Rhyanon falls asleep easily, not even bothering to pull the thin blankets over herself. When she wakes up, a grayish light from arrow-slit windows far across the room are the only proof of daytime. They are too high up to look out properly, even if you stretched from a top bunk.
One of the older girls kicks her bunk. "Get up," she insists. "I'm s'posed to show you where to go. You don't want to be late." Rhyanon scrambles to sit up, then stands when the girl doesn't wander away. She sighs heavily. "Here," she says, helping Rhyanon to smooth her robes. She combs through the younger girl's hair with her fingers. "You have to look presentable. Wynne will probably bring you a second set of robes later, but you'll have to wear these for now. Make your bed. You have to keep things clean." Rhyanon frowns. She tries to fix her blankets but they still look lopsided and bumpy. The older girl shoves her out of the way and does it for her, tucking the corners in tightly and making sure the fabric is perfectly smooth. "Figure it out, later, because I'm not helping you again," she orders. Rhyanon nods. Her stomach starts to hurt. "There's breakfast first, then Chapel. Class. Lunch. Then class again. Pay attention. Don't talk unless someone asks you something, and make sure you're polite. Don't provoke the templars. Do what they tell you. They don't usually bother the little kids, but..." she suddenly trails off. She squeezes Rhyanon's hand, and gives her another one of those fake smiles. "You'll get the hang of it. What's your name?"
"Rhyanon," she answers, very softly.
"You don't sound like you're from here."
Rhyanon shakes her head. "I'm not. I'm from Kirkwall."
"Really?" Rhyanon nods agreement, though it wasn't really an asking-question. The older girl blows out a breath. "Okay. But that doesn't matter anymore. Try to forget, okay? It'll make it easier. Don't talk about other places, especially when the templars are around. All of us are the same now."
"But -"
The girl squeezes her hand, hard, until Rhyanon looks up to tell her stop. "No buts. That's the most important thing. You belong here. It's better if you just get used to it now."
Rhyanon yanks her arm out of the older girl's grasp and huddles inside her too-large robes. She drags her feet along the stone floors, deliberately scuffing footsteps just to hear something break the silence. The other apprentices glare at her, and one shoves her, hard, nearly slamming her against the rough, bare wall. She ducks under the threat, used to running from her older brother. But she falls into line. Her eyes scan the walls, but there's nothing to see. Dim, flickering torchlight, faded tapestries few and far between. And templars scattered all along the way.
The chapel is much darker and smaller than the Kirkwall Chantry, but still brighter than the stone hallways of the rest of the Tower. Sunlight blankets the room - though it is filtered through thick colored glass windows that you still can't actually see out of. Rhyanon stretches up on tiptoe, trying to look anyway.
"Sit down," someone hisses. She feels small fingers - her size - wrapping around her wrist. The child pulls, and she nearly falls onto the hard wooden bench next to him. It's a boy, with long, shaggy, dark hair, and a nervous expression which only grows more pronounced as she glares at him. "Sorry," he mutters.
"What's your name?" she asks, smiling. He looks her age, or close to it. Maybe he'll be nicer than the older kids. But he only shakes his head urgently, responding to the warning glance one of the grown-ups is shooting their way. He folds his head and bows his head and doesn't talk, at all, as the old lady in Sister's vestments begins to preach: about the will of the Maker, light and glory and painful cleansing fire. Rhyanon swings her feet back and forth - they don't touch the floor. At least, she does until the boy next to her squeezes her arm again, hard. She shoves him a little, but not enough to hurt. He doesn't respond, and neither does she. She sticks her thumb in her mouth. But she stops moving. She doesn't stop looking though. The Chantry at home was serious, but not like this. The people here are sad, or scared, even the grownups. Scared to move. Scared to talk. It's not hard to figure out why: she's only half listening, but she hears enough to understand that the Chantry people don't even try to lie about what this place is for: it's a prison, to punish them for their sins.
"I didn't do anything," she mutters, not loud enough to hear. She grips her seat tightly with her fingers, to stop herself from squirming and moving, so she doesn't get in trouble.
When the service is over, the adults leave first, then the older apprentices. The girl from that morning leaves with them, but before she does she hisses in Rhyanon's ear that she needs to stay with the little kids, go to class and do what she's told. Rhyanon nods, to acknowledge that she heard the command, though not necessarily that she'll follow it. But the older apprentice is already gone, and doesn't look back, or seem to care.
Rhyanon's class files out in a long, careful line, led by a strict-looking man. She follows the dark haired boy, still tripping over the hem of her too-big robe. They walk down a long, winding hallway from the chapel to a cramped classroom that has no windows at all. The children sit down in hard wooden seats at unforgiving desks. Rhyanon waits hesitantly, then finds one that no one seems to be using. Still, no one other kids keep sneaking glances at her, but never for long. The boy from the chapel gives her a shy smile, but spins back around quickly, before she can smile back.
Rhyanon squirms in her seat. She sticks her thumb in her mouth.
"Stop that!"
The sound is sudden and loud, ringing through the room. It makes her jump. It takes a long time for her to realize that the teacher - a man in mage robes - is yelling at her. She removes her thumb from her mouth so she can talk. "Stop what?"
"You're far too old to act like a baby," he snaps. A few of the other kids giggle, but the heavy silence swallows them before too long. The room is small, not much bigger than the library at home, but this room is crowded, crammed full. In her head she counts how many people there are: thirty-seven kids, the mean teacher, another mage - not a kid, but not a grownup - in robes the same color as hers. And two templars, hovering near the door. The teenage apprentice sneaks nervous glances at them every time the noise level rises noticeably.
Rhyanon reaches for the book set on another empty desk nearby. She flips through it, picking up the words easily. It's the Chant of Light: history and religion and science and philosophy rolled into one, for them. She knows a lot of it already. "You can't read," the teacher sneers coldly. She glances up, into his narrowed eyes.
"Yes, I can," she tells him.
He doesn't respond, simply flips to a random page and points. "Read it," he orders. She does, tripping over the arcanum, but correcting herself quickly.
"Another noble's brat, are you?" he asks. Rhyanon is smart enough not to answer.
She burrows into her chair and waits for him to walk away. And she bites her lip and curls her hand into a fist instead of sucking her thumb, because she's not a baby.
She pokes the dark-haired boy from the chapel. He's sitting directly in front of her, and she only has to stretch a little bit to be able to reach him. He flinches when she touches him, but she doesn't stop. He sighs, and turns around, ready to whine at her to stop it. But he softens when he realizes that the teacher isn't anywhere close by. He glances at the templars standing guard behind them too, but they don't seem all that interested in the whisperings of a couple of young kids. "I'm Jowan," he tells her, softly. Rhyanon smiles.
She clings close to Jowan during lunch, and the next day, he sits next to her at the back of the classroom. She watches him, shifting in his chair, trying so hard to look like he's paying attention but unable to keep still. Enchanter Nolan drones on. She stops listening, flips through the heavy book next to her, the Chant. "Now is the Golden City blackened..." she murmurs. The story is scary, but it holds her attention. She watches the other kids around the room. They sit with glazed eyes and half-dead expressions. But Rhyanon quickly realizes that as long as they stay quiet, no one seems to care what they do.
The days all begin to feel the same. Long, unnaturally silent hours without sunlight. She shares a slate with Jowan and struggles to form her letters neatly enough. But so does he, and when she asks him he tells her he's been in the tower for years, since he was five. And he's older than her - nearly nine, but he's so scrawny that it's hard to tell. And he tells her he's not any good at magic - that's why he's still in the baby class.
Their class in the afternoon is supposed to be about practical magic, but as far as she can tell, that just means sitting at the same hard wooden desks watching Enchanter Nolan cast spells and tell them they're not allowed. But it wakes her up. When his mana weaves into the air, she can feel it, pulling at her. She reaches out, suddenly knowing what to do. Sparks around her dance and play, and fill her. At least until a sudden heavy coldness falls over her, making her cry. It hurts. It sucks her breath away. She lands hard on the rough stone floor, and stares up at the templar looming over her. Even without a helmet on, his face is an emotionless mask. The tears sting her eyes and her throat hurts. She wipes her arm across her face and shivers. Her ears are ringing.
"You can only cast when they say," Jowan whispers sympathetically. He helps her to her feet, and stands in front of her, forming a fragile shield between her and the templar. And Enchanter Nolan, who sneers down at her.
"You must learn to control yourself, girl." Rhyanon nods, still shaken.
That night, she dreams. For the first time since she got to the tower, she hears the old voices, mixed with new ones, the same words but clearer. Now, she's able to define these things she's touching, with words like 'demon' and 'abomination.' She recognizes the doomed city at the horizon, blackening everything it touches, and she feels little desire to reach out to manipulate the twisted trees and eerie wisps of light. Yet she wanders the neverending pathways for hours that seem like seconds, or the other way around. Because the only thing that scares her more than those barely-perceptible voices is the silence, when the templar's touch took them away from her.
She can no longer easily tell how long she's been in the tower. She can guess, by struggling to count Sundays, the one marker of endless days turning over to endless weeks, different only because there are no classes, simply longer Chantry services and different chores. Her memories of Kirkwall are already fading, overwritten by new habits that ingrain themselves into her muscle quickly: Awake before the first hints of grey light pierce the darkness of the tower. Wash, dress, make her bed, eat what's put in front of her. Kneel obediently in the chapel, pray for deliverance from sins no seven-year-old could comprehend, much less commit. Sit still and silent. Don't complain or cry, unless you want something to cry about. She stops asking questions. Her stomach hurts, her steps drag, she feels constantly cold. She misses sunlight.
She drags herself into the dining hall, exhausted after another long day filled with heavy silence and unspoken threats. Her stomach growls, and she squirms a little in her seat until, next to her, she feels Jowan tense. She throws him a questioning glance. He nods toward the door, where a commotion is starting to be obvious. Rhyanon quickly slips off of the long bench. She's small enough still to weave through the aisles between crowded tables to get a clear view of the confrontation.
"Leave me alone!" an older boy spits, struggling to pull himself out of the templar's grip. Rhyanon swallows hard. She knows who he is, everyone does, even though they've never talked. Anders has gotten into more trouble in less than a year than most of the senior enchanters have managed in a lifetime. He fights, he acts up in chapel, he never goes to class; his insolence and disobedience only seem to be fueled by the constant punishments the templars dish out. Rhyanon is sure he must be the only eleven-year-old, if not the only mage in history, who refers to the Knight Commander by first name, like their appointments are something he looks forward to. And Jowan is friends with him, sort of, when he's not terrified of being branded guilty by association. She isn't friends with either of them, not really, she doesn't have any friends. But she realizes she cares about what happens to him.
"I caught this one skipping class again," the templar sneers. "Sneaking around. Up to no good, no doubt."
"I was in the library."
"You were supposed to be with me, were you not?" Rhyanon glances up when she hears the familiar harsh snap of her teacher's voice. As she watches, the apprentice holds the enchanter's gaze and refuses to blink or submit. Enchanter Nolan sighs. "You've got talent, Anders, if you'd use it for something. If you could be trusted to show a little self-discipline, perhaps you'd be teaching the new students instead of being held back with them." He nods to the templar. "Unfortunately, my lessons don't seem to be enough to get through to this one. I leave his appropriate discipline to your discretion, Ser."
"I didn't even do anything!" Anders yells, at the same time as Rhyanon shouts "That's not fair!"
Enchanter Nolan's eyes narrow. "Sit down, girl," he orders, with a dangerously quiet voice. Rhyanon tries to enter a staring contest with him the way the other apprentice did, but she breaks after a moment, looking down at the floor. "I said sit down, Amell," the Enchanter repeats. Rhyanon shakes her head. "Hold out your hand."
She knows why. She's seen him do it enough times in their classroom. She doesn't want to, and her stomach starts to squirm.
"Oh, come on," the older boy demands. "Lay off her. I'm the one you want."
"If I were you, Anders, I wouldn't be so eager to make things worse for yourself."
"Yeah, well, it's a good thing you're not me then, isn't it?" Anders mutters, just loudly enough to be heard.
"We'll see how that attitude fares after a visit with the Knight Commander," the teacher replies evenly. Anders doesn't answer, caught between mage and templar, neither of whom are on his side. Enchanter Nolan turns back to Rhyanon. "You do not want to get mixed up with this one," he warns. "Go back to your seat. Now."
She sneaks another glance at Anders. "No," she demands.
Enchanter Nolan sighs. "Do not test me, child. You won't win."
Rhyanon stands her ground.
The cane whistles through the air and lands hard, sending waves of pain through her whole body, making it hard to breathe. Rhyanon squeezes her eyes shut and bites her lip, but she doesn't cry. She doesn't break position either, even though every instinct in her body is screaming for her to pull away: if she drops her hand, he won't count it. The pain grows more intense as the seconds tick slowly by. She feels the stick resting against her palm and she flinches, but doesn't move. She tries to steel herself for another blow, but it still catches her off-guard. She curls away from the source of the pain but waits, obediently, for the cane to fall again. It does, almost immediately. It feels like fire. Her eyes start to water, and her breathing comes only in ragged gasps as adrenaline floods her system. She can feel the crackle of static collecting under her skin, a gathering of power that she doesn't dare lose control of. She knows enough to know that if she lashes out with magic, whatever punishment they hit her with will make this seem like nothing.
"Sit down," Enchanter Nolan growls. Rhyanon doesn't look at him, doesn't challenge him. She drops into an empty seat on a nearby bench. The other kids actively avoid her.
She watches as the templar roughly shoves Anders out into the hall. To drag him to the Knight Commander's office for some serious punishment, presumably. Rhyanon tries to send him some kind of encouraging thoughts as she clenches her hand into a fist and holds it tight to her body, though she knows logically that she can't help him, and she can't even explain why she wants to. She's lost count of the number of times she's forced herself to ignore it when Enchanter Nolan bullied some innocent kid in class. She didn't watch, pretended not to hear it, tried not to think about it, kept her head down and stayed silent so that she wouldn't be next, exactly like everyone else is doing to her now. She doesn't blame them, she knows Anders wouldn't either: it's expected. It's the only intelligent thing to do here. Tears still sting her eyes. She concentrates on breathing until the pain ebbs. She's not hungry. After a few minutes, she slips out of the dining hall. No one stops her.
The dorm is empty and silent. She curls up in the corner of her bunk with her back pressed against the wall.
"Here, lemme see," Anders says quietly, dropping onto her bunk. She has no idea how much time has passed. Maybe half an hour? It couldn't have been more, or people would be returning from dinner.
She doesn't look at him. She simply uncurls her fingers, revealing the angry white-red weals cutting across her palm. "It's not fair," she demands stubbornly, as Anders takes her hand, gently, in his. She isn't even sure what she's talking about: her punishment, his, the miserable realization that they will be stuck in this place for the rest of their lives, forced to conform to impossible rules. All of it.
Anders doesn't reply, not in words, but she can feel him concentrating. She shivers as his healing magic flows into her. The blue-glow light feels like ice on her skin. She bites her lip as his thumb brushes across her raw flesh with sparks of cold fire.
"Stop squirming."
"I'm not," she whines.
Anders ignores the protest. "You didn't cry, though," he tells her instead. "Most girls do. Some boys."
He's impressed, and she can tell. The knowledge makes her feel a little bit better, it fills her with a warmth that spreads out from somewhere in her belly. She gives Anders a tiny, hesitant smile. "It hurt, though," she admits, with a whisper.
"Yeah, I know." He leans in, so close that their foreheads are practically touching. She can feel the warmth of his breath. He tucks the loose strands of her blonde hair behind her ear, making sure she's looking at him. "Enchanter Nolan is a jerk. That's why they put him with the kids. They're trying to scare you. If you piss off the templars, it's gonna hurt a lot worse than a nursery cane."
Rhyanon glances up, meeting his eyes for the first time since the conversation started. "You do it," she insists.
"Because I'm not smart like you," Anders replies, immediately. He tries to keep his voice light and teasing, but it doesn't work. She can feel the tension radiating from him, the barely-checked anger. It's scary. He's older than she is, but he's still a kid. He shouldn't feel like that.
She reaches out to trace the bruise already beginning to blossom under his cheek. "How come you don't fix it?"
Anders shrugs. "Can't. They'll use magebane if I try. Greagoir told me."
Rhyanon shivers, and presses her fingers against his cheek, this time directing a flickering tendril of power. But her attempt at healing fizzles immediately, coming into contact with the focused shield Anders hastily throws up, so quickly she wouldn't even have had time to think about it. "Rhyanon. Don't," he orders harshly.
She can feel the pressure of his will overriding hers, stronger and more practiced. She recoils, and wraps her arms tightly around her knees. Her hand doesn't hurt anymore, but she doesn't feel any better.
Anders drapes his arm around her shoulders. "Look, I'm sorry, okay?" he says softly.
Rhyanon glances up at him. "It's not fair!" she demands, again. Anders squeezes her shoulder, gently.
"I know," he repeats. He holds her hand in his, running his fingers over her knuckles and the now-healed flesh of her palm. She's aware of how much smaller she is, how easily her hand fits in his as he curls his fingers over hers. "I'm not gonna lie to make you feel better. You're too smart for that anyway."
Rhyanon nods. She curls up against his Anders' chest, as he settles back and lets a wisp of soft blue light trail around them. It dances close around her head; the static pulls at her hair. "It's not all bad," he reminds her, with a smile.
But worry still weighs heavy in her stomach. "I miss my Mama," she cries softly, not caring how it sounds.
"I know," Anders murmurs, again.
Rhyanon takes a shuddering breath and stops crying, again. She wipes her hand across her eyes. "Really?"
He nods. "Yeah, really. I miss mine, too. My father. My sister."
"I'm starting to forget," Rhyanon admits.
"I won't let you," he promises. "Tell me what you remember."
"Rain," she replies, immediately.
He smiles, and traces his fingertip softly down her spine, with gentle pressure. "Close your eyes," he whispers.
She falls asleep as Anders drums soft pattering raindrops on her skin.
"... not that big a deal, Jowan." Rhyanon stirs at the sound of Anders' voice – not loud, but not quiet – in the bunk across from hers.
"Neither is going to class, you know. You don't actually have to pay attention."
"That explains a lot about why you're still in the basic initiate class after three years."
"Shut up!"
Rhyanon listens to Anders and Jowan whispering in the dark. They probably think she can't hear their teasing banter. She pulls her blanket more tightly around herself, but her eyes refuse to close again. She stares up at the underside of the bunk above her: no one sleeps there, for now.
"The library has windows," Anders says softly.
"So?" Jowan replies, after a moment.
Rhyanon flips over onto her stomach and buries her face in her pillow.
She doesn't fall back to sleep, or if she does, it's not nearly for long enough. The sun rises, and they are sent to a cramped, windowless room to learn about obedience and self-control. She and Jowan and Anders sit in class, copying long verses from the Chant in arcanum: sin and death and doom. She writes until the muscles in her hand start to hurt, until she's tired, from sitting still, in the dark, for hours. But every time she looks up, hoping for a break, Enchanter Nolan is there, with a satisfied smirk on his face.
Rhyanon scowls and glares at her pen as though it has personally wronged her, but keeps writing. Her pace slows, until it takes effort to force herself to write another sentence, another word. The motion of her fingers looping letters across the page becomes disconnected from all meaning. She has gotten better though. After several months of endless repetition, she no longer has to think about how to form the letters properly, or how to pronounce the now-familiar words. She can spit them back on command, and does.
So does Anders, actually. No matter how many times he recites confiteor quia peccavi nimis mea maxima culpa because they make him, he insists that he's not sorry.
He reaches across the table and circles one of the words she's been forced into writing down. Donum. Gift. "We didn't do anything wrong," he scribbles in the margin.
Rhyanon nods, because she doesn't want to fight with him, but she's not sure she believes it, when the smoking wreckage of the City loom in her dreams every night, and the blue-black shadows of bruises linger on Anders' pale skin. He doesn't even try to hide them, though he easily could, with the long robes they wear. His are half undone, revealing the simple tunic underneath, and the sleeves are pushed up to the elbow. The messy state of his uniform is the kind of utterly pointless rebellion that cements his reputation. But today, he pulls his sleeves down and sits up straighter when Enchanter Nolan nears their table. He ducks his head and avoids meeting the teacher's eye and does his work without any of his usual backtalk. No matter what he pretends about not caring, he's hurt and angry and afraid the same way she is.
Rhyanon glances at his parchment, which has a sentence or two of arcanum scrawled in barely legible handwriting, and is covered in sketches, otherwise. He's drawn what he sees all around him, things she's stopped noticing: the flickering flame of the lamp, the precariously balanced stack of books on the desk, a nearby chair with its sharp edges smoothed away by time and deep gouges hacked into its wood by bored students over countless years. She stops writing and stares up at him. "You're gonna get in trouble," she whispers.
Anders shrugs. "Greagoir told me to go to class and stop mouthing off," he mutters sullenly. He sketches deep, dark lines that shapes themselves into recognizable objects, slowly, as she watches.
"Yeah and how long will that last?" Jowan asks, not looking up from his own copywork. This time, Anders doesn't answer.
Enchanter Nolan scowls down at his parchment and Anders refuses to say a word. Rhyanon watches nervously. But the Enchanter merely glares at the boy, and snaps an order for him to recite the Canticle of Transfiguration which he was supposed to be writing. Anders does it, with smooth, flawless arcanum and a triumphant smirk on his face. Enchanter Nolan's mouth curls into an ugly contortion, but the young mage has done nothing wrong. Thrashing him for his insolent attitude would only ignite more of the same. Bad enough the younger children already look to him as some kind of hero. So Anders escapes class unscathed.
Jowan trails along behind him, dragging him feet as Rhyanon watches. "You lucky bastard," he mutters. "Any of us would've gotten the stick."
"You never would," Anders spits back. "You never have since I got here." Somehow he makes it seem like a betrayal. Maybe it is. Jowan never gets in trouble because he never breaks the rules. He's fearful and jumpy and leaps to obey orders. Rhyanon wonders how he and Anders ever became friends.
After dinner, they are given the most freedom that they will ever have, an hour or two to wander the halls unrestricted. For the older apprentices, closer to the Harrowing and with much more to study, the time is extended but the practical limitations remain the same: there really is no place to go, beyond the chapel or the library.
Rhyanon curls up in a corner, shielded by the heavy bookshelves all around her. She flips through a book without really looking at it. She drops it on the ground and stares up at the ceiling instead. High, high above their heads, she swears she can see pinpricks of starlight, faint through the warped glass of the skylight and obscured by the thick clouds over the lake. It makes her feel a little bit better.
"Come on," Anders insists, taking her hand before she can stop him. She stares up at the older boy, but he puts his finger to his lips and shakes his head, insuring her silence. He leads her through the twisting stacks into darkened corners, alert to every sound. And he begins to climb one of the heavy shelves with ease, finding places for his hands and feet without pausing to look for them, hauling himself up to the top without fear. Rhyanon keeps her feet firmly on the floor and crosses her arms over her chest, tilting her head back to stare up at him. "It's easy," he tells her. "Come on, I promise. I do it all the time."
"I'm not scared," the seven-year-old mutters. She isn't; not of falling, anyway. She begins to climb, and her heart begins to speed up as her body remembers this: sneaking and scrambling through the places where grown-up people can't go. She grins, even as her fingers slip against a book sticking out several inches from the edge of the shelf. She growls, and shifts her hand, then pulls herself up with practiced motions. She rests on the top of the thick, solid wood, supported by the weight of a hundred books. She feels confident up here, even though the ceiling presses down so close that she barely has to reach up to touch it. The shelf is nearly as wide as a chair, she could easily sit and dangle her feet from the edge. But she doesn't. She crawls over Anders instead, so that she can see what he's looking at. The older boy is resting on his knees, leaning forward to crane his neck out the small window. He wraps his arm around her to hold her steady, and they sit there without speaking for what feels like a long time.
"I'm gonna get out of here," he promises, as they stare out toward the dark water. Rhyanon rests her palm flat against the cool, thick glass. She shakes her head. Everybody knows you can't. "There wasn't any water when I was a kid," he tells her. "There wasn't anything. Just the fields." He brushes his hand through his tangled, messy hair. He tells her about the childhood he remembers, constantly moving, chasing the crops: sunup to sundown, and even beyond, snatching too few hours' sleep in rough bunks or barns or sometimes even out there among the stripped rows of grain. He'd run away even then, dodging the driver's switch, or his father. But his mean clothes and unfamiliar speech marked him as different, someone who didn't belong, even before the fire that revealed what he was. The endless repetition of the days, the impossible quotas, the sunburn and bloody hands, he'd hated it."I kinda miss it now, though," he mutters.
"There's water in Kirkwall," Rhyanon replies softly. And the Gallows, looming there in the center of it, chasing her away from that shoreline before she could ever have known why.
Anders tenses suddenly, responding to the soft, smooth sound of footsteps approaching. Rhyanon holds her breath, still and alert, although she knows that templar footsteps, in their booted armor, are louder and heavier. This will be one of the Tranquil, the half-dead not-mages in charge of the storerooms and library. Rhyanon sticks her thumb in her mouth without thinking about it, as she watches this one. And she shivers, feeling her stomach clench, cold as ice, as she recognizes the dirty dishwater-blonde hair, a few shades darker than her own. The unnaturally straight posture and thoughtful movements make the girl seem years older, and there is no spark in her dull, dark eyes. Rhyanon shivers. She wraps her arms tightly around herself, but she can't shake the knowledge - this girl who had insisted on her first day in this place that things would be alright if she could just belong here has had her magic severed. Rhyanon's stomach squirms.
"She asked," Anders whispers. "It's okay, Melly. It's not because of anything she did."
She pulls away from him and strains to see this broken girl whose name she doesn't know, as though she could erase what's been done just by wanting it enough.
That night, her shoulders shake as she sobs silently, drawing in shuddering breaths until she falls into a fitful sleep. The claws of the twisted trees of the Fade rake and scratch at her, the only trees she sees, anymore.
The next morning, she still can't summon even the barest flicker of flame when Enchanter Nolan demands it. Rhyanon takes a deep breath, feeling her power collect under her skin. There's a slight pressure just below her rib cage, building until she has to push it outward. She cracks her knuckles and concentrates, trying to direct that energy.
"Do it again."
She gnaws on her lower lip and lets her eyes close as she reaches for more power, grasping for whatever she can get hold of. But it seems like the more she stretches, the more it slips away. There are walls up in front of her, making it hard.
She shoots a nervous glance at the templars and teachers, just waiting for her to do something wrong. Her frustration wraps tight around her.
"I can't!" she whines.
Anders covers her eyes with his hand, and takes her fingers in his. "Just close your eyes," he whispers. "Don't think. Forget about them."
"I can't," she insists, again. "They're gonna make me Tranquil!" she cries, as she fails, again and again.
"Melly, they will not," Anders assures her, reasonably. She glares at him.
"Easy for you to say. It's easy for you!"
Anders blows out a breath and runs his fingers through his hair. "You can't be scared," he tells her.
When you're scared, you lose control. It is the first lesson any of them ever learn, the danger of allowing panic to rip the fragile barrier of the Veil. It is a lesson taught through object lessons: being forced to fight until they can't anymore, when they are exhausted and empty, drained of all the mana they are capable of wielding. When they reach for too much, the answer is always pain: a smite, and, usually, the crack of a leather strap across bare skin. They say it's for their own good, that it trains them to check themselves so that when they are older, when it matters, they will never lose control. They won't lose themselves to the demons, they won't grab for power they can't handle. A mage who cannot channel safely is made Tranquil.
"I know," she growls, curling her knees up to her chest, refusing to try anymore.
"Melly," Anders whispers, still holding her hand. "You can't be scared of them. You know what to do. They won't hurt you. Try again," he urges. "I'm right here."
She nods, she can feel the knots inside her slowly dissolve as the mana Anders is feeding her mingles with her own. Not a huge amount, just a slow, steady stream that she latches onto and begins to weave together with her own. She concentrates on the sensation of solid warmth he sends her, and she takes a few cautious breaths until she no longer feels as scared. She reaches out, and closes her eyes, and she can feel the flickering spark before it shapes itself, its heat builds up and burns behind her eyes, it is the moment where she has to let it go or shut it down. The panic of the forced choice overwhelms her and she drops her walls. The sudden release of energy leaves her shaken and cold, but Anders is laughing.
She opens her eyes and slowly, reluctantly, lets go of her power. "I told you you could do it," he says with a grin. The tension is completely gone. Rhyanon smiles too. She watches the fire - her fire - burning through the small pile of tinder and kindling. She can feel the familiar crawling sensation of templar eyes on her, but there is no sense of threat. And she plays with sparks in her hand, wisps of electricity, she does it like she used to, dancing at the edges of the Veil, the colors and voices lap like gentle waves at the edges of her awareness. She sneaks a glance at Enchanter Nolan daring him to challenge or chastise her. She's confident now. He can't touch her.
The teacher says nothing, gives no indication of either approval or condemnation. Anders rolls his eyes behind the teacher's back, making Rhyanon smile.
The door to the classroom creaks open and an older apprentice – almost old enough for a Harrowing, probably, because Rhyanon's never seen him in any of their classes – clears his throat awkwardly. Enchanter Nolan glares at the poor kid. "Yes?" he asks. Somehow he makes the word drip with venom.
"Um..." the boy stammers. He stares at the floor, shuffling his foot awkwardly. He clears his throat and looks up, though he still avoids making eye contact with the teacher. He points at Rhyanon. "The First Enchanter wants to see her."
"Why?" Enchanter Nolan hisses. Rhyanon wonders the same thing. A nervous feeling floods the pit of her stomach.
"I don't know," the apprentice replies. He really does sound apologetic. Enchanter Nolan grunts, and turns his glare on Rhyanon. She no longer feels impressed by her sparks of fire. She ducks her head, and waits for the teacher to speak. "Go on," he sneers. "Better not keep the First Enchanter waiting."
Everyone stares at her as she walks out of the classroom. Even Anders looks worried. The long walk to the secluded offices near the top of the tower feels exceptionally lonely. The messenger who'd come to retrieve her apparently wasn't required to escort her past the library, where his own class is meeting.
Rhyanon pushes the door to the First Enchanter's office open cautiously. Her hands feel sweaty, and she covers them with the sleeves of her too-large robe. She walks softly, clinging to the shadows. Yet when she steps inside, the smile Irving gives her is warm and genuine, and she feels a flickering memory of his careful care her first night here, a lifetime ago. "Enchanter Nolan grudgingly admits that you may be too well-schooled to belong in his class," he tells her. He actually looks at her when he talks, and seems to care about whether or not she's listening. That in itself is enough to hold her attention, to draw her to him. "He tells me your recitations are near perfect, and that you write quickly and well, and without apparent difficulty."
Rhyanon doesn't reply, having spent the morning listening to the Reverend Mother lecture on the dangers of pride, uncertain of the response the First Enchanter is looking for.
"I am... surprised, I must admit," Irving continues. "It is rare that children come to us with any sort of schooling. Even for someone of your... privilege. You are young, still."
Rhyanon shrugs. "I didn't, though," she says softly. "Not really. I just..." she draws in a quick breath, assaulted by the intensity of her memory. "I learned a little bit, with my... brother," she stops, her eyes flicking up to his, aware of her breach of the unspoken code against talking about before. But Irving doesn't seem angry. He simply nods, and waits for her too continue. "It wasn't like here," she insists. "But I've always been able to remember things. It just happens."
Irving nods thoughtfully. "And it's the same, with your magic?"
"I just know what to do, sometimes. But I..." she shakes her head. "I don't, anymore."
Irving frowns, yet he invites her to sit with him. "I will teach you, if you wish. How to use your magic, as well as control it. I'll give you more practical lessons also, of course, though I promise that you will not find them easy. There is far more to the Tower library than the Chant of Light, after all."
Rhyanon shakes her head, just slightly.
"You want to stay in Enchanter Nolan's class?" the First Enchanter asks, not bothering to hide his surprise.
"You lied," Rhyanon whispers.
"What?"
"You said they wouldn't hurt us."
Irving sighs. He sits down, on the edge of his desk, and studies the young girl. "Anders will heal," he tells her simply. It is not an apology, but it is also not a lie. And Rhyanon finds herself respecting him for that.
She frowns. "How did you...?"
"There's not a lot that goes on here that I don't know. You'll learn that, too." He shakes his head, and he suddenly seems a lot older to Rhyanon, a lot more tired. He sighs, and stares at the girl. He won't let her look away. She bites her lip, and studies him, instead. "It's not the first time that boy's earned himself a strapping, and I'm sure it won't be the last. Why do you care?"
"What?"
"You heard me. You just got here, girl. A few months ago, if that? And already you're... attaching yourself to him. Why?"
It seems like a completely unfair question. She can't figure out why he's asking. But it's obviously not a rhetorical question, not the way he's waiting for a response.
Ordinarily, a teacher looking at her as intently as the First Enchanter is right now would make her squirm. But now, instead, she draws herself up to her full, seven-year-old height, and she stamps her feet. She lets herself get angry, lets all the rage and fear of the past few weeks boil over.
"Somebody should care!" she yells. "You should care! You're in charge!"
"You're right," Irving says simply.
Rhyanon looks down, prepared to apologize. Prepared to take the punishment that's probably coming for disrespecting the most important teacher here. It takes her minute to actually hear what he said. She looks up, shocked. "What?"
"You're right," he repeats. "And that's why I called you here."
"Because I'm right?"
A smile quirks at the edge of Irving's lip. "Because you're... unusual. Worth keeping close."
It doesn't sound entirely like a good thing, and Rhyanon supposes it probably isn't. Irving sighs again. "There is a fragile balance to survival here, child. And I have been watching you. You're already starting to learn it."
Rhyanon nods. "It's not right, though," she insists.
"No," Irving replies, still sounding tired. It's not the first time he's wished everyone could see things with the simplicity of a child. "No, it isn't."
* confiteor quia peccavi nimis mea maxima culpa - approximately: "I confess that I have sinned through my most grievous fault."
Based on my headcanon's continuous assumption that the Chantry is basically the Catholic Church, enough to borrow from, and that Chantry arcanum is basically Latin for the same reason
