Work Text:
He’d been there all morning, crouched behind a stack of crusty old boxes that might give way at any moment. He didn’t fit in the space as good as he did the last time he was out here. His limbs were all gangly and hard to wrangle into his now-too-small space.
His brother, Arlo, came into view at the end of the alley, pushing the cart of stolen goods ahead of him. The canvas cover dragged along the muddy road and the creaking of the wheels echoed loudly off the buildings tightly pressing against the lane around them. Rylen checked the rooftops and windows again. No one much cared what was happening in this neglected back alley of the Sheaves. It was tucked away in Starkhaven’s worst neighborhood, and if anyone did come by, they’d put their head right back down and mind their own business. Getting involved in someone else’s was a sure way to get a knife right to the gut. Nobody wanted that around here.
In front of the place the exchange would happen, Arlo paused. He glanced furtively up and down the street. Though, truth was, with his shaved head and face covered in dark tattoos—stark even against his medium bronze skin—there wasn’t much furtive about him. He was all brawn, on a body honed to be an intimidating weapon, and towered over most residents of the neighborhood. All the Clacher boys did. Satisfied that no one was around, Arlo turned to Rylen’s hiding place and gestured for him to come out.
Rylen hesitated. Was this some sort of test?
When Arlo gestured more forcefully, he abandoned his post and joined him, in full view of anyone who might’ve been watching. “Thought you might not’ve been there,” Arlo joked, but Rylen knew it wasn’t one. Not really.
“Dinna kin you wanted me to show myself.”
“Aye, it’s time for you to go in, Ry,” Arlo said, the tattoos at his cheeks rippling as he smiled. “Show ‘em what you're made of.”
Rylen’s back straightened. He’d been waiting for this day for as long as he’d been helping his brothers with their “jobs.” He lifted his chin. “I’m ready.”
“That you are brother,” Arlo clapped his shoulder. “Anyone around?”
“Nae.”
“You got your weapons?”
Rylen nodded. His daggers were tucked into his belt, inconspicuous, but easy to reach if things went bad. They rarely did. The Clacher brothers had thieves’ luck, but that might of been because they were always prepared for every possibility.
“That’s good, brother. Get in.”
His brother pulled open the door and gestured Rylen inside. Rylen wheeled the cart forward and found himself in near pitch black as the door closed behind him. His eyes adjusted slow, and when he could again see, he discovered he was surrounded by a group of dwarves with faces just as tattooed as his brother’s, but far more scarred.
Carta. At least now he knew for fact that’s what his brothers were into.
“You little Clacher?” one of them asked, tilting his head as he inspected Rylen.
Rylen bristled under the man’s stare, but he held fast. “That’s right.”
“Hmm,” was all he said in response.
One of the others grabbed the cart and started to wheel it away, but Rylen gripped it. “Not before you pay up.”
“Got some balls on you, eh?” The one that had spoken laughed. He reached toward his belt and Rylen considered going for his weapons, but he was outnumbered. To draw first here was a death wish.
“Here.” The man tossed him a bag of coin. “It’s all there. Carta’s honor. Now get out.”
Rylen didn’t need to be asked twice. He backed toward the door and pulled it open, the laughter of the dwarves following him all the way out.
***
That night, Arlo loaded him up with fancy whisky he’d stolen from one of the minted up on the hill. It went down a lot easier than the crappy stuff he and Geddes pilfered from around the neighborhood when they could. He could like whisky if it was all like this: warm, smooth, and a pleasurable linger like a lover’s caress.
Well, most of his had been more fumbling touches, but he could imagine that’s what a good lover’s touch might feel like.
“Look you at you, Ry!” Arlo laughed, holding the bottle out for Rylen to take another swig. “You’ll be one of us yet.”
They sat on the rooftop, legs over the edge, as they looked our over the city walls to the forests beyond. They couldn’t see much, not with it being night and all, but Rylen liked the way the stars sparkled in the night sky. Some of them made shapes—one that looked like a giant stone boulder and another like a tree. He remembered his mom used to tell him stories about the stars, but he was still a babe when she left and his pop never bothered keeping the stories up.
He didn’t blame him. Five children was hard for anyone.
Arlo interrupted his thoughts when he asked, “What do you say to getting some new ink?”
Rylen passed the bottle of alcohol back. “I been thinking about adding to the one on my chest—”
“Nae, not your chest, Ry,” Arlo grabbed the bottle but didn’t drink from it. “Your face.”
“My face?” The question slipped out in surprise.
“What? You dinna think you’re ready?” Arlo narrowed his eyes at him. “Or do you want be like Callum and Beckett and work the stone all your life?”
“That’s not—” Rylen cut off. He didn’t think he’d done much to warrant the facial tattoos marking him, but he also couldn’t have Arlo thinking he was looking for an out. Being a stonemason was the last thing he wanted. “You think I earned that?”
“Aye, you did your first job and dinna piss your pants. Be a nice surprise for Finnay when he gets back from Tantervale. Come on.”
They abandoned the roof and stole through the streets of the Sheaves. It was dangerous to be out alone after dark, but Arlo had taught Rylen how to move through them without attracting the wrong kind of attention. When they reached their destination, noise and laughter spilled out of open windows on the upper floor. Arlo knocked on the door with a specific pattern of knocks, and it was quickly opened to them.
Arlo led the way upstairs and a chorus of welcomes called out. Arlo handed off the bottle of good whisky to someone near the door and shouted, “Gomes! My baby brother here has earned his stripes!”
A burly man sat unfolded himself from a back corner. “That so?”
“Aye!” Arlo cheered.
The man looked Rylen up and down and then jerked his head toward a door. Rylen followed silently. Though the man had long hair and a full beard, his own facial tattoos were obvious. His were more linear than the slightly curving tattoos that adorned his brothers’ faces, but they were similar enough in meaning, even if not in look.
“You sure about this, kid?” Gomes asked as he started to lay out his tools.
Rylen pressed his lips together and jutted his chin toward the other man. “I’m not a kid.”
“Not anymore you’re not,” Gomes agreed, “but I’ll ask again, you sure?”
“Aye. I’m ready.”
Gomes gave him a cryptic look that Rylen didn’t understand and an awkwardness hung in the air between them. At last Gomes gestured him over. “Get on and lay down then. Got a batch of fresh ink made this afternoon.”
Rylen climbed into the table, laying his head in the small hold fashioned just for this purpose. Gomes bustled around him, making the final preparations, and then sat on the stool, his face appeared in the air over Rylen’s own. “This may hurt, lad.”
Rylen closed his eyes, training his mind on a place where he could handle thousands of needle pricks coming his way. “I kin. Go ahead.”
***
If his pop even noticed the new tattoos, he didn’t say a word. His oldest brother, Callum, noticed though. The disappointment on his face when he saw Rylen come into the house with his face bandaged said everything.
Rylen didn’t expect Callum to understand. They were twelve years difference and as the oldest, Callum had taken to the stonemasonry work as if he’d been born for it. Rylen supposed he had been, since stone was what their pop lived and breathed. Beckett had taken to it too, but by the time the other three kids rolled around, there wasn’t room for more apprentices.
Except now Callum was trying to convince Rylen to apprentice under him instead of their pop, now that he was a right member of the guild. Just last week he’d waited at home for Rylen, offering him the work. It wasn’t the worst that Rylen could do, but it didn’t sit right with him. It wasn’t even the long hours and hard work that turned him off it. Rylen could handle that—he’d been helping his pop since he was a wee bairn after all—but there was a finality to becoming a stonemason that didn’t sit right with Rylen.
There was nothing beyond it, and Rylen had always felt like there was more to life than that.
Callum’s life was too close to that of their pop’s. He made a living, but barely, and a wife and three little mouths to feed—plus one more on the way—would keep him chained to the stone ‘til he was too old to lift his sledge.
Working with the Carta wouldn’t be much of a life either, but at least there was a freedom to it that the stone couldn’t give him.
Nae.
There were no good options for someone like him.
***
“Hey Clacher!” His buddy, Geddes, ran to catch up with him. “Where you been lately, min?”
“With my brothers,” Rylen shrugged as he continued toward the chantry. He’d run across a couple of the younger neighborhood kids who now called it home, and they’d told him Brother Gilead had finally convinced someone at the proper Chantry to give him some money to fix up the old place.
Their chantry was in shambles. Most of them jokingly called it the Shantry, because it was such a run-down old building that the powerful liked to pretend didn’t exist. But it did, and Brother Gilead was doing the best he could to keep it so.
Geddes let out a low whistle and Rylen glanced down at him. Down? Aye, that was the top of Geddes’s head he saw when he looked at him. He was at least a head taller than Geddes, though he couldn’t remember when that happened. “What’s that?”
“The new ink!” Geddes exclaimed, grinning up at him. “You finally part of the crew?”
“Nae, not yet.” Rylen scratched along the sides of the tattoos that now covered his chin, before rubbing the bridge of his nose. Now that Geddes mentioned them, they itched again. Blast.
“Soon enough, eh?” Geddes grinned and punched him on the arm, making Rylen glad he hadn’t added to his arm tattoos that last session. “You getting to the chantry? Heard Brother G’s got some work.”
“Heard that too. Come on, let’s get on.”
They made their way to the chantry and got work from Brother Gilead. The work he gave them wasn’t hard, not really. The building was old and needed some repairs. Rylen volunteered to help with the stonework and masonry, while Geddes was tasked with clean up. He stayed in the back room, doing some writing and reading far as Rylen could tell, and he emerged when they were packing up their tools.
“If you boys keep helping out, we’ll have the chantry back in order in no time at all,” Brother Gilead beamed as he surveyed the work.
Rylen scratched alongside his nose, avoiding the healing skin. Brother Gilead hadn’t commented on them, but Rylen had noticed his eyes catching on them every time he saw Rylen.
“I have to make some home visits this evening,” Brother Gilead told them, “but come back tomorrow and I’ll tell you more about Andraste. And I can promise I’ll have a hot meal for you too.”
“We’ll be back tomorrow, Brother G!” Geddes declared happily. He grabbed Rylen’s arm and started to drag him toward the exit.
“Rylen!” Brother Gilead called out. “Before you go...” He ducked back into his room while Rylen stood awkwardly waiting in the middle of the main chantry. He reappeared moments later with a packet of wax paper, folded to a size that could fit in his palm. He held it out to Rylen. “For your tattoos.”
“What about them?” Rylen took it and sniffed it. It reminded him of the flowery soap his mom used. It was one of the few things he remembered about her, before she left. That scent had disappeared from the Clacher house sure as she had.
“I noticed they seem to be bothering you. It’s a salve to help ease the itching.”
Rylen nodded at him, slipping the packet into his waist belt. “See you after,” he told Brother Gilead, before turning back toward where Geddes was waiting for him.
“What’d he give you?” Geddes asked. He took an exaggerated sniff. “You smell like a girl.”
“A salve.”
“A salve?” The confusion of Geddes’s face made Rylen chuckle. “For what, min? Your hair?”
“Do I need it?” Rylen ran his hands through the unruly curls. “Nae. The tattoos. Said it helps with the itching.”
“That’s all? Ah well. You got some time for sticks?”
Rylen nodded. “Yeah. Let’s get.”
***
Rylen set down the hammer next to him and wiped his arm across his brow, trying to catch the sweat trickling down his face. He took a deep breath and surveyed his work. The repairs were coming along nicely, and he felt the unfamiliar swell of pride in him at the results of his honest day’s work. Might not be much, but it was something.
He’d come every day this week to work the repairs, hoping to stay occupied long enough until Brother Gilead returned. Their chantry didn’t have a revered mother of their own, so it was Brother Gilead who took care of it and made sure it was in a state that they could still hold service on the days that someone did come down from the chantry up in the minted quarter.
Not that Rylen cared much for the services, but he did like Brother Gilead’s stories. He’d never admit that though. That’s why he’d had to pretend to still be around from doing work, since he’d not admit to coming by for the story about Andraste, even if she was a great warrior.
He’d just put his tools away when Brother Gilead entered. His smile was like the warmth of the sun, reassuring in it’s steadiness. “Good to see you back here, Rylen. How are the tattoos today?”
The tattoos. He lifted a hand to his face, surprised to realize he hadn’t noticed them all day. He’d used the salve Brother Gilead had given him faithfully every day. “Better. That was some miracle salve.”
Brother Gilead beamed at him. “It’s Andraste’s Grace.”
“Sure it is.” Rylen almost rolled his eyes, but decided against it. The salve had helped, and however Brother Gilead wanted to see it was on him.
“I mean the flower. Most people use crystal grace these days, but if you can get Andraste’s Grace, it’ll work miracles.”
That was interesting. Rylen didn’t know about flowers and herbs, but that one seemed useful. He wondered if Gomes knew about it? He’d make a killing selling that salve to his customers after they got their tattoos done.
“Have you finished your chores for the day?” Brother Gilead asked, interrupting his thoughts.
Rylen nodded. “Just got done.”
“The chantry looks better and better. Thank you, Rylen.” He smiled again and Rylen straightened, his shoulders pulling back as he did. Pride swelled in his chest at the brother’s words. “Why don’t you come help me finish my work, then we can call the others for dinner.”
Rylen followed him to the tiny room that Brother Gilead inhabited. A desk was shoved into a corner. There was a large book in the center and all manner of papers were strewn around it. Brother Gilead sat down at the desk and gestured Rylen to a stool nearby.
Rylen sat down obediently and waited while Brother Gilead found the page he was looking for in the book. Once he had, he pulled a piece of parchment out of his robes and handed it to Rylen. “Read these one at a time while I transcribe them.”
There were words written on it. Or at least, Rylen assumed they were. He’d learned numbers from his father and older brothers and could do basic work with those, but he didn’t know his letters.
He glanced up to find Brother Gilead watching him intently. Heat rose on his cheeks and he shoved the paper back at Brother Gilead. “I canna stay. I got a job with my brother.”
“Rylen, wait—”
He didn’t. Nor did he say goodbye as he fled.
***
He didn’t return to the chantry the next day or the next. By the time he finally worked up the nerve, it’d been more than a week. The shame of not knowing how to read had lessened, replaced by the shame of running out on Brother Gilead without an explanation.
Brother Gilead didn’t deserve that from him. He’d been nothing but kind since the day Rylen had met him.
Rylen slipped quietly into the chantry. Brother Gilead was at the back, on his knees sweeping some of the day’s mess into a small pan. Particles of dust danced in the sunlight that streamed through the windows, high on the walls of the building. Most of the colored glass was replaced with the clear stuff now, years of being neglected taking its toll on the small space.
In the fading light, Brother Gilead’s dark skin had a warm hue, like the brown quartz that lined the road to the palace at sunset. He was from Rivain, he’d told the boys once. Seemed odd for him to settle in Sheaves. If Rylen could get out of Starkhaven, he’d never look back.
Rylen moved across the room, the worn leather of his simple boots near silent. When he was almost upon him, Brother Gilead glanced up, his widening in surprise. “Rylen!”
“Brother.” Rylen kneeled next to him and took the hand broom and pan, resuming the sweeping.
Brother Gilead sat back on his heels and watched for several long moments. At least he said, “It’s good you came by. I want to apologize. I’m sorry, I should’ve realized…”
“It’s nae your fault,” Rylen told him truthfully, glad to look down at his sweeping rather than meet his eyes. It wasn’t his fault, nor did Rylen blame him. Most people could do some basic reading here in Starkhaven, it was just those from the Sheaves that no one bothered to teach. Besides, Brother Gilead had done more for the neighborhood than any outsider in a long time.
Rylen tipped the full pan into the rubbish bin between them. “There. You need help with something else?”
Brother Gilead gazed at him. “No, but I do have a question for you, Rylen. And I ask that you think about it before you answer.”
Rylen lifted his eyebrows. That was an odd way to start a conversation. He sat back on his feet and stared back at Brother Gilead. “Alright then.”
“What is it that you want to do with your life?” Rylen shrugged and opened his mouth to say he didn’t know, when Brother Gilead reminded him, “Think first.”
So he did. What was it that Rylen wanted to do? He’d already dismissed being a stonemason like Callum and Beckett, which left working with the Carta like Arlo and Finnay. The Carta jobs were good money, and if he were lucky, he might even make it out of Starkhaven and see some of the Free Marches. He’d heard them talk about going to Kirkwall, and Finnay was doing some job in Tantervale. Maybe he could even get to Wycome if he got in real good.
It wasn’t the whole truth though. There was something more that Rylen wanted from his life. The work he’d done with Brother Gilead didn’t pay anything at all, just some simple food and good stories, but he liked himself better after he did that work.
He shrugged. “I want to do something useful.”
Under Brother Gilead’s thoughtful gaze, Rylen began to wonder if he’d said something wrong. He’d told Rylen to think, so he did, but maybe he didn’t believe him.
“Have you thought of joining the Templars?” Brother Gilead asked at last.
Rylen couldn’t help himself, he laughed. It was a full-bellied laugh that echoed off the stone walls of the empty chantry. “Me? A Templar? That’s a good one.”
Brother Gilead didn’t laugh with him. “That was not a joke. It’d be a good job for you. If you truly want to do something useful. You could help people.”
“I do!” Rylen said more forcefully than he’d intended. “But you seen my face lately? Nae, they’d not take me like this.”
Brother Gilead’s smile was sad. “I think they might, if they could see how hard you work.”
Again, Rylen scoffed. Him? A Templar? It wasn’t possible. He was an illiterate kid from the Sheaves who broke Chantry edicts up and down and twice on Firesdays. He was certain there was no way they’d take someone like him into their hallowed ranks. “I dinna think so.”
“You’re young yet, Rylen,” Brother Gilead told him with a tired sigh as he pushed himself to his feet. “Think on it. Let me know if you change your mind.”
“What? Can you get me in?” Rylen stood too, stopping to grab the rubbish bin to dump on his way out.
“Does it matter? You already decided it’s impossible.”
“‘Cause it is. I’m a nobody. Surely they willna take me.”
“It was a simple suggestion,” Brother Gilead shrugged. “Will you come tomorrow evening to help me deliver supplies to the healers?”
Rylen nodded, glad for the change in topic. “Aye, I’ll be here.”
“Good man, Rylen.” Brother Gilead gave his shoulder a squeeze, before easing his way toward his room at the back.
Rylen dumped the rubbish outside and returned the bin before heading home. On his walk, he turned over Brother Gilead’s last words—good man—all the way home. Could they be true? Could he be a good man, even with where he’d come from?
“Hey, Ry,” his brother, Arlo, waited down the street from the house. “Got a job, urgent. Need your help.”
“My daggers are—”
“Here.” Arlo held them up. “You in?”
Rylen grabbed his daggers and then slipped them into his belt. They were comfortable, as though that was where they belonged. As he followed his brother through the darkening streets of Starkhaven, he decided that Brother Gilead was wrong.
He wasn’t a good man, much as he wanted it to be true.
***
The next afternoon, Rylen and Geddes played sticks in the shadow of the buildings that separated the Sheaves from the rest of Starkhaven. There were no windows or doors on this side of the buildings, but it gave them a place to escape. Rylen had just outmaneuvered the other boy, but Geddes didn’t notice. He’d been lost in thought all afternoon, not caring how much Rylen was running roughshod over him. At this rate, Rylen would have him cleaned out in the match or two.
“You alright there?” Rylen asked him, gathering up his sticks.
“What?” Geddes looked up with frown. “Ah, sure I am. Was just up in me own head, min.”
“I can tell. What’s got you that way?”
Geddes didn’t say anything at first. It was that silence that had made Rylen notice something was off in the first place. Geddes was rarely silent, especially this long. “Me and Brother G had a chat few days back. He asked me what I want with me life.”
So it wasn’t just Rylen that Brother Gilead had that conversation with. “What’d you tell him?”
“I dinna, min. Never thought about it before. Been thinkin’ on it for days and I still dinna kin.”
“Same,” Rylen said, pausing slightly before adding, “He asked me too.”
“He did?” Geddes’s head snapped up. “What’d you tell him?”
“That I wanted to do something useful,” Rylen gave him a wry smile.
“And here I thought you wanted to be just like Arlo.”
Rylen shook his head. “I dinna kin anymore. Working the stone’s not for me, but—“
“He talk to you about being a Templar?” Geddes interrupted.
“Aye.”
“You gonna do it?”
“Like the Templars would take me,” Rylen deflected. The truth was, he’d thought about it all night as he lay in bed. He’d done the job with Arlo, earning more of his brother’s praise, but Brother Gilead had scored the stone. All Rylen had to do was plug the feathers and see how it turned out.
Geddes shrugged. “Hard to kin.”
“These make sure of it.” Rylen pointed to the tattoos on his face, hardly a few weeks old. So much had changed since the night he proudly endured the pain to get them inked on his face, just like his brothers.
That wasn’t the whole truth. The truth, that Rylen allowed himself a brief acknowledgement before he shoved it deep down once more, was: what if he did try to become a Templar and they didn’t take him? What then? Could he live with that rejection?
Maybe, a small voice inside him whispered. If they did reject him, at least he could go back to following in Arlo and Finnay’s footsteps knowing that it was the only option for someone like him. That’d he’d tried to do something useful that wasn’t the stone, and it had failed.
“All that religion stuff’s a bit much for me,” Geddes was saying as he attempted to balance one of his sticks on Rylen’s, “but the rest seems mighty nice.”
Rylen frowned. He knew that the Templars were Andrastian, everyone did, but he’d forgotten about that. Most of what he knew was they were a better version of the city guard and they watched the mages. Most of them lived in that collection of buildings they called “The Circle” outside the city gates, and Rylen only saw them when they accompanied mages coming into the city. Even then, he only saw them from a distance, as he was laying bricks with his father or on the rooftops. Some might of lived at the big chantry up on the hill, but he never got to go there.
He realized he didn’t know much about what Templars did at all. If he were seriously going to consider Brother Gilead’s offer of helping him join, he’d need to figure out what it was he’d be doing. Surely they didn’t just go to the chantry and watch mages all day?
There had to be more, otherwise Brother Gilead wouldn’t have suggested it.
“I gotta get,” he told Geddes, gathering up his sticks.
“I was about to beat ye, min!”
That was a blatant lie. Rylen had been running over Geddes all afternoon. “Here.” Rylen handed the sticks over. “Take them all.”
Geddes frowned at him. “Where you off to?”
“Got some work.” If helping Brother Gilead counted as such. “See you.”
***
It was a few days more before Rylen worked up the courage to tell Brother Gilead that he did want to join the Templars after all. He’d spent most of his days around Starkhaven watching the Templars in action. As far as he could tell, it was like holy guard duty, but that was something, wasn’t it? He would be protecting people and surely there were opportunities to help people, or Brother Gilead wouldn’t of recommended it.
When Rylen arrived at the chantry, Brother Gilead was back in his room, the opened door signaling he was free to talk to any with a need. Rylen stood awkwardly at the threshold, watching him write on some parchment.
When he cleared his throat, Brother Gilead paused in his writing and glanced up. “Rylen. I didn’t hear you come in.” He set his quill down and placed his hands together on the table in front of him as though he had all the time in the world. “What can I help you with?”
“I thought a lot about what you said the other day...” Rylen hesitated. He’d rehearsed what to say but now the words caught on his tongue.
“And what was that?” asked Brother Gilead as he gestured to the stool.
Rylen slid down onto it. “About the Templars.”
“You did? That’s good to hear.”
Again, Rylen hesitated. That nagging sense of...if he didn’t know better he’d say it was fear, but what did he have to be afraid of? That the answer would be no...or that it would be yes? “You really think they’d take me?”
After the question slipped from his lips, he inhaled a deep breath and held it there. Brother Gilead’s eyes darted back and forth across Rylen’s face, and then the corners of his eyes wrinkled as he smiled. “I do.”
“Even with these?” He pointed at the tattoos, ink still fresh on his face. They marked him now. He’d never be able to hide from what he’d almost become.
“They would be blessed to have you, Rylen, tattoos and all.”
That part down was good, but it wasn’t the only thing Rylen worried about. Geddes told him they usually only took kids so they could shape them into the warrior they wanted them to be. “I’m not too old? I’ll be fifteen in a few weeks.”
Again, Brother Gilead didn’t seem too bothered by that information. “I know the knight-commander at the circle here, he’s a good man. Others may worry about things like that, but not Knight-Commander Vael. He’d rather have you than some third son of a noble who resents being there.”
“Vael?” Rylen lifted his eyebrows. “Like the prince?”
Brother Gilead nodded. “Yes, he is a relative of the prince.”
Seemed like the Vaels were keeping all the power in the family, and Rylen didn’t really know how he felt about that. On one hand, it stunk. Especially since the prince pretended like the Sheaves didn’t exist, as did most of Starkhaven. On the other hand, it might mean that the knight-commander had more flexibility in what he could do—and the recruits he could take—because he was a part of that family.
What a name could do for a person. It was too bad Rylen’s meant nothing around here. Or at all.
“What did you decide?” Brother Gilead asked, pulling Rylen from his thoughts.
“I canna read,” Rylen blurted out.
“You’ll learn,” Brother Gilead’s gentle voice smashed the last of his excuses. “I know you will, you’re a bright young man.”
Rylen inhaled a deep breath. His heart hammered in his chest like a sledge on stone. His defenses were gone, and it was high time for him to admit something he’d never dared dream before. Something his brothers would laugh at if they heard him say it out loud. “I want to be a Templar. I mean...I want to give it my best go.”
The smile that spread across Brother Gilead’s face lit up the entire room. “I’m glad to hear that. I think the work will be good for you. I’ll send Knight-Commander Vael a letter today and I’ll let you know as soon as I hear back.”
Rylen nodded. “Alright...thank you.”
Brother Gilead reached forward and gripped Rylen’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you. I hope you know that.”
He did.
And for the first time that he could remember, Rylen was proud of himself too.
***
He paced in front of the statue of Andraste, pausing every so often to glance over at her. She was small, no taller than Rylen’s forearm, and made completely of grey stone, like everything in Starkhaven. He’d heard that other chantries had larger statues, some made of rarer stone or even precious metals, but the Shantry didn’t. They were lucky enough to have the one statue. Some noble up on their hill had taken pity on their little chantry and donated it some years ago.
The chantry door opened and Rylen froze in his pacing, looking toward it. Geddes slipped through, a mischievous smile on his face. “You’re still here. Thought I might of missed you.”
He blew out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Came to say goodbye?”
“Canna get rid of me that easy,” Geddes teased, “I’m coming with you.”
“You are?”
“Geddes!” Brother Gilead called from the door of his room. “I wondered if you’d changed your mind after all.”
“I wouldna do that to you, Brother G,” Geddes called back.
Brother Gilead smiled. “Knight-Lieutenant Clemens should be here soon. He’s looking forward to meeting you both. Are you ready?”
Rylen nodded as Geddes verbally expressed his preparedness. Brother Gilead smiled again, and Rylen could have sworn he saw pride in the brother’s eyes. It made him wonder what exactly the man had done for the templars to even consider taking them. He was too old to be a normal recruit, he knew that, and he’d never seen another templar with face tattoos like him.
“I’ll be in the back,” Brother Gilead said, interrupting his thoughts.
As soon as Brother Gilead disappeared again, Rylen grabbed Geddes’s arm. “Where were you?”
A massive smile spread across Geddes’s face. “Hattie saw me off.”
“Hattie?”
“That lass that works in the palace kitchen, you kin the one.” Geddes moved his hands to mimic the curves of a woman’s body. Rylen blew out a breath and fought the urge to roll his eyes. At his silence, Geddes asked, “You say your goodbyes?”
Rylen shrugged. He’d said some, but... “It’s just training.”
“You dinna kin.”
Rylen’s goodbyes had happened last night. His father and Callum hadn’t quite believed him, thinking it was one of Arlo’s cons, but they’d come around. They might not have been as happy as if he’d taken after them in the guild, but being a Templar would be more honest work than the alternative. Besides, he’d be able to do something useful. It was better this way.
As soon as Arlo had heard what Rylen was planning to do, he’d left the house and never come back. He didn’t give Rylen the chance to say goodbye. He’d known Arlo wouldn’t be happy with his choice, but he’d thought...it didn’t matter. What’s done was done. No taking it back now.
As for Finnay...he still hadn’t come back from Tantervale. Rylen couldn’t help but wonder if he ever would. Maybe Tantervale had been Finnay’s way of escaping the Sheaves, just like the Templars would be for Rylen.
The door of the chantry creaked open once more and a fully armored Templar knight stepped in. Against the dinginess of the dark Shantry, he almost seemed to glow as light reflected from his shining armor. Rylen’s jaw dropped, and then he thought better of it, snapping it shut. He’d be around plenty of others like him soon, best not to look like the kid from the Sheaves that he was.
As the Templar removed his helmet, Brother Gilead emerged from the back. “Good afternoon, Knight-Lieutenant.”
“Brother,” the man nodded. “Are these the two?”
Brother Gilead nodded, gesturing at each of the boys in turn. “Geddes and Rylen.”
The Templar approached them. Rylen straightened his back and lifted his chin. The man seemed to be about the same height, though unlike Rylen’s unruly clay brown curls, he had a head of gleaming golden hair. He stared Rylen dead in the eye. “So you want to be a Templar?”
“Yes, ser.”
“It won’t be easy, boy.”
“I dinna expect it to be.”
The man smiled at that and with a nod, turned his attention to Geddes. Rylen swallowed, the sound loud in his ears, as the templar asked Geddes the same question. When he was satisfied with the response, he introduced himself as Knight-Lieutenant Clemens. He’d take them to the Circle where they’d meet with Knight-Commander Vael. If they were accepted, they’d be Templar recruits and begin training. As they were older than the standard recruit, their training would be accelerated.
He indicated they should follow and headed for the door. Rylen turned to Brother Gilead. The tears that glinted at the corner of the brother’s eyes made Rylen’s heart swell in appreciation for all the man had done for him. He reached a hand out to grasp Brother Gilead’s. He didn’t know what to say, so he left it with a simple thank you.
Brother Gilead squeezed his hand in return. “You were always meant to do more than the Sheaves could ever offer. Live well, Rylen.”
Rylen turned away before the emotion in him showed on his face. Clemens waited at the door and when Rylen tried to step past, he stopped him. He glanced down at Rylen’s belt. “Leave the knives.”
“But—”
“You won’t need them. You’re a Templar recruit now.”
Rylen glanced down at the daggers that had gotten him through much. But as a Templar, he’d be leaving the Sheaves behind. He pulled out the daggers and set them on the offering table. He hoped Brother Gilead could get something for them to keep doing the good work for the people of his neighborhood.
With that last part of his old life left behind, he followed Clemens outside and toward his fresh start and new path in life: the Templars.