CHAPTER 37: KESSLER

The horse bobbed its head and nickered as Kessler tugged at the reins and slowed him to a stop, with a gentle woah buddy.

A breeze tousled his hair, reminding him of how long he had been on the run. As his fingers coursed through the top of his scalp, the grit and oil spoke of his long journey. It had to have been at least a month, but he had lost track as the days had started to blur together. Truth be told, he stopped paying attention to matters of personal grooming after his mother had died. She preferred him trimmed and shorn, in shiny buckles and velvet doublets. He recalled the last morning he had spent at his place in Hightown, the day after everything happened. Standing in front of a tarnished mirror, trying to find the best angle among the black flecks on the smooth silver surface, he took his mother's sewing shears to the dark waves that had hung past his shoulders. The sound of chafing sharp blades distracted him from the horror that had taken place at the Gallows. And when the shears were no longer effective, he tossed the hair into the fireplace (what an awful stench that made) and finished with a straight razor. After he had finished, he hardly recognized himself.

Sitting atop the horse, smelling ripe and looking unkempt made him think that things were getting back to normal. I've really got to check my definition of normal.

"Something wrong, Hawke?" Tassilo manoeuvred his mount alongside of his.

This moment could not have been more perfect. They rested atop a hill that gently sloped to a green valley below. The road, pockmarked with sparkling puddles, meandered through copses of trees and snaked to South Reach. Its walls jutted out from the horizon, and stretched far in both directions. The world was green and fresh, the air warm, the breeze sweet with the hint of spring flowers. Kessler could not help but inhale and feel, for once, that he was not heading toward doom.

The horses were to be delivered to the King, a gift from Maldwyn Amell. The pair of bays were nearly identical with black points and white blazes. Had the Hero's father not been so gracious, he wouldn't have thought twice about skipping the gifting part and taken them for his own. Tassilo, surely, would have protested.

"If I stop dwelling on the past and ignore the future, I'd have to say that this day might come close to perfection."

Even after having spent a couple uncomfortable rainy nights in the wild, Tassilo managed to look impeccable and well-groomed. Even the mud that stained his boots and the edges of his cloak somehow looked neat and particular. Kessler was in need of a shower and was certain that anyone downwind from him would concur.

With a gentle nudge of his heels, he urged the horse to saunter onward. The morning was so glorious that there was no need to hurry.

"You never speak of Kirkwall. I understand your reluctance, given the trouble you now find yourself in. But you must have left someone behind."

This question had sprung up out of nowhere and Tassilo must have spent the better part of the morning trying to find the perfect segue, but having failed, opted for a more direct line of inquiry. Up until this point, Kess tended to avoid any discussion of his past. As interesting as his personal life was, he never brought it up in conversation. Tassilo never pried and was the sort who could fill the time with idle talk, and not come off as tedious. Over the past few days, he had learned more about Andrastian history than he had as a schoolboy. Maybe a little too much, but Tassilo had a way of making even the driest historical detail sound positively riveting. He guessed that Tassilo did not often have an eager listening audience, and presumed that most of the time, the esteemed Professeur probably did most of the talking.

"A few friends." Kessler said with a sigh. "My parents are dead. As my younger sister."

"You had no other attachments?" Tassilo's pronunciation of the last word implied that he was referring to the romantic sort. Kessler had to chuckle at his tact.

"No. I had an interesting arrangement with a pirate named Isabela, but it was far from serious. She's gone now… not dead. Somewhere on the high seas, I imagine." He wanted to add that fucking was always serious business when it came to Isabela, but he felt that might have been too much detail for the Orlesian elf. "And what about you?"

He turned his head to see that Tassilo was not expecting the conversation to go in both directions, which made him even more curious.

"With my position at the Université, I have little time for such matters. Professeur Saunière, my classes and my research keep me very busy."

Kessler raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "All those freshmen, Tassilo?"

The Orlesian blushed, sputtering. "Never… I am a professional, Hawke."

"I'm sure the first-year students flock to your office, just to get extra tutoring from the handsome Professor of Linguistics." Hawke was starting to have a bit of fun, and realized that he had not enjoyed a light bit of teasing since he had visited Merrill in the Kirkwall Alienage. She was good-tempered and never took his jokes personally—unlike Isabela. Although her sense of humour was as sharp as the blades she wielded, whenever he poked fun at her, he always ended up at the brunt end of the joke.

Although he was never one for matchmaking, for a moment he believed that Merrill and Tass might hit it off.

When he realized that his companion had become uncharacteristically quiet, he added, "No time for love, mate? There is nothing wrong with being married to your work."

He cringed to himself after saying that. It reminded him of Anders.

Tassilo sighed heavily. "The University is very strict about these sorts of things. Especially given my Dalish heritage… and my… choice in partners."

It took a moment for Hawke to catch his meaning. He had more in common with Anders after all.

"Does the University frown on such things?" Hawke asked. He was too busy dealing with the Chantry's position on mages to pay much attention to their opinions on matters of love. It shouldn't have surprised him. Sebastian's attitude toward sex now started to make a lot more sense.

Tassilo shrugged. "I am the only elf in their employ. And I know that Professeur Saunière stuck his neck out, not to mention his fortune, for me. I prefer to not become fodder for gossip, or risk squandering this opportunity. Believe me, there are plenty there who would jump at the chance to create a scandal."

"And so, you're as celibate as a Chantry mother?"

Tassilo blushed again, but this time, it went straight to the tips of his ears.

"Hawke!... n… no!"

"Does Saunière know?"

"We don't discuss my personal life."

Of course not, Kessler realized. The more time he spent with Tassilo, the more he liked him. Despite being stiff and proper, and absolutely nothing like Varric or Isabela, he was wise, but not full of himself, and had a hint of naivety, without coming across as childish. Varric would have enjoyed his company, and wondered what foolish nickname he might come up with.

After a moment, Hawke had to ask. "You and the professor aren't…"

"Hawke!" Tassilo was mortified and it made Hawke laugh. After a tense moment, Tassilo chuckled.

The stone walls that kept South Reach safe came clearer into view. A line of flags bearing South Reach's sigil—an iron gate on a wedge of stone—flapped in the wind, informing all who approached that the Arl was in residence. Kessler nudged the horse into a trot, suspecting that a fine alehouse would soon welcome him and thought that he'd be the best person to write a guide on the best pubs in Thedas. He'd be sure to include the Hanged Man, if only for posterity and sentimentality. So far in his travels, he had not come across one more dingy or more of ill-repute.

He should have felt some deep sentimental stirring, or a long-forgotten sense of home. But he didn't. Maybe it hadn't yet sunk in that he was back home, the land where he was born, the places he had known as a boy. He and his father travelled to South Reach at least once a month back before his father's disappearance. His father had connections with an apothecary there, and would sell his potions for extra coin. He should have recognized the wide bend in the road, or the crumbling rock wall, but it looked so strange to him. So foreign. And since Fereldan politics was not one of his strong suits, and Tassilo was like a walking library, he asked, "What do you know of South Reach, Tassilo? Seems to have weathered the Blight rather well." He thought for a moment about Lothering, the less fortunate village.

"Leonas Bryland is the Arl and has been for many years. During the Landsmeet that met after King Cailan's death, Bryland threw his lot in with the Wardens. As far as I know, he continues to maintain strong political ties with the King. The Hero of Ferelden's name might have some currency here."

"More importantly, what do you know of the taverns?"

They continued through a copse of budding trees and arrived at the base of a hill where the road cut through a wide expanse of flat fields. The recently sprouted crops filled the air with heady greenness. East of the gate, a flash of light caught Kessler's attention. He strained his eyes, holding his hand at his brow so as to deflect the glare of the mid-day sun and spied a tall figure unleash an arc of lightening upon a pair of what he assumed were mages. A fourth stood in the shadow of South Reach's wall.

"A mage attack in broad daylight?" Kess asked. Tassilo stopped beside him and squinted.

"It's difficult to tell who is attacking who. I don't see any of the guard—or the templars for that matter."

Kessler stuck his heels sharply into the horse's side, encouraging it with a hyuh! As it galloped at full speed across the plain, thick globs of mud spattered his back. The last time he got in the middle of a mage fight, not counting his final stand with Meredith and Orsino, was at Thrask's behest. He was not in the mood to let a couple wayward mage's spoil his time at the South Reach tavern. These sorts of attacks were never just isolated incidents and they wouldn't stop unless he put an end to it. Besides, he knew he had the advantage—interruption was a viable combat tactic, especially when dealing with magic.

The battling mages did not notice his arrival. When the horse came to a halt, he dismounted, nearly tripping as he wrenched his foot from the stirrup—he wasn't much of a horseman. Gathering both his pride and focus, he approached the scene while calculating his options. A bulbous, boar of a man assumed an offensive position and with outstretched arms and outward facing palms, released a head-sized ball of fire at a plain woman half his size. They circled each other guardedly, reminding Kessler of a pack of wolves confronting a grizzly. Without blinking, she shifted her weight and avoided the projectile and returned with a volley of fire of her own. A third mage, a teenaged boy, stood off to the side, preparing to cast a spell. If Kessler was in the throes of casting is own magic, he would be able to tell what it was, but he could not read it cold. The kid was definitely augmenting the woman with the long braid, but exactly how he could not tell.

From behind, he could hear the rhythmic thumping of Tassilo's arrival. "Look! Against the wall, I do believe that is Professeur Saunière!"

Kessler did not know how he could have missed that hat. He glanced up at Tassilo, held up his hand and ordered him to stand back.

"But wait…we don't understand the full extent of the situation! We cannot act with so little information."

Tassilo's voice trailed off in the distance as Kessler marched toward the skirmish, folding in his focus and gathering his power. With a deep inhale he reached for the farthest extent of his ability and when the tell-tale sign tugged in his chest that it was time, he opened his eyes. The effects of the Fade coursing through his veins saturated the world with intense colour, surrounding the battling mages in a glowing aura. It was a common side-effect of his ability, an advantage at night, but made his head ache in the broad light of day. He wished he had a stave, as it helped him direct the flow of energy. In absence of one, he clenched his fist and focused his spell on the ground beneath the woman with the long braid. He could have picked off the boy, but that would have been a waste of his time and inner resources. Of the two engaged in battle, still trading licks of flame and cracking forks of lightening, she had the slighter build and was the easier target. The other mage was shirtless and his massive belly rippled each time he raised his arms to cast. His arms swung with the brute force of a maul, but his opponent was lithe and danced out of reach.

Somewhere, far in the distance he could hear Tassilo's insistent demands to stop. But this was neither the time nor place to discuss strategy.

Kessler released his burgeoning energy below the woman's nimble feet, just as the boar drew a knife across his palm and grunted viciously.

Fuck. Wrong mage. Always go for the blood mage.

A stream of blood spewed from his wrist, splattering his opponent across her face. When she wiped it off with the back of her hand, Kess's spell finally came to fruition. The earth rumbled, groaning as if awakened from an aeon of sleep, threatening to crack, to split the land clear in half.

The mages staggered and stumbled from side to side. From behind, the horses squealed, reared in fear and threatened to bolt. His fingers trembled as the last of the fade-ripened energy rippled away from him. The earth drank the last remaining pulses of his spell and quaked its response. Exhausted, realizing he was out of shape, he shook his arms and jumped up once, in hopes of capturing his momentum. For a moment, he feared that he might have lost his touch, and his spell was not as potent as he had intended, but a second later, the three mages lost their footing and collapsed onto the muddy road. As the roar of shaking rock subsided, Kessler pulled up his sleeve, ready for the final flourish. He pulled Saunière's family sword from the scabbard, still secured to the horse and looped it playfully in front of him as he strolled through the dust kicked up by his spell.

The kid was the first to shake off his disorientation and immediately reached for his stave, and used it like a crutch to get to his feet. With three decided blows to the blood mage's head, he ended the fight. Kessler was crestfallen. He was the one who preferred the last jab. He nodded approvingly, appreciating the kid's balls.

The woman with the long braid, now back on her feet, appeared far more put out than he, paying no attention to the kid's final act. That's some thanks I get for saving your bloody life, he was about to say, but bit his tongue. It's best not to be snarky with mages. At least until you get to know them better. As the professor ran toward him, he saw the situation with clarity. If this is the professor… then that must be…

He stopped in his tracks and leaned on the hilt of the sword, trying to come up with a clever greeting. Maybe a simple "hello" would suffice for the time being. She, on the other hand, was far from welcoming. Her face was red with a mixture of fury and exhaustion, and she approached with aggravated determination. She rolled up her sleeves and stopped at an arm's length away, her finger pointing. Kessler took a step back, half-expecting a tongue-lashing.

"What was that all about?" she demanded. The kid must have been healing her as they fought, for she emerged from the fight relatively unscathed. There were a couple bruises and superficial nicks, but it was obvious that she had seen battle before.

"Just helping out a fellow mage." Kessler said innocently, with a shrug.

She was about to volley a retort but the Professor interrupted her.

"Ah! Hawke!" Saunière spoke as if he were meeting them at the Faculty Lounge.

Kessler grinned and shook the Professor's hand amiably and then turned to the woman he assumed was the Hero of Ferelden. Her arms were crossed in front of her and she tapped a foot impatiently, her anger, obviously had yet to abate.

"Nuraya Amell…this is—"

"The Champion of Kirkwall," she said flatly. "Charmed." On most occasions, Kessler loved when conversations dripped with irony. However, this was not one of them.

"Most people would say…thanks for the help. But, please call me Kessler. Kess when you are drunk. Or call me Hawke if you aren't ready for the intimacy of being on a first name basis." He held out a conciliatory hand. The Hero of Ferelden was thoroughly unimpressed and kept both arms to herself.

Just as the moment extended and threatened to become even more awkward, she grunted in exasperation, then spun on a heel and jogged to where the maleficar lay, covered in a mixture of muck and blood. The boy was hovering. "I think he's still alive," he said to her.

Something nagged Kessler. Something was wrong, or out of place, but he could not quite put his finger on it. Before he was able to fully ponder the problem, the South Reach guard arrived.

Professor Saunière wasted no time and introduced himself, including both his rank and position at the University. He explained to them in his haughty and official tone how they arrived at the North Gate that morning to discover that blood mages had followed them. Hoping to shake off any unwanted company, they took advantage of the gathering crowd awaiting admittance into South Reach and lost themselves in the throng of merchants, traders and farmers. Of course, the Professor took credit for concocting the plan and it was almost flawlessly carried out, until a pair of mages, masquerading as highwaymen, attacked them on a lonely stretch of road as they approached the Southern gate.

Nuraya motioned for the guard. "Take him to the Chantry. Might I prevail upon your Revered Mother to ask him a few questions on my behest?"

The guard gave her a wary look. "And who might be making such a request?"

"Nuraya Amell." She gave a quick roll to her eyes. "The Hero of Ferelden." Kessler was under the distinct impression that she did not particularly enjoy throwing her name around like that. But, he would have pulled that detail out of his pocket if he were in the same position. Except The Champion of Kirkwall means shit these days.

The Captain of the Guard instructed two of his corporals to collect the unconscious mage and deliver him to the Chantry. They were concerned that he might regain consciousness, but the Captain assured them that he had called for a templar.

"You said a pair had attacked. What of the other?"

Nuraya wiped her brow and shrugged, looking to Saunière, who mirrored the gesture. "I think he went that way," he said and pointed south.

Tassilo, still leading both horses stepped forward. "We arrived from that direction and saw nothing."

To avoid any questions about his arrival, Kessler stepped between the horses as three guards struggled to move the massive blood mage. Most of his backside ended up dragging a deep swath in the mud, and they hauled him away with short lumbering steps. Kessler hoped for the guard's sake that the Chantry wasn't far from the gate.

He used the commotion to take a moment and size up the Hero, concluding she was striking in an earthy sort of way. Her bearing was direct, he supposed, a no-nonsense type that reminded him of Aveline. That comparison came as a disappointment. He had heard nothing but glowing comments about Nuraya Amell, mage and hero extraordinaire, but he was hoping for more exotic, and less practical. And more friendly.

Tassilo, obviously excited to meet her, chatted as if they were old friends, explaining their meeting with her father. Kess thought it curious that she acted more interested in meeting Tassilo than him. He would have thought, given their common heritage and connection to Anders that she'd be intrigued to be in his company. He always had that effect on women. Their degree of complication never ceased to surprise him, either.

As he continued to study the Hero, the problem that had nagged at him earlier, occurred to him. Although it felt like it came out of the blue, he felt ashamed at its realization, knowing he had forgotten his most loyal companion. For a split second he thought the worst, but knew the dog had a way of dashing into the woods at the slightest whiff of rabbit. He turned to Saunière and asked. "Where is Shasta?"

Saunière removed his hat and wiped his brow with the sleeve of her cloak. With his hat he invited Kessler to follow him to the South Gate. "Come. Let's find a tavern. You'll want a drink for this. Your hound is in good hands. Fret not!"

~0oOo0~

The Oak and Owl was everything that Kess had hoped for and more. He preferred the more humble establishments in the seedier part of town, but the Professor had standards. It was clean and well-kept with comfortable seats, a blazing fire and best of all, a freshly tapped keg. The chattering patrons took no notice of the company upon their arrival and the mood was genial if not a little reserved. Kessler found an empty corner and stretched out, taking a whole bench to himself and leaned against the stone wall, with one elbow propped on the sturdy table.

"Well, here we are! Safe and sound!" the Professor said, almost too cheerfully.

"Who's your friend?" Kessler quirked an eyebrow over to the kid, hunched over, copping the best adolescent attitude he had seen since his brother's. The boy peered out from his shaggy bangs and deepened his scowl. Kessler could hardly believe that the company that he had chased halfway across Thedas was making Professor Saunière seem jolly. It was too late for regrets he had to remind himself.

Saunière opened his mouth to speak, but Nuraya interrupted. "This is Connor," she sighed, and in a low voice said, "Connor Guerrin." Kessler wondered if that name was supposed to mean something, but at the moment he was more interested in relieving the waitress of the tankard of ale that had his name written all over it.

"That is a name associated with the Redcliffe nobility. An Orlesian noblewoman married the Arl… not a wise move politically, if you ask me." Saunière said.

Kessler turned to watch the kid, who rolled his eyes and mumbled, "I'm the Arl's son."

The plot thickens. "And you're not at Kinloch Hold? The Arl must have fantastic connections with the Chantry," said Kessler, and the boy glowered at him even more suspiciously.

"He escaped. I'm trying to get him out of the country." Nuraya turned to Connor. "Where is Endra?

Connor frowned and shrugged his shoulders.

"Another apostate?" Kess asked, realizing that this company that he had travelled so far to meet had the potential of drawing more attention than a drake in a dining room. From the corner of his eye, he saw Nuraya roll hers.

Saunière leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat. "Long story. I'll explain later."

"Any reason why a couple of blood mages might want to attack you in broad daylight?" Kess asked, becoming agitated at the lack of answers to all his questions.

Nuraya's eyes wandered elsewhere and she remained silent. It made Kess think she was trying to change the subject, but the waitress had returned. They put their conversation on hold to order food, and plenty of it. When Nuraya felt that the staff was out of earshot, she leaned low on the table and explained how she and Connor had discovered a cult called the Order of the Dragon. They had overheard how this group of blood mages intended on kidnapping Prince Brandel and had later attacked the Collective and killed Kalvindir. It was an intriguing tale, Kessler conceded, and had nearly the same quality of trouble that he managed to attract for himself.

"Sure they weren't just hoping to recruit you?" Kess asked, hoping to lighten the mood. The table had suddenly turned sullen, as if a dark cloud had passed overhead.

Her reply was terse and monotone. "I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer."

Kessler found respite with his ale.

Saunière was starting to pack his pipe and spoke as if Kess was not even at the table. "But you said to Captain Lashley that you thought that they were after you. How do you know that? Maybe they are after young Connor here." He used the mouthpiece of his pipe to point to the boy.

Nuraya looked over to Connor and hesitated. Kess could see that she was mulling over what she felt safe to tell, and what she needed to keep hidden. He knew that look. Anders had demonstrated it more than a few times. "It's complicated," she said eventually, "but I think the Order is connected with a former companion of mine, Morrigan."

Kessler perked up. "I've heard that name before—from an old friend of yours in Cumberland."

"Wynne?"

Kessler nodded. "Said that Morrigan was working with Anders."

Nuraya looked very disturbed at the suggestion. "This is not good. Not good at all. My guess is that Morrigan is head of the Order of the Dragon."

"And why would you think that?" asked Tassilo, perched with both elbows on the table, hands folded in front of him.

"I have my reasons," she said.

Kessler cocked an eyebrow, deciding not to pursue that line of questioning—for the time being. "I've been warned about her … from other sources."

All three adults shot him incredulous looks.

Now he had their attention. He held aloft his empty tankard, signalling to the waitress for another. He made them wait until it arrived. In that time, Saunière was able to light his pipe and steaming plates of stew had started to arrive. It had become apparent that the entire table had not seen a solid meal in some time. Once the initial gluttony subsided, Kessler told of his strange meeting with Flemeth while at the Nevarran National Library.

"That Tevinter Grimoire you got me to steal…" Kessler said to Saunière as he mopped the remains of his stew with a piece of bread. The professor nodded and patted his pack, where he had stowed it. "Flemeth told me to keep it away from Morrigan."

With a clang, Nuraya dropped her fork. It hit the side of her plate and then landed right in the middle of her half-eaten lunch. Her hand was shaking as she reached for it, fishing it out of her mashed potato. She bit her lip. "This is not good news. What is this Grimoire?"

The professor dug out the leather bound manuscript. On the cover, the sun encircling the five-pointed star glimmered in the candlelight.

Nuraya and Connor turned to each other and gaped, eyes wide.

Intrigued, Saunière leaned forward, smiling with the sort of excitement a child has when presented with a tray of sweets. "You've seen this before?"

She pointed at the book, with dread shadowing her face. "That symbol. A mage attacked me in an alley not long after I had arrived in Denerim. By some broad stroke of luck, two templars were in the area, and came to my rescue. I was knocked out and they took me to the Chantry to recover. The Seeker who had questioned the mage, found that symbol on him and asked me if I had seen it before. At the time, it meant nothing and I chalked the whole thing up as a random attack. But when we walked into that ritual, and I saw it drawn on the floor—I couldn't help but wonder about the connection. Before I could investigate they attacked the Collective. This Grimoire—does Morrigan think I have it?"

Saunière scratched his head. "Your connection is curious. I don't know. Does Morrigan know Fiona?"

Kessler watched as Nuraya mulled over the question. "I don't think so. No one knew of my connection to Fiona during the Blight. And afterwards, I had lost contact with both of them—until I met with Fiona when I arrived in Denerim a few weeks ago. What's in this Grimoire that Morrigan wants so badly?"

"Let's fill our mugs again. I have a long story to tell you. This is the creation story the Chantry has kept hidden, that was revealed to Andraste and Shartan. So far, I've only put part of the puzzle together. We've all been taught that magic comes from the Fade, and for a variety of conflicting reasons, the Maker allowed the Fade and its power to seep amongst the created. Whether Old Gods or elves taught it to humans, no one is clear. However, what I've uncovered is that magic was bestowed to beings at the time of our creation and was a gift from the creator of all that there is, was, and will be. The creator of everything, and he who made this world, are not one in the same. According to this story, the Maker is a false god, one that tricks and deceives mortals from seeing the nature of reality, so as to keep us trapped and subservient on a cosmic level. Andraste learned of this, as well as the source of the true creator. In the early days of the Chantry, when it was nothing more than a collection of disparate cults, political leaders feared the use and practice of magic, so they influenced how Andraste's story was told. Eventually, magic was brought under the Chantry's control and dominance. I think some feared that the cult of Andraste would usher in another magisterium outside of Tevinter, so they silenced her."

"If you have evidence of this story, then what of this key? What does that open?" Nuraya asked.

"A big box of trouble if you ask me." Kessler said, injecting his usual dose of sarcasm into the conversation, since Varric was not there to do it for him.

Saunière affectionately stroked the book with a shrug, ignoring Kessler. "Proof. Evidence. The key opens a door. There is something there that the Chantry will not want found. And there is something there that a powerful blood mage wants for herself."

Kessler fiddled with a fork as he spoke, tapping it on the table, inciting another dirty look from the Hero. His foot has started to tap up and down frenetically, a sign that he was anxious, that he was full of pent-up frustration, or he was in need of more ale. That was also his signal to move on to the rum.

He left the table to their history lesson and sided up to the bar. A woman with long dark hair leaned against it, taking sips from a tumbler. For a moment, he stopped in his tracks and wanted to call out her name, but signalled for the bartender instead. The woman gave him a sideways glance and smiled crookedly. However, her face was pale, her eyes a rich green—gorgeous yes, but Izzy she was not. While he waited for his drink, he thought about exploring where casual conversation might take him, but thought better of it. There was a blood mage still looking for the Hero and he was in enough trouble with her as it was. No sense in causing more. What a novel thought. Kirkwall must have taught me a thing or two.

When he returned to the table, they were still deep in discussion. The boy looked as if he was ready for a nap, so Kess winked at him. He could tell Connor wanted to smile, but had fought off the urge.

"While this history is interesting and all… I'd like to know our next move." Kess announced, and then gulped a mouthful of his smoky-sweet rum, letting it swirl and burn over his palate before swallowing. He licked his top lip with the tip of his tongue and stole a glance at the Hero. Her eyes met his and gave him that look again, the one that meant she disapproved. He figured he ought to get used to it. She'll warm up to me eventually, as they all do.

"I was just getting to that, Hawke." Saunière said, and opened the Tevinter Grimoire. Kess found the act reckless and dangerous. It was not too long ago that this tome sat on a bookstand, protected by one of Flemeth's wards. Flemeth wanted Kessler to have it. He drank more, hoping to care about the book a little less. He figured that caring more would lead to more trouble as well.

With his boney finger, Saunière delicately flipped through the Grimoire's brittle pages. He smoothed out a page, with grave reverence and turned it so the rest of the table could see. "There are strange runes placed all over this document." He pointed to the symbols, hiding amongst the marginalia and inside the historiated initial within the ancient illuminated document. They might have looked like ink splatter to the undiscerning eye. "Brother Genitivi and I isolated every rune from this book and from Sister Tereza's copy of Search for the True Prophet. We determined that they were code, more specifically, map coordinates that point to a number of places throughout Thedas: Tylus Canyon, Val Royeaux, Minrathous, a point in the southern reaches of the Arlathan forest just west of Antiva, a location east of Highever in Ferelden, and Alam on the Island of Seheron."

Kessler heard a groan. Connor had both hands to his temples and shut his eyes, obviously in some sort of distress.

Nuraya reached over and set her hand on his shoulder. "Is it Endra?"

"Andraste's ass… who in the Void is Endra?" Kessler was certain that he did not want to hear the answer, but the rum was beginning to loosen his tongue. "And where the fuck is my dog?"

Nuraya and Saunière exchanged looks. The sort of look that spoke of the real story that no one was in the mood to tell. Kess turned toward the bar and hollered for more rum. He suspected that he'd be needing another.

Saunière cleared his throat and in a grandfatherly tone, asked Connor. "Is she ready to speak?"

The boy shook his head. He looked as if his head were in a vice. "I'm not sure, she became very excited when you mentioned this place outside of Highever." He sighed in relief. "She's gone."

Saunière cracked his knuckles. "Well. Looks as if we have our next lead. Highever it is!" He tipped his tankard and toasted his own announcement. Kessler found more rum in his glass and held it aloft. He had no idea what sort of lead that was, he was just grateful for the rum.

"We can't go to Highever!" Nuraya cried out then leaned low and whispered. "This is where the Queen is hiding the Prince. If the Order of the Dragon are following us, and we have all the evidence to suspect that this is the case, then we will lead them right to them. Plus… are you sure Endra is even connected?"

Saunière rolled his eyes—Nuraya had missed some subtle point of his. "She spoke of Sasule… the emanation of the One. Of course she is connected!"

Kessler stared into his glass, seeing himself reflected in the small pool of dark liquid. The warm comfort of the rum was just starting to cover him, removing him from the confusion of their dinner conversation. He looked over to Tassilo and muttered, "You following any of this?"

Tass shook his head. "The boy looks like he might need some fresh air. Why don't we step outside for a breath, shall we, lad?"

Before Connor could reply, an official-looking woman appeared at their table. She was tall and angular, with a severe haircut, in a stiff linen gown that pinched her neck and wrists. Kessler half expected her to whip out her stave and turn them all into toads, however she crossed her arms and greeted them. "I am Seneschal Mairsile, please excuse me for interrupting, but the Captain of the Guard suggested that I might find you here. Serah Nuraya Amell, Hero of Ferelden, Champion of Redcliffe, and Amaranthine's Last Hope?" Kessler almost spit out his rum with a laugh. Her list of titles was more ridiculous than his. Instead of laughing he managed a muffled, closed-mouth burp.

The Seneschal pretended he was not there. "Arl Bryland requests that you and your company dine with him tonight at Castle Sutherland. If you have no other arrangements, he also says he would be happy to host your entire party there."

Nuraya graciously accepted the offer and the party collected their belongings and followed Seneschal Mairsile out of the Oak and Owl into the bright afternoon sunshine.

Bioware owns all. Thanks so much to DoorbellSpider and Kira Tamarion!. This chapter has been a milestone for me… I've been trying to get here since I started. Now it feels like things are just beginning. I hope you're up for more! For I have plans! [Evil maniacal laugh]. Thanks to Everyone who has stopped to read a chapter or two, cookies go who read the whole thing! And of course there are those who I feel bottomless thanks for leaving such kind thoughts and reviews: in no particular order, hugs and gratitude to Oleanders One, Caraine, Shakespira, Melysande, PintSized, and Naomi! You guys are my lyrium.

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