While my original intention had been to go back to Ava early and spend more time with her in advance of our planned dinner, I knew I was far too shaken to offer a personable appearance right at the moment. I still had plenty of time before I needed to be back for her, so I decided to take a rather severe detour.

I walked out of the Inner Courts of Ildanach at a brisk pace, heading directly down the main road into the outer ring and then over to the gates of the city themselves, Teris flying some distance above me. I waved and smiled at the guards as I headed out on my innocent stroll and forced myself to wait until I knew well and truly that I was out of sight of the watchtowers before I broke into a run.

The exercise felt good, helped to focus my mind, but it wasn’t why I was out here.

As I cleared the forest that surrounded the city using the main path, I immediately took a sharp right and curved around it for a short distance before plunging back inside, this time without any kind of trail or, really, much of anything at all to use as a guide. The trees were thicker here, the brush unkept, and the moss was everywhere, making it a bit of a slick and dangerous trek. This area wasn’t open for foresting, reserved for moving the saplings to insure the forest stayed healthy. I slowed down to maintain my footing but didn’t stop jogging.

It always took me just long enough to see that I started second-guessing myself, questioning if maybe I had somehow missed it, or if these trees had maybe looked just a little bit too much like all the rest of the forest for me to pick out the right place.

But then I saw it– the unassuming stack of rocks positioned quite coincidentally between two aged redwoods.

I went past them for a bit longer before finding it– the stone temple hidden and built in with the trees, remaining quietly undiscovered in the most prized possession that Ildanach had to offer for decades. It was a Turyn Temple.

I smiled faintly at the memory of Hector’s confident assertion that it simply must exist. He’d been right, of course, but it was a good thing that most people didn’t know nearly so much of our habits to draw the correct conclusion. Turyn did still live in Ildanach, and if Turyn were here, there had to be a Temple. It was really that simple.

I walked over to the door and pushed it open; it swung inwards silently. I took three steps inside and was immediately met with two blades at my throat.

“Good to see security hasn’t been slipping.”

“Welcome, Leon of the White and Gold.” The priest, an elderly man with a balding head who I had never seen in anything other than a long dark robe, smiled at me before waving off the two Turyn Acolytes.

I bowed to them, as I always did. I remembered what it was like to wear those matt black, anonymous masks of the Ghost, remembered the occasionally grueling training required before the Elders would permit the students to make the first mask of their own.

Priest Ildanach, for the priests were never named save for their locations, all of them wearing the same brown and green masks the color of the woods, clapped me on the shoulder before giving me a meaningful look. “I haven’t seen you here in some time.”

I knew it was basically his job to guilt me over that, but I still shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “I’ve been busy. I’d also hate to risk leading anyone here.”

“I think you know how to lose a tail.”

He wasn’t wrong. “Things have been going well,” I admitted before smiling somewhat ruefully. “Things never go well.”

“You grew complacent.” There was no judgment in his tone, but he knew he was right.

“I did.”

“And now?”

“Catalyst has very sharply reminded me not to do that,” I said wryly, naming one of the Three Sisters.

“Change often comes when we are least expecting it and can be an unpleasant thing when it is an uninvited guest. That is why we must always be vigilant for it, for there will never come a day when it is not among us.”

“The High Inquisitor came to Ildanach with an Aeron Envoy and asked me directly and to my face to take off my mask and parade around with him as the poster boy for the Chantry,” I said bluntly.

To his credit, Priest did not react outwardly, but the extended moment of silence told me that he was just as shocked by that turn of events as I had been. “I assume you refused.”

“Obviously.”

“Theoretically, you could be here to turn us all in and see us burned.”

“I do hope you think slightly better of me than that, even if I have grown lax with my attendance.”

“I think and have thought the best of many who have passed through these doors. An unfortunate number of them have not passed the trials laid before them, nevertheless. I do, however, trust that you would have the honor to say as much to my face, were you intending to stab us in the back.” He paused, taking a breath. “Do you think he will kill you for your refusal?”

“I think he might try.”

“The Highlord has no love for you, either.”

“Yeah, I’m quite aware of that,” I snapped a bit before taking a breath. “Apologies.”

“I do not think it is to me you need to apologize.”

I looked at the Priest, then at the ground, then finally up at the three towering statues that marked off the three cardinal directions of the room that the main door did not occupy– Apocalypse, Catalyst, and Death, the Three Sisters.

“Did you consider his offer?” Priest asked me, somewhat unexpectedly, as he gestured to a pair of stone ledges that lined the walls and served as benches of a sort.

“Before he spelled out the catch. I was caught off guard.”

“It sounded pleasant.”

“It sounded… peaceful.”

Priest smiled at that. “I was not under the impression peace was something for which you were looking. Why else would you wear the mask of war?”

“This isn’t a mask of war!” I objected out of pure indignation.

“Is it not? Heroics nearly always entail conflict.”

I opened my mouth to argue and then quickly shut it again. He was probably right; it was an irritating quality of his.

His patience was another one, as he waited for me to speak again.

“I didn’t make it because it was what I wanted,” I finally said, quiet.

“Then why?”

Be better.

“Because I don’t know how to do… peace. And this seemed like the best use of the talents that I have.”

“People can learn to do new things, be new things. That is rather the point of this whole structure, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

I smiled faintly at the tongue-in-cheek remark, but it faded quickly. “I did try something new. Just not… all new. Figured baby steps were better?”

“That’s a reasonable answer,” he said mildly. “But are you sure it’s accurate?”

“Why don’t you tell me what you think the answer is?” I said somewhat defeatedly.

“Are you sure you just weren’t afraid of running too far away from what you know? New things are often frightening.”

I wanted to object, obviously. Of course I wanted to run away from my past; it was one of my very few talents, frankly, fleeing in cowardice from the problems I had made and leaving them behind for someone else to clean up or pay their consequences. But maybe I was just as afraid of something new.

Wasn’t this new, though?

Wasn’t I being better?

“Do you believe in fate?” I asked quietly.

“I believe in destiny. I think it’s a little different,” Priest said. He was so very good at taking things in stride, this man.

“If we have a destiny, then, don’t you think we have talents for a reason?”

“Of course. We all bring things and contribute to the great play that is life.”

I lifted my gaze from the stone floor and met his eyes. “And if all my talents seem to lie in the art of bringing death to others? Wearing the mask of hero and trying to save the underdog was… not what I wanted, so much as… the only way I could see being better. With what I have to offer.”

“If that is the path you see before you, I am not going to tell you not to walk it. Soldiers are important, heroes are necessary. Death is a goddess to whom we give praise; you know very well you came to the wrong place to have me unilaterally condemn your actions.”

I conceded the point with a slight nod in his direction, looking down again.

“But it is not your only talent. I hear a rumor you’re quite talented on the lyre, among other things.”

I breathed a laugh, leaning back in my seat. “I suppose I could always join a troupe,” I conceded.

“But it’s not the life you see for yourself.”

“It honestly sounds kind of nice.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Because I’m a liar.

“Complications,” I said shortly.

Priest sighed. “I cannot help you if you stop talking to me. I cannot promise I can help you if you do, but I know I cannot if you refuse to speak.”

“I know. However, much as I enjoy our conversations and appreciate your aid, truly,” I paused as I stood to look him in the eye and make certain he understood the depth of that before continuing, “I did not come here to speak to you.” I looked pointedly at the statue of Death, directly across from the entrance.

Priest smiled and stood as well. “Of course. You can talk to me any time though, Leon. We’ve missed you around here.”

I glanced around the building made of stone and wood, so breathable despite its supposedly cold exterior, and smiled faintly. “I’ve missed here too. Thank you again, Priest.”

“You’re welcome, Leon.”

I inclined my head to him and then walked over to the statue. Death was clothed in a long dark robe that concealed most of her features and her face in the sculpture, but her symbol rested on the dias on which the platform rested, and her signature raven perched on her left shoulder. She held a lantern in her left hand, while her right hand was raised to feed the bird. I knelt before the depiction and stared at the ground.

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“I didn’t really think about what I was going to say before I got here,” I said quietly, words and sound dampened by the tapestries that covered the walls, “so bear with me, if you would be so kind.” I took a deep breath.

“I am afraid. And I had been foolish enough to think that by the time I made it here, I wouldn’t need to be anymore. I thought fear was a person and that I could escape him. But I didn’t. Maybe I never can.” I paused. “I don’t want to watch them die again. My family, people I’m responsible for…. I played this game like I was the only one who had to face consequences, and now other people are going to have to pay for my recklessness. I don’t know what to do to make that not happen.

“I’ll try to make peace with Rufais, but I’m worried it’s too little too late for that.” I sighed heavily. “Please, don’t let them pay for my decisions.” I fell silent, closed my eyes entirely, but I didn’t stop.

Not again. Is this my punishment? Because I cannot be made to pay for my own choices the way I should be? Have I cheated you too often for your liking? You’ve asked me to serve, and I have. Please don’t make them pay for my choices.

For my mistakes?

I sat there for a while longer without thinking and specific thoughts, my mind whirling.

In the back of my head, I heard, as though a whisper from a female voice in the back of my mind, Ask.

So I asked. Did I do the wrong thing?

Should I have bowed to Rufais? At the beginning, when I first arrived, should I have taken his offer of General? Should I have protected Hector from my actions by falling in line quietly? Should I have knelt to his position and authority at the negotiation table rather than split myself from him in front of Dahl?

Were my decisions mistakes?

Be better.

I could see her eyes, her hand, her face in front of me, framed with her long black hair. I could feel the fire, the heat of the flames on my face, on my hands; the burning pain when I reached out for her, the memory still faintly visible in the scars on my hands that had never fully healed.

Be better than us, little Leon.

Did I do the right thing?

I hated that question. There was never, it seemed, a good answer. But the longer I thought about it, the more I became convinced that I had. If I hadn’t, then maybe my sense of moral judgment was simply too skewed to fix, but I couldn’t see how bowing to that tyrant could have been right. I didn’t see how letting him use me as a political pawn to fight his battles was the right decision, when I didn’t agree with half of his battles. I didn’t see how it could have been just for me to accept the title of General two months after I had first entered the scene and both left Hector behind and abandoned my team to the dungeons where they had started.

So I asked the next question, perhaps even worse than the former.

Are my friends going to pay for me doing the right thing?

I didn’t have an answer to that one, and I wasn’t so entitled to think that Death herself was going to ascend from the pits to tell me, even if she did know. Honestly, I preferred to think she didn’t know the answer– at least that meant no one would be paying with their lives.

I’d heard before the principle that doing the right thing didn’t always lead to good results for the person involved. I was familiar with the concept of self-sacrifice.

I was slightly less clear on the morality of other people paying for my decisions, no matter how firmly I was convinced they were correct, when they hadn’t even been around to contribute to the making of them. In this particular matter, my team were innocent bystanders in a war that Dahl was almost certainly going to unleash.

I thought about that for a second and then snorted, suddenly opening my eyes and smiling at the floor.

I was treating my competent team of assassins and explosive experts like they were innocent children caught in a crossfire. They may not have asked for the trouble that was about to fall on all of our heads, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t handle it. I’d give them a heads up, I’d hope they didn’t get too pissed at me, and then we would deal.

This wasn’t like the other times. They weren’t children. They weren’t brainwashed. They could take care of themselves.

Or so I desperately prayed, as I stood and turned to leave the temple.

I felt lighter on my way back through the gates into Ildanach, lighter than I had felt in a while. Priest was right; I really had been away for too long. I resolved to get out to the temple more often, despite the circumstances. Unless I had reason to believe Dahl himself was on my tail, but maybe it would be worth it even then. I doubted the man thought me devout enough to need a temple to live here though; he had thought he could buy me away. Maybe in another life, he could have, but I owed Death personally in this one; owed her mostly for her mercy in not hunting me down, much more for accepting me into her fold. I had once broken her cardinal law, after all.

“You look happier,” Ava commented almost immediately after I walked into the inn we shared, and I was taken back by the assertion.

Had I gotten that easy to read? “Well, I’m here with you; why should I not be?” Fortunately, my ability to think on my feet seemed perfectly intact.

Ava breathed a laugh and stood. “You are full of flattery today.”

“In the conversations we’ve had, have I ever seemed not to be?”

“I suppose that’s fair,” she conceded. “It’s still a bit early; did you want to head out?”

“If you would so desire, the rest of my evening belongs to you, my lady.” I bowed slightly, wishing I had a hat to remove to complete the picture.

She laughed softly again and then stood. “Then I would love to see more of the city before dinner, if you are not opposed.”

I offered her my arm, smiling brightly. “That sounds wonderful. We’ll head to the Inner City this time, as we are no longer concerned with work. The forest surrounding the Highlord’s Courtyard is beautiful and well maintained.”

“You seem to have a great fondness for the trees,” Ava pointed out mildly as we began to walk, heading out of the inn with a wave at the smiling Berd.

“They remind me of a good time in my life– the first time I ran into the Turyn, actually.”

“Really?” her eyes lit up in such innocent curiosity that I couldn’t help but smile.

“Mhm. I was young, on my own in the forest, when I came across a small troupe. They took me in for a time, and we traveled through the wilderness. My young heart decided quite rapidly that the Turyn were clearly the kindest and best people walking the plane, and that they could always be trusted.” I smiled fondly at my youthful innocence before adding, “Surprisingly, they have not yet failed that assessment, though they certainly do know when not to be kind.” I recalled with a mixture of odd nostalgia and a mild bit of shame the times they had seen to it that corporeal punishment was due for my less-than-stellar behavior during my initiation. It had been a kindness, though, in a way, or at least a mercy– they could have easily cast me out.

“How old were you?” she asked, a bit cautiously.

I knew why the caution and knew similarly that my answer was likely to lead to more questions, but it was difficult to dodge such a specific question without being obvious about it, regardless. And I wanted her to feel like I trusted her, even if I perhaps didn’t yet. “Seven.”

She blinked, as apparently that had been yet younger than she had been expecting. “Were you a refugee after a Skirmish?” she asked. “Lost in the woods?”

“Lost, yes, but not from a Skirmish.” I debated squirming out of the line of inquiry this time, but I wanted her to think I trusted her, didn’t I? “There was a fire, where I lived. I happened to be outdoors when it took down the house. I was, unfortunately, the only one, and we had lived somewhat distanced from society. The woods were the only place to go. I almost certainly would have found myself starving in a ditch if not for those Turyn.”

Ava gasped, her eyes wide with empathy. “I’m so sorry.”

I shrugged. “It was quite some time ago. Clearly I’ve not done too badly for myself.” I smiled charmingly.

“Even so,” she murmured.

“We’ve all lost things,” I reminded her gently. “Nevertheless, we find the strength to move on.”

She smiled softly, sadly, back at me, but the words seemed to suffice for putting the subject to rest. “Were those Turyn the ones for whom you chose the path?”

“I chose it for myself,” I corrected gently, “but I won’t deny their influence. As I said, the snap-judgment of a child declared them righteous. I thought about following in their footsteps for some time.”

“How old were you when you committed?”

“Seventeen.”

“Ten years is a long time to wait.”

“The Turyn don’t allow those under the age of battle to choose the life. Many children have found themselves entranced by the traveling minstrels mysteriously clothed in masks. It’s an alluring lifestyle, particularly for children. They want you to be sure, to understand the persecution and consequences that go along with it. Honestly, they bent the rules a bit for me. I was persuasive.” I was desperate.

“I can imagine that,” she said with a playful smile that I returned.

“What of yourself? How old were you when your mother sent you here?”

“Twelve. I had been so excited for my next birthday, when I could perform with her, just for the little roles, but still.” She paused, looking down. “I had been so furious when she had made me leave.”

“She knew it came from a place of love. You wanted to be with her.”

“I wanted to be famous,” Ava said with a soft, self-depreciating snort. “I was so very shallow.”

“I refuse to believe that was your entire motivation, and I think you know better as well.”

She searched my eyes for a moment, and I let her. “You seem to think you know me quite well.”

I considered that for a short beat before inclining my head. “Perhaps I don’t, but I do like the person I have seen so far, and would like to know more.”

She smiled, soft and genuine.

I felt rather proud of myself.

We had reached the inner city, and I pointed out a few of the Lords’ Manors as we walked past, filling her in on some of the basic politics of the house.

When it came time for dinner, I led her through a few back alleys and down darkened streets to one of my favorite, if small and hidden, restaurants in the city. It wasn’t fancy, and it wasn’t expensive, but they made good food that tasted like home. It was Western cuisine, so Ava was unfamiliar with most of it. We talked about her tastes, and I ended up ordering for her at her request.

I was pleased when she enjoyed it, happy she seemed to like the little place as much as I did.

We took long enough over our dinner that we had to run to make the play, but with the tickets Ennis had given me we had no problem getting seats. There wasn’t nearly as heavy a crowd as I was used to, but I supposed the presence of the High Inquisitor was probably putting a dampening on things.

We took our seats and watched the performance, though I may have watched her more than them.

The play was the story of Arya Ducane, a prophetess of the highborn people, before the Purge and the eradication of all races save for humans, though a few highborn had survived long enough to interbreed with the human race. It was a tragedy, as many plays were, ending almost inevitably with the act of the Purge and the destruction of so many innocents. More than that, though, it was a story of the obliviousness of power to their own impending demise, even when they had a gift from the gods proclaiming their forthcoming doom.

Still, it had its moments of brevity and lightheartedness, a romance plot interwoven with the politics with plenty of moments of the goodness and the kindness of individuals, even if it may have been a condemnation on mortals as a whole.

I had seen it before, many times, probably been a stagehand to it once during my apprenticeship to the Turyn. Watching her face light up at the moments of joy and elation was far more enjoyable than watching the false faces put on by the actors on stage; seeing her gasp at moments of shock and tragedy more intriguing than any theater.

When the story ended so inevitably with an apocalyptic moment in history, she looked as though she would very nearly cry.

“That was cruel,” Ava told me softly as we departed the theater, me with a parting wave and a nod of respect to the performers.

“What? Did you not enjoy it?”

“I loved it, but that was cruel! They all died!”

“Historical accuracy is a real mood-killer, isn’t it?” I said wryly.

Ava gave me an annoyed look, and I chuckled.

“They didn’t all die.”

Ava looked at me oddly.

“Enough Highborn survived to essentially create a subrace among humanity, keeping close enough in their family lines that it became notably distinct. They still exist today.”

It took her a moment but only a short moment. “The Turyn. That’s why so many plays focus on the Highborn,” she realized.

“It’s our history.” Though I had been fully accepted as one of them, part of me still felt strange referring to it as our collective history when I was not Turyn by blood. I wondered if I would ever see myself fully with them, no matter how accepted I had become. The religion was mine; the birthright I felt belonged to me less.

“I can see why the Chantry wouldn’t want that to be public knowledge.”

“Oh?” I said mildly, as though I didn’t already know.

“The Highborn were Ayra’s race, the wife of the God of Justice. She’s the secondary focal point of worship for them. Yet her children no longer worship her.”

I thought about going into the histories of the Purge, the traditions carried on by the Turyn, the diary written by Arya Ducane herself that contained both her prophecies and her utterance of condemnation on her own people for a crime they had not chosen for themselves, but it was late and she had already been saddened by the play. Maybe someday.

And I found myself surprised at the extent to which I was imagining future conversations with her.

“I had a lovely time,” Ava said softly as we drew close to the inn.

I beamed. “I did also. Perhaps I could even persuade you into accompanying me again? Though admittedly, I do not have more tickets.”

She breathed a soft laugh. “I didn’t come for the play. It was nice, but… I didn’t come for the play. And I would love to spend time with you again.” She started to lean up towards me and then stopped, wavering on her feet.

I figured that was good enough and gently ran my fingers through her hair before pulling her a little closer and kissing her.

“Goodnight, Avaline,” I said softly as I released her at the door of the inn.

She smiled at me bashfully, whispered, “Goodnight,” and then quickly entered the door, closing it behind her.

I didn’t follow her, going for a walk around the area. I’d check out the graveyard again, though I didn’t expect to see anything after the incident the night before. Still, it was good to be safe.

If I was perhaps smiling a bit more than normal as I walked around in the dark, well, there was no one there to comment.