"Divine Justinia was the one who died at the Conclave, before the rifts opened."
Is more for ordering her own understanding of woman, setting that in context with what he is telling her now.
This too is strange to her. Something understood in theory, but not quiet something she fully understands in practice. The Chant and it's followers are something wholly outside of her experience.
"Do the new verses change what was presented in the text before?"
It's hard to say exactly what Laurentius sounds like when he laughs, as he doesn't actually get very far into that first surprised bark of humor before he's yanking it in the direction of a cough. The whole effect is rather like a man diving to put out a fire bomb before the spark can run fully up the wick.
He clears his throat just once afterward.
"Yes and no. The translation still recognizes the Canticles in question—Silence, Shartan, Maferath—, as dissonant verses, but their inclusion radically alters the context of the rest. Plus, their contents would seem particularly relevant to our current period. The real question is how much anyone in the South is actually teaching those changes, and to what degree the ordinary person knows—Well. Much of anything. About the direct text, I mean."
A small, self-conscious smile crosses Derrica's face. Maybe gathering that the question is ridiculous, or the answer should have been obvious.
But her expression turns thoughtful as he speaks, considering the broader question that rises up in the wake of his answer.
"We might do a survey," she says slowly. "Not every Chantry, but perhaps the bigger, more well-attended ones. Denerim, Redcliffe, Wycome, Markham. Antiva City, if we can be assured of our safety. We can move quickly by griffonback, if the griffons can be spared. Get a sense of what is being taught, and look for people like you've described at the same time."
They do not have any Chantry sisters or brothers who could be conscripted to present this new angle. But they might have some more devout than Derrica who could gently introduce the idea alongside some of their more groundbreaking ideas, if they come across receptive parties.
"And be seen to be renewing our ties to Thedas' Chantries in the process."
Maybe only part of this plan will make it to paper.
"The Orlesian Chantries, in any case," is as automatic a correction as it is mild, thoughtless like the turn of his hands as he Laurentius finally moves to flip further forward through this heavy book he's brought with him.
"I can't imagine it would hurt. I've also drawn up a, partial obviously, list of contemporary Chantry scholars whose work seems complimentary to or is supported by Justinia's academic legacy. The period between her death and Divine Beatrix's ascension is fascinating from a standpoint of publication—"
As if its function is primarily to serve as his personal satchel, Laurentius produces a sheaf of papers from inside the book. It requires some shuffling, sorting relevant wheat from evidently personal chaff as he says, "You may eventually require sympathetic representation somewhere within the ranks of the clergy."
"Agreed. And it doesn't sound like anyone inside Riftwatch is likely to be welcome at a Chantry consistory any time soon. But— Ah, here."
He's finally managed to find all the right pages. Squaring them, Laurentius folds one corner of the make-do packet and leans forward over the heavy book to pass it to her.
"But if they're anything like their northern cousins, you can buy opinions. Sway them."
All at once, Laurentius smiles. It's a crooked, slightly toothy affair when allowed to spread to its full (considerable) width and for the duration of the time it spends splashed across his jagged features, he looks rather younger with it than he does without. Evidently some flash of naughty school boy lurks behind that mournful, highly self-serious miasma.
"No, never. I just thought it seemed like a good idea."
"Honestly, you might not even have to pay some of them. Some will answer to reason. And some of those scholars," he says, absently waggling a finger toward the papers in her possession. "Are already members of the Chantry themselves. I don't have any idea how popular or unpopular they've made themselves with their ideas, but—"
He shrugs.
It's something, isn't it?
"I'll be honest, though," Laurentius says, one of those big hands returning again to scratch absently behind an ear. "This is about as far as I've gotten on the whole idea. And I don't have any idea who should approach them or how. I just thought I should come with some kind of peace offering after that business downstairs."
An unexpected statement. It doesn't bring any uncertainty bristling back to her, but it prompts a pause in the flow of their conversation. Derrica's fingers run across the surface of the paper, observing his penmanship, this list of names that they will make use of one way or another.
"It's a good idea," she tells him, because it feels promising to her. Looking up at him, her head tilts slightly. Studying his face, the work of his hands. "Do you think I'd hold your questions against you?"
"No idea," is briskly rendered. From behind his ear, his hand tilts in the direction of some vague gesture that fills the same slot as that earlier shrug.
"But I thought there might be a possibility given the general tenor of the room that night. Maybe not you, specifically. But maybe someone else took offense." These things, he knows, sometimes proliferate in funny ways. That is not the first meeting of the minds where he's taken it upon himself to ask things that are inconvenient to the night.
"If nothing else, it doesn't hurt to come prepared."
The answer seems to come easily to him—such a far cry from the flickering, guarded looks that question might often be expected to elicit from a considerable portion of the Gallows' resident that Laurentius doesn't so much as shrug or turn his hand in what is evidently a somewhat habitual method for filling space.
"Do you intend to return Tevinter once Corypheus is no longer a threat?"
It is a little bit disjointed, this question. She has not asked what brought him here in the first place, only drawn the assumption that it was motivated by the war. Perhaps by curiosity.
Perhaps he is as dangerous to them as Brother Gideon had been. She wonders a little at that too, though she cannot imagine Yseult had been anything other than thorough in her examination of this man and his wife before turning them loose in the Gallows.
Does the question surprise him? The heavy line of his brow certainly rises by some incrementally degree, and his head tips slightly sideways as if he suspects if he views the matter from another angle that it will become more complicated.
"Obviously there are some considerations for the Venatori and to what extent they can function without their head, and the state of the Magisterium. But yes, of course. Tevinter is my home."
"More or less. No one would openly accuse the Archon of being the instrument of fanatics, of course. Particularly not when the war is going so well for us on paper." No offense, says the look he gives her; it's hard to look at the conflict on a map and not conclude that the Tevinter Imperium is running roughshod over the south.
"But the effect of the Venatori inside Tevinter is hard to deny. Their influence made my work unpopular enough that the safety of my family had become a concern. If things continue in that direction, I worry about the Chantry becoming little more than an instrument of the Magisterium similar to how the one here is compelled by the South's various heads of state. To say nothing of what will happen should the war turn and Divine Beatrix's Exalted March actually come North."
A pause. He drums his fingers on the heavy book in his lap. Then—
"We have three children, and want to protect them from this."
This—the war, Corypheus, what may happen should Minrathous crumble, the influence of the South and its poisonous conception of what a mage is good for. The list seems to get longer every day.
"As safe as they can be. They're still in Tevinter—staying with an aunt who lives in the country. There's enough plausible deniability with respect to where we've disappeared to that they and their reputations should be reasonably well protected. So long as no one finds out that Lalla and I are here, then theoretically there should be no reason to trouble them."
It has the tenor of something he's practiced. He's familiar with that pinch of worry there in Derrica's face in the sense that he has seen it (and more) echoed in his wife's expression. He's seen it in his own either when it's very early and he's forgotten to smooth it away, or when it's very late and he's grown too tired too. They're fine, he tells himself. Lalla's sister is a perfectly capable guardian, and there is no reason at all for the Venatori to go looking for three children when the primary concern of their heretic father has already fallen off the map.
They're just children. They're perfectly safe now that they've been removed from his company.
This is not the direction Derrica had meant to steer their conversation. But they are here now. She is observing his expression. Thinking of how this must weigh on him.
And still, he presents himself in this office with a list of names they might prevail upon. In a fight that is not necessarily his own.
"Would you rather keep your name off any correspondence we send? Avoid traveling to the chantries and meeting with people there?"
If he is to lay low, how would he like to approach it?
Yes, maybe it does weigh a little. Certainly something has motivated him to go flipping idly back through the pages of the book in his lap, seeking nothing by the whisking murmur of the paper.
"It might be best if I were to serve more of a consulting role than otherwise, yes. Not just for them," he adds, looking at her. "You probably don't want to be accused of supporting an Imperial conversion effort. Though, by all means. I'd be happy to help with that too if that's more your preference."
A tug at the corner of his mouth. He's extremely funny, thank you.
The fact that Byerly Rutyer, who seems very certain of how the world here in this little fortress ought to work, might be benefitted by being alarmed now and again goes unremarked on account if the fact that yes, Laurentius is still pleased with his joke, and also on account if the fact that this next question does clearly surprise him.
His eyebrows climb by a few significant degrees. He stops the idle flipping of pages.
"I don't know anything about how mages live in the South."
"I don't need someone who is familiar with the way things have been done in the south."
Dairsmuid was not Tevinter. Rivain is unique, with attitudes and traditions that range far and away from what is commonplace in Tevinter. Derrica knows that. The two countries take vastly different approaches to anything. But between them, there is some common ground.
"We cannot arrive at the conclave empty-handed. And you weren't wrong before. There are questions that will need to be answered, even if we are able to convince the fraternities to back a proposal more in line with what the southern mages were seeking when they rebelled."
Maybe between them, two northern mages, they might come up with something worth proposing.
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Is more for ordering her own understanding of woman, setting that in context with what he is telling her now.
This too is strange to her. Something understood in theory, but not quiet something she fully understands in practice. The Chant and it's followers are something wholly outside of her experience.
"Do the new verses change what was presented in the text before?"
To fully grasp the context of inconvenient.
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He clears his throat just once afterward.
"Yes and no. The translation still recognizes the Canticles in question—Silence, Shartan, Maferath—, as dissonant verses, but their inclusion radically alters the context of the rest. Plus, their contents would seem particularly relevant to our current period. The real question is how much anyone in the South is actually teaching those changes, and to what degree the ordinary person knows—Well. Much of anything. About the direct text, I mean."
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But her expression turns thoughtful as he speaks, considering the broader question that rises up in the wake of his answer.
"We might do a survey," she says slowly. "Not every Chantry, but perhaps the bigger, more well-attended ones. Denerim, Redcliffe, Wycome, Markham. Antiva City, if we can be assured of our safety. We can move quickly by griffonback, if the griffons can be spared. Get a sense of what is being taught, and look for people like you've described at the same time."
They do not have any Chantry sisters or brothers who could be conscripted to present this new angle. But they might have some more devout than Derrica who could gently introduce the idea alongside some of their more groundbreaking ideas, if they come across receptive parties.
"And be seen to be renewing our ties to Thedas' Chantries in the process."
Maybe only part of this plan will make it to paper.
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"I can't imagine it would hurt. I've also drawn up a, partial obviously, list of contemporary Chantry scholars whose work seems complimentary to or is supported by Justinia's academic legacy. The period between her death and Divine Beatrix's ascension is fascinating from a standpoint of publication—"
As if its function is primarily to serve as his personal satchel, Laurentius produces a sheaf of papers from inside the book. It requires some shuffling, sorting relevant wheat from evidently personal chaff as he says, "You may eventually require sympathetic representation somewhere within the ranks of the clergy."
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"That will have to come from outside of Riftwatch. We're lacking such an option here."
Sympathetic is an oddly tall order.
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He's finally managed to find all the right pages. Squaring them, Laurentius folds one corner of the make-do packet and leans forward over the heavy book to pass it to her.
"But if they're anything like their northern cousins, you can buy opinions. Sway them."
Insert her preferred term here.
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Or find a way to pose the request for some in such a way as to avoid raising eyebrows in other parts of this tower.
The papers are accepted, set into her lap.
"Have you ever corresponded with any of these people?"
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"No, never. I just thought it seemed like a good idea."
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"Maybe we'd be better off paying some of these scholars to make our case to their fellows," she suggests.
How else do they get around their near total lack of devout Chantry members?
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He shrugs.
It's something, isn't it?
"I'll be honest, though," Laurentius says, one of those big hands returning again to scratch absently behind an ear. "This is about as far as I've gotten on the whole idea. And I don't have any idea who should approach them or how. I just thought I should come with some kind of peace offering after that business downstairs."
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"It's a good idea," she tells him, because it feels promising to her. Looking up at him, her head tilts slightly. Studying his face, the work of his hands. "Do you think I'd hold your questions against you?"
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"But I thought there might be a possibility given the general tenor of the room that night. Maybe not you, specifically. But maybe someone else took offense." These things, he knows, sometimes proliferate in funny ways. That is not the first meeting of the minds where he's taken it upon himself to ask things that are inconvenient to the night.
"If nothing else, it doesn't hurt to come prepared."
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It is her instinct to take these to someone with more skill at managing people. But she will have to choose carefully.
They will have to choose carefully, she corrects, silently.
"Can I ask you something personal?"
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The answer seems to come easily to him—such a far cry from the flickering, guarded looks that question might often be expected to elicit from a considerable portion of the Gallows' resident that Laurentius doesn't so much as shrug or turn his hand in what is evidently a somewhat habitual method for filling space.
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It is a little bit disjointed, this question. She has not asked what brought him here in the first place, only drawn the assumption that it was motivated by the war. Perhaps by curiosity.
Perhaps he is as dangerous to them as Brother Gideon had been. She wonders a little at that too, though she cannot imagine Yseult had been anything other than thorough in her examination of this man and his wife before turning them loose in the Gallows.
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"Obviously there are some considerations for the Venatori and to what extent they can function without their head, and the state of the Magisterium. But yes, of course. Tevinter is my home."
He isn't a traitor.
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Envy, maybe.
How straightforward.
"Is that all that brought you here? The Venatori?"
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"But the effect of the Venatori inside Tevinter is hard to deny. Their influence made my work unpopular enough that the safety of my family had become a concern. If things continue in that direction, I worry about the Chantry becoming little more than an instrument of the Magisterium similar to how the one here is compelled by the South's various heads of state. To say nothing of what will happen should the war turn and Divine Beatrix's Exalted March actually come North."
A pause. He drums his fingers on the heavy book in his lap. Then—
"We have three children, and want to protect them from this."
This—the war, Corypheus, what may happen should Minrathous crumble, the influence of the South and its poisonous conception of what a mage is good for. The list seems to get longer every day.
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The recitation of politics is not so surprising, even if Derrica is unfamiliar with the nuance of it. But then—
"Three children," is a soft echo. The pinch of worry returns to her brow, as she too weighs up the many threats at play here.
How much safety can be found fleeing south, with so much uncertain? Three children, perhaps mages. What is there for them here?
"Are they safe now?"
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It has the tenor of something he's practiced. He's familiar with that pinch of worry there in Derrica's face in the sense that he has seen it (and more) echoed in his wife's expression. He's seen it in his own either when it's very early and he's forgotten to smooth it away, or when it's very late and he's grown too tired too. They're fine, he tells himself. Lalla's sister is a perfectly capable guardian, and there is no reason at all for the Venatori to go looking for three children when the primary concern of their heretic father has already fallen off the map.
They're just children. They're perfectly safe now that they've been removed from his company.
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And still, he presents himself in this office with a list of names they might prevail upon. In a fight that is not necessarily his own.
"Would you rather keep your name off any correspondence we send? Avoid traveling to the chantries and meeting with people there?"
If he is to lay low, how would he like to approach it?
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"It might be best if I were to serve more of a consulting role than otherwise, yes. Not just for them," he adds, looking at her. "You probably don't want to be accused of supporting an Imperial conversion effort. Though, by all means. I'd be happy to help with that too if that's more your preference."
A tug at the corner of his mouth. He's extremely funny, thank you.
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"Maybe we can call it a side project, so as not to alarm the Ambassador."
Though it does bring her to her intention in asking the question in the first place—
"Would you consult with me, ahead of the second conclave?"
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His eyebrows climb by a few significant degrees. He stops the idle flipping of pages.
"I don't know anything about how mages live in the South."
It's not a no. It's just a little baffled.
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Dairsmuid was not Tevinter. Rivain is unique, with attitudes and traditions that range far and away from what is commonplace in Tevinter. Derrica knows that. The two countries take vastly different approaches to anything. But between them, there is some common ground.
"We cannot arrive at the conclave empty-handed. And you weren't wrong before. There are questions that will need to be answered, even if we are able to convince the fraternities to back a proposal more in line with what the southern mages were seeking when they rebelled."
Maybe between them, two northern mages, they might come up with something worth proposing.
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