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9:20 Dragon
The Citadel of the Seekers of Truth, Val Royeaux, Orlais
It is dark in the meditation chamber. Night follows day follows night, and I remain. I wake. I rise. I exercise. I sing the Chant. I eat. I observe the necessary duties. I lay down. I sleep again.
Food has no taste. Or if it does, it does not matter. It is nourishing. It strengthens me.
The one who repents, who has faith,
Unshaken by the darkness of the world,
She shall know true peace.
That is what Seeker Byron told me when he brought me to the cell where the Seekers conduct their Vigil. I am to pray to the Maker. I am to meditate. When I have achieved repentance and know true peace, then I will be ready to join the Seekers.
I do not know what repentance is.
I do not know what peace is.
The Light shall lead her safely
Through the paths of this world, and into the next.
For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.
As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,
She should see fire and go towards Light.
The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,
And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker
Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.
That is from canto ten of the Canticle of Transfigurations. I do not know what is meant by “The Light.” Most probably, it is what they call a metaphor. Figurative language has never been my specialty. Words have never been my specialty.
I know shields. I know swords. Could trusting in the Maker mean trusting in Him as I trust in my shield and sword? Could it mean making Him a part of me in the same way they are when I fight? Is that what it is to go towards the Light?
I have no fear of demons beyond the Veil or of death. I have not feared death since I was six years old. I fear nothing and no one. But perhaps that is because I trust in myself, and not because I trust in the Maker.
I must endeavor to be better.
I have been in this cell for over two hundred days. Seeker Byron brought me today’s bread and water. Usually it is Caretaker Elwina.
The Seeker was sad and worried when he saw me. He said perhaps I had been unprepared for the Vigil. He said perhaps Uncle Vestalus should not have sent me to the Order.
“I cannot end your suffering, child,” he told me. “Only the Maker himself can do that now. I say a prayer for you in the Chantry daily that he will take pity on you.”
I do not know what he meant. ‘“The Maker is with us!’” I told him. ‘“His light shall be our banner,/ And we shall bear it through the gates of that city and deliver it/ To our brothers and sisters awaiting their freedom within those walls,/ At last, the Light shall shine upon all of creation,/ If we are only strong enough to carry it.’”
He kissed my forehead. I do not know why.
“Whatsoever passes through the fire
Is not lost, but made eternal;
As air can never be broken nor crushed,
The tempered soul is everlasting!”
I believe the purpose of the Vigil is that the Seekers may pass through the fire. To temper the soul, and not the body. It is not enough that we are strong. It is not enough that we use our weapons well. It is not enough that we be trained in the identification and subjugation of nests of apostates, or in ending Templar corruption. To do all of these things, our souls must first be purified. To do any of these things, our souls must first be purified.
I do not believe I have had a pure soul. I dwelt on other things—on pride and vengeance. I believed I sought only justice, first for myself and then for Anthony. But justice was not what I truly sought.
I think repentance means that I must not dwell on my own pride. I think it means that I must not pursue vengeance. If Anthony is at the Maker’s side, he no longer requires it. I think that if I am to seek justice, I must first seek the Maker’s will in all things. Including his will regarding me.
I think that is also what it means to go towards the Light. In the Chant of Light, the faithful are to say “I will not forsake You, even if I forget myself.”
I think sometimes we must forget ourselves.
Light.
I am bathed in Light. It is everywhere.
It is beautiful.
It’s peace.
It’s love.
I’m loved.
He loves me. The Maker loves me. He loves all His children. Suddenly I know that, as I haven’t in what seems like an eternity. I feel what love is. I remember what love is.
How could I have forgotten?
I’m gasping, weeping. I open my eyes, and I’m awake. How long have I been sleeping? It feels like far longer than the night.
I roll over, out of my bedclothes and off my bedroll, on my stomach to the floor. It’s stone, without any rug or mat. It’s cold, and the cold goes through me like a knife. Yet somehow, I’m grateful. Suddenly, I’m stretching out, embracing the cold, putting my cheek against the stone, just to feel how uncomfortable it makes me.
I can see my fingers in the moonlight, streaming from the window of the cell. They look like the fingers of the embalmed bodies in the Grand Necropolis. Past my hand, I can see the wall of the cell, above my sleeping mat and the disordered blankets. There are charcoal markings there—so many I can hardly count them.
Just breathing feels wonderful. How can the very air be sweet? But it is. I’m sobbing and laughing, and I don’t know why, except I feel like it. I feel, and I know it is because the Maker has turned his gaze upon me.
I never truly sing the Chant. Some people have the voice for it. Seeker Byron, for example. He has a rich, full baritone I always love hearing, no matter how much I resent the hour he insists we be up to attend prayers. But my voice cracks and squeaks and never seems to come out on the appropriate pitch. So I just speak the words, along with every other pitchy and unpracticed denizen of the Chantry.
Tonight, I could not sing, even if I wanted to. I am crying too hard, but they’re tears of joy. Still I manage to croak the words.
“All sins are forgiven! All crimes pardoned!
Let no soul harbor guilt!
Let no soul hunger for justice!
By the Maker’s will I decree
Harmony in all things.
Let Balance be restored
And the world given eternal life.”
Seeker Byron found her there the next morning, snot-nosed and blotchy-faced, but still beaming like a fool. Cassandra didn’t care. When he opened the door to her cell, she leapt to her feet and flung herself into his arms.
He embraced her instantly. “Welcome back, Seeker. I see you have completed your Vigil. Would you like some breakfast?”
Cassandra kissed the old man’s cheek impulsively. His mustache tickled, and she laughed. “I would like breakfast! Is there ham? And fruit? Ooh, just porridge with cream sounds unbelievable.”
“The porridge, I think, this morning. You have been in seclusion for some time, Cassandra.”
“How long?” Cassandra asked. “There were so many marks on the cell wall, I couldn’t be bothered to count them. I know it was a long time.”
It wasn’t uncommon for trainees to fail the Vigil, to die of the intense spiritual and physical strain they must pass through if they were to possess all the power and abilities of a full member of the order. The actual time the Vigil took varied. Some initiates passed the trial in as few as three weeks. Some were in seclusion for months before they emerged again.
“Almost an entire year,” Seeker Byron told her. “We had almost despaired of you, Cassandra. But I told the others that if you had not died after so long, you would come through it yet.”
A year! Cassandra could hardly conceive of it. Her sixteenth birthday had come and gone while she had undergone the Vigil. She had not so much as marked it. She had hardly marked anything but her devotions to the Maker. She closed her eyes and sent a silent prayer to Him for favoring her at last.
I’ll do something with it. I vow it.
Seeker Byron kept his arm around her as they walked together, through the halls of the old castle and toward the kitchen where the caretaker would be with supplies. This was less from sentiment, Cassandra thought, and more to keep her standing. She found she was very weak, much weaker than she had thought she would be. She distinctly remembered exercising each day to keep her strength up. I suppose a year of bread and water will weaken a person, no matter what precautions she takes.
“Do you realize,” Seeker Byron said, “that you will be the youngest Seeker to join our order in nearly two hundred years?”
Cassandra laughed. “Don’t tempt me to vanity now. I am probably the slowest to complete her vigil since the order’s founding.”
Her friend and mentor smiled, and Cassandra almost burst into fresh tears with the affection she felt for him. How could she have forgotten? “Is not believing no one else could possibly be as stupid and wayward as yourself also a form of vanity?” he asked her. “Look it up for yourself in the histories, if you wish. What matters is that you lived. Edwina!” he called as they stepped into the kitchen.
The elderly elf woman rose from where she had been sitting beside the kitchen hearth. When she saw Cassandra, her hand rose to her mouth, and her golden eyes filled with tears. “Maker be praised,” she said. “I had started to think . . .”
“We all had,” Seeker Byron said. “Fortunately, Cassandra is finally ready to rejoin us. Now, how about some porridge?”