Kingsway, and in the not-so distant north, the sharp peaks of the Vimmark Mountains reached up to claw and bite at the purest of blue skies, unmarked by cloud. It was still warm, summer lost its grip on the foothills slowly that year, and though autumn's chill crept in between the cracks after the sun had set, and in the morning the fields were wet with dew, the first frost had yet to fall. Still, the harvest pressed on, as it must, because there was no predicting the weather beyond the inevitable turn from autumn to winter, winter to spring, spring to summer, summer back to autumn.

The old hands, the farmers, the orchardists, they knew this. And so they went about their work, unhurried by persistent, slow but steady. Few looked up as the young lordling of the manor came tearing through, around, between the trees. His clothes, high quality, but practical, leather and dark colours, were dirty, grime smeared across his broad cheeks, hollow, in spite of how much he packed away at the table, filth streaked is ash-blonde hair and turned it decidedly brown. For someone on the cusp of maturity, it would appear that he had spent more of the day at play than at work.

The reason for his laughing flight through the orchard soon became apparent, behind him came a pair of younger children, similar in height and face, giggling, shrieking, as they chased him down. The girl had her long skirts tucked up between her legs, so it was not them, but rather her lack of height that kept her from perfectly keeping pace with her twin, who slowed just long enough to shout a warning to the older boy. "You can't run forever, Faello! We'll catch you!"

"Not if you can't reach me," the gangling adolescent called back, as, reaching the tallest tree, an ancient apple-bearer they'd nicknamed The Grandfather, he swung himself up, and began to climb.

The twins found him shortly thereafter, sitting on a branch, contentedly chewing on the fruits of his labour. " 'Lo, runts," he waved, chuckled around a mouthful of apple. "My, but you both look tiny from up here."

The girl glared up at him, as her brother braced himself on his knees to catch his breath. "Just you wait, big brother! I'm going to climb up there, and I'm going to get you!"

"Ah, little Luck," he grinned down at her, "I am sure that you will. But you would have to reach the branches first."

Smothering his laughter, he watched as first she jumped, then tried running up the trunk, then finally tried clawing her way up to the lowest branch, each time angrier than the last. Eventually, he tossed his apple core aside, and called down, "I propose a truce! If I help you both get up here, you agree not to 'get me'."

The twins looked at each other. Rafael got the impression, as he often did, that they had a silent language of their own. It was something about the way one would make a subtle movement, and the other would make a small gesture back, or shake their head in disagreement, or, as they did now, nod.

"We agree," the boy, now standing straight, responded, "We ac-, acquewe-, ac-qui-esce to your terms."

"Well, I am glad you both saw reason, Chance," Rafael said, and made his way down the tree. He dropped from the bottom branch to land before the pair. "So, shall it be ladies first, or age before beauty?"

Luck stuck her tongue out and blew a particularly long, wet raspberry, while Chance simply grinned; gratified by the acknowledgement that he was, in fact, the elder twin.

Rafael brushed imaginary spittle from his jerkin with great dignity, and bowed to his younger brother, "It would appear that there are clearly no ladies present," he paused, allowed Luck the time to blow another raspberry, "so I suppose it is you first, Chance. Hands up."

The younger boy obliged, stretching up his hands while his brother reached down to lift him by the waist. "Do you have it?"

"Yes!"

In spite of the worlds, Rafael waited for the confirmation of Chance pulling himself up, ever so slowly, before he released him and turned to the twin still on the ground. With some difficulty, he smothered his laughter at the exaggerated pout on her face.

"You are certain you can climb in those skirts, Luck?"

She simply reached up for the branches. "Watch me."

Shaking his head, he lifted her in the same way he had done their brother, waiting until she had begun to move of her own accord before letting her go. He allowed them a good head start, watching as they wound their way through the branches, not unlike a pair of overlarge, oddly coloured squirrels.

"Runts," cupping his hands around his mouth, he called up. "I am coming up behind you. Don't let me catch you now!"

Chance yelped and began climbing faster, while Luck turned to look down at him. "You're breaking the truce!"

Rafael laughed, easily pulling himself up into the bottom branches once again, "No, we agreed you would not come after me. I never agreed to the reverse!"

For a time, the three climbed, the only sounds were the rustle of leaves and clothing, the creaking of the branches, the occasional huff or grunt of effort. Chance continued to lead, but Rafael, aided by his size, began to gain on Luck. She looked back, and, noticing this, doubled her efforts. So determined not be caught was she, that she didn't notice the branch she'd reached for was devoid of apples, of leaves, and was angled rather oddly. She leapt to it.

With a sharp snap, it gave. A startled cry, and she was falling.

"Luck!" Rafael reached for her as she tumbled past him, but caught only air. She was outside his reach. He watched, horrified, as his sister plummeted. Then, just as sudden as the snapping of the branch had been, she slowed. Like a dried leaf, she began drifting gently down to the ground under the tree, landing on her feet.

He scrambled down, heedless of the twigs which tore at his clothes, scratched at his face. He dropped to her side, began patting down her arms and legs, checked her face, unsure if the shaking he felt was on her part or his.

He was still checking her over when Chance landed with a heavy thwump nearby, and came rushing to join them. "Faello. Faello, is she hurt? Luck, are you hurt?"

Wide-eyed, she shook her head, and reached a hand out to her twin. He grasped it tightly, knuckles of both their hands turning white.

"I don't understand. I don't – you were falling, and then… I don't…" Rafael leaned back on his heels, hands running through his hair.

"Chance did it," she whispered, voice shaky. "You tried to grab me, but you missed," she looked from her older brother to her twin. "He reached out his hand, and I… stopped."

The older boy's eyes shot open, and he recoiled from them, scrabbling backwards in the dirt as he stared. "Chance? Did you…" he trailed off, made a feeble waving gesture, unsure how to finish the question. He didn't need to, in any case, as the boy nodded.

"Oh. Shit."

"Faello! Language!" Luck hissed, scandalized, as he pushed himself back to his knees.

"Sorry, Luck," he reached out to them, pulled them both into a hug. "I was just surprised. I am sorry."

The Bann's study was redolent with the scents of leather, parchment, wax. Large, dusty tomes lined the shelves on every wall, interspersed with smaller works. In the afternoon light streaming in through the open window, the lord of the manor sat at the desk. Broad-shouldered and strong-armed, a competitor in the Grand Tourney in his youth, age and a fondness for pastry had caught up with him, a paunch developing over the once-flat stomach, grey hairs hidden amongst the still-thick blonde thatch. Age, a fondness for pastry, and the necessities of business, which had had him deep in his ledgers since breakfast, dwarven-made spectacles perched on the edge of a crooked, hawkish nose. All this on a day which had promised to be one of the last good riding days of the season, no less. The door was open to the hall, begging for interruptions. Even so, Rafael, freshly bathed and wearing clean clothes, stood on the threshold and knocked.

Bann Emrys looked up, doffed his glasses and squinted at his elder son. "Rafael? Come in, come in," he waved for the boy to join him.

Rafael hesitated, then stepped into the room, quietly shutting the door behind him, and took a seat at the desk in front of his father.

"Ah. A serious talk then." The Bann leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. "Well, lad. What seems to be the problem?"

The boy chewed his lip. "I think," he began, stopped, reached up to rub his hands over his face.

"Take a breath, Faello." His father rumbled, oddly soothing for a voice so deep. "Start from the beginning."

As instructed, Rafael took a breath, and, staring down at the hands twisting in his lap, told the story of everything that had transpired that afternoon, concluding with when he had left the twins in the nursery with strict instructions not to move until he came back for them. It wasn't until he had finished that he looked up, and saw that his father's face, normally florid, had been drained of colour.

"Did anyone else see?" The question was spoken in a whisper.

Rafael shook his head. "I don't believe so."

"Then we have some time, at least." The Bann sighed. "Could you go and join your mother and sisters in the drawing room, please?" He got to his feet, and began walking around the desk, scanning the shelves.

Rafael watched, head canted in confusion, "Papa?"

His father turned, placed a meaty hand on the young man's shoulder, squeezed reassuringly. "It will be alright," he spoke quietly, as much to himself as to his son, "It will be alright."

The hardest thing Rafael had ever done, harder still than going to his father and telling him the truth, was sitting in the drawing room, taking tea with the others and pretending everything was fine. While his mother and older sisters prattled endlessly about the latest gossip, fashion, and one hundred and one other inane subjects that he would normally have loved to join them in discussing, this day, he was forced to hold his tongue so badly in check that he momentarily wondered if there was a chance that he might swallow it by accident.

"Faello?" He realised that the others were looking at him, that they must have asked him something while he'd been ruminating. Attempting to salvage the situation, he grinned at them over the rim of his teacup. "Terribly sorry. I was thinking of something more interesting than the conversation."

His cheek earned him a titter from his sisters and a swift rap across the thigh from his mother's fan. Neither time nor distance from her native Antiva had quite taken the accent from Lady Caterina's speech, especially when addressing her children. She pointed her fan at Rafael, "I asked you where the twins were. You were to be watching them, were you not?"

He felt his Adam's apple, which he'd noticed growing over the last few months, sprout a few sizes larger, blocking his throat. He tried to cover his sudden inability to breathe by taking a sip of his tea, and promptly choked, coughing and sputtering as his body betrayed him yet again.

They waited, patiently, for him to finish, his mother's gentle hand resting between his shoulder blades, ready to deliver a blow if need be. Even after the coughing had subsided into a handful of inelegant hem-ing noises as he made a valiant effort to clear his throat, her hand stayed.

"Ah," he put his hand to his mouth again, "Ahem."

Turning to his mother, he nodded his appreciation, and the hand was withdrawn. "They are in the nursery. Papa wished to speak with them about something that occurred while we were out."

"My, my. A situation you could not handle all on your own, Faello?" Seraphina, the eldest, covered her mouth with a dainty hand, the feigned shock given away by the teasing smile hiding under her spread fingers.

Evelyn said nothing, simply looked at him, eyebrow cocked in suspicion, to which he did his best to smile nonchalantly, shrug and wonder how much longer he would have to maintain the charade.

Not that much longer, it appeared, as the drawing room door opened, and into the room came the Lord of the manor, trailed by a pair of uncharacteristically subdued twins, still holding hands. The three took a seat on the large divan, across from Rafael and the Lady Caterina. Chance was crammed between his father, who had placed an arm around the boy, and is twin, who had taken his one hand between both of her own.

"Well," the Bann's broad smile was belied by the heaviness in his voice. "It would appear that we have a matter of some import to discuss regarding young Chance's education."

"Emrys?" Lady Caterina began, but he held up a hand to forestall her, and continued.

"It would appear that our Chance has some hitherto undiscovered talents, of the … magical variety."

Watching the others, Rafael noticed his mother's gasp, that her hands came up to her heart. He watched Seraphina sag, hand covering her face. He saw Evelyn, who of all of them, had always shown the strongest inclination towards the Chantry, recoil, press herself back into her chair, though she managed, again, to keep her expression steady.

"As we are unable," Bann Emrys continued, "to provide him with the education that the laws required, we will all be escorting him to the Ostwick Circle upon our return to the city."

Like a burst of thunder after a lightning strike, the small sitting room exploded into noise, the combined voices of mother and sisters all speaking over each other, tearful, fearful, angry, and Chance shrunk further into his father's side. Emrys, with one arm still firmly around the boy's shoulders, raised the other in a calming gesture, and when that failed to have an effect, in a voice that could, and had, carried across battlefields, bellowed, "Enough!"

Just as he had broken the noise, the Bann broke the silence, "Evelyn."

"Yes, Papa?" Alone among them, she continued to look unperturbed, but Rafael noted that her fingertips were digging into the arms of her chair, hard enough to leave indents in the upholstery.

"Transfigurations 1:3, if you please."

"Papa," Seraphina interjected, whispering.

He turned to his eldest, "Let her finish, please, Fifi. It will be clearer, after."

Ignoring the argument, Evelyn had closed her eyes. Rafael watched as her fingers moved in her lap, as though she were turning the pages of a book. She paused in her search, sat up straighter and opened her eyes, looking at a point somewhere beyond the wall as she began to recite,

"All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands,
From the lowest slaves
To the highest kings.
Those who bring harm
Without provocation to the least of His children
Are hated and accursed by the Maker."

Finished, she looked to their father, who bowed his head in gratitude. "All men are Work of our Maker's hands," he repeated. "Do you understand now, Fifi?"

She had listened to her sister speaking, and, like the sun cresting over the mountain peaks and shining into the valley below, realisation had lit her face. She smiled at her youngest brother, though with his downturned eyes, he didn't notice. "That mages are men. That if men are the Work of our Maker's hand, then so too must be mages."

At this, Rafael watched as Chance, who had spent the entire time staring down at the carpet in abject misery, look up at his father, incredulous. "But, but Mother Helena said that mages are dangerous! That they're evil!"

His father put both his hands on the boy's shoulders, turned him so that they were face to face. "Only if they misuse their gifts, Chance. The Chant tells us that magic is a gift, just as it tells us that all men come from the Maker. You are a gift, lad. And I know that you will make us all proud to share your name."

Eighteen years later, at his estate outside Rialto, Rafael held a letter signed by the Lord Inquisitor Trevelyan, and wondered if their father had known all along.

Notes: I know the codex on the Trevelyan Inquisitor makes it seem like the family is hyper-devout. But taking some creative interpretations, and looking at some real-world parallels, the Marcher states have some similarities to Renaissance German states, aka, the birthplace of the Reformation movements that actually stuck. So I figured, well, it's possible, that highly educated, independent nobles might be inclined to take a scriptural take on their religion, rather than a traditional one.