back toward the entry. "I've never mattered to you, have I," he suddenly croaked out.

Bann Trevelyan stopped. "This is an honor, son," he said without turning back to Theo.

He didn't confirm Theo's accusation. But he didn't deny it, either.