Chapter 50: Connor

The reek of fish and the tang of the oceans was almost delicious compared to the dank urine-soaked hold where Connor had spent the past week. His eyes teared as they adjusted to the bright sunshine, making his journey down the rickety ramp precarious. Someone shoved him by the shoulder to propel him forward. By the time he regained his footing, he could see clearly. The first thing he noticed was a tall, golden spire in the distance. There was no mistaking the Grand Cathedral. For the first time in weeks, he knew with certainty where he was. He had no knowledge of the date, who he was with, or why he was here, but knowing that he was in Orlais took just a little bit of the fear away. Connor had never been to Val Royeaux's merchant port before, but it smelled just like the one in Denerim.

The docks echoed with a combination of hollow wood and gurgling water as Connor followed Laurin, the finely dressed Tevinter with the pointed beard, to a side street that wormed away from the dockyard. In one hand he cradled Endra's fragile, bony-thin fingers and in the other, he clung to Bran for dear life. He tugged at the children to keep up with Laurin's brisk clip, noticing that this area of Val Royeaux resembled nothing of the white marble arches, cerulean paint and ceramic tile typical of the district where tante Odette lived. People here lived in squalor—the clapboard shanties were as humble as any fishing shack in Ferelden. It came as a bit of a shock, as he thought everyone in the capital wore silk stockings and were doted upon by their elven servants.

Bran strained like a wild dog on a leash, curious and insistent on exploring every nook and shadow, eventually forcing Connor to release Endra and give him chase. The toddler bolted toward a mad Orlesian-shouting prophet on a corner. He jumped and tugged at the spindly old man's robes with a wicked little giggle. Perhaps he had truly touched the mind of the Maker, as he paid the boy no heed. He pointed to the sky as if to emphasize a point and kept right on preaching. Fearing Geran's whip, Connor quickly steered the boy back behind Laurin and continued weaving through the throngs of people on the busy street. Endra shadowed Connor, as if she were his thrall, quiet and unaffected by the chaos around her. Once he got Bran under control with a firm grasp, he took her hand again, squeezing it just a little to reassure himself that she was still there.

He took a quick look behind him, noticing Geran the greasy elf, whose ears were decorated with silver studs and a permanent scowl carved into his scarred face. Behind him, Connor half-expected to see Morrigan and her son, but they weren't there—just the moored ship against a sparkling sea. He could have sworn they boarded with them in Ferelden, but had not seen or heard mention of them throughout the entirety of their journey.

Laurin and Geran kept a constant watch over him, and the fear of being tossed overboard, flogged or made tranquil kept him from asking any questions. Once he assumed the role of babysitter, it became easier to dissolve into the background. It seemed to prevent further beatings from Geran or drawing any ire from the magister. Back at Kinloch Hold, Connor considered it a punishment when he was sent to help care for the children. If the kids were not weeping from homesickness, they were loud, chaotic and insufferable. Endra and Bran, on the other hand, were a welcome relief. Babysitting had become a handy cover for him to eavesdrop on his captors. Late at night, when he stroked Bran's pudgy cheek to sleep, he could overhear the mages in the other bunk. There had been veiled conversation about things going according to plan, though Connor was never able to learn any specific detail. He got the sense that they were looking for something that Morrigan wanted. If it was the knife that Saunière had found, they were running in the wrong direction, but the more he listened, the more he became convinced that it was something else entirely.

Endra halted, the colour draining from her already pale face. Connor knew to usher her to the ditch alongside the road so she could heave what little she had in her belly. She did not manage the journey by sea well, to Laurin and Geran's utter chagrin, of course. There were times that Connor had feared for her life—she grew so weak and pale after hours being violently ill. He touched her clammy face to find that she was cold as ice. Was she even human? She was just a husk of her former self and completely unaccustomed to living on this side of the Veil. He tucked her hair behind her ear and rubbed her back, hoping that it would soothe the dry heaves. A bite of elfroot would make a huge difference. Connor scanned the ditch until he spied a stalk.

"Hey Bran! Go grab me that plant over there. The curly one by that rock." The boy complied, skipping happily in the tall weeds.

Despite his inexhaustible energy level and insatiable curiosity, Bran wasn't so bad. At least, when he was in a good mood. However, like all toddlers Connor knew, he was capricious and prone to vicious meltdowns. That was when Bran's magic erupted—a magic formed from primal rage that burned like grassfire in the wind. Connor was the only one who had any power over it and he was quick to douse it as fast as he could. Laurin had taken away Connor's shape-shifting ability, and severed Endra from the Fade. Connor was terrified that the Tevinter would also turn Bran tranquil if the boy lost his temper in the wrong company. So far, he had managed to pre-empt any smouldering tantrums. But this was Val Royeaux. Maker knew what might tempt or distract the boy.

Connor reasoned that if he could keep him busy, the less likely he would get into trouble. However, travelling with Laurin and Geran was not exactly a child-friendly affair. They wanted all the children to be seen and not heard—and had not realized that their severity made matters much worse, as far as Bran was concerned.

"Hey!" Geran barked, "Get that kid back here!"

Connor tried to mollify the elf wita wave. "I just sent him to pick some elfroot. Endra is pretty sick. It will help speed her up."

"We can just leave her here… nothing but unnecessary baggage, that one."

Before Connor could find one good reason to keep Endra, aside from the bottomless guilt that had haunted him since she was ripped from the Fade, Bran ran up to him. His wide smile stretched across his chubby cheeks and a bunch of elfroot in his pudgy fingers.

"Thanks buddy!" Connor used a tone that he often heard the chantry sister's use with children and mussed the hair atop his head. It seemed to work, although it made Geran scowl even harder. He did the best that he could to mush the elfroot up into a ball, so she could at least suck on it—the juices were relatively sweet. It would have been nice to add it to their water canteen, as everyone could have used a bit to settle their stomach or soothe the general aches and pains from travel, but Geran kept a tight hold on it, and Connor was convinced that it wasn't always stale water that he had been drinking.

Endra was just a shell. The way she crouched at the side of the road reminded him of the emaciated gargoyles that stared down from the corners at Castle Redcliffe. Her eyes were vacant and without a hint of spark. She took the green ball without complaint and popped it in her mouth, letting it rest inside her cheek. She looked like a squirrel who had given up.

She reached up and took Connor's hand, and he had to pull her to standing, but once she was on her feet, she seemed to steady. Laurin and Geran were at the end of the street and were now struggling to keep Bran from jumping in a puddle. Connor's eyes widened—no matter what happened, it was going to get ugly. Geran picked up the boy, who writhed and kicked in the elf's sinewy arms and handed him off to Connor.

"Get this brat under control." He flashed Connor a fearsome look. Connor took the boy by the wrist and followed the two men, hoping if he could ignore the toddler's disgruntled squeals, that he'd eventually calm down on his own. It was wishful thinking and Connor knew it.

"Is she meeting us here?" Geran asked Laurin.

"No." Laurin replied. The Tevinter with the richly detailed robes looked slightly out of place with the greasy elf and the children. His strut matched the pretentiousness of this dress. Connor was no stranger to those types. They also had walked the halls of Redcliffe.

"Are we meeting her, then?" Geran was getting impatient and spit on the side of the road.

Laurin let out an audible sigh. "She's returned to the Palace, I imagine. Her instructions were straightforward and simple. Even for a simpleton as yourself. Recall that we are to head straight to Mogador's and stay there until we are told otherwise. It is not in my orders to ask too many questions."

"She's gone back to see the Empress then?" Geran asked.

The Tevinter looked back, both brows deeply furrowed, then lowered his hand, to shush the elf.

Geran rolled his eyes, but spoke in a whisper. "What is she doing with the Empress?"

At first, Laurin said nothing. He studied both sides of the street. "Now, where is that bookseller, exactly?"

The procession continued through the narrow and winding streets. After taking yet another turn down a dead end, it became abundantly obvious that the Magister with the pointy beard had no idea where he was going, despite his insistence to the contrary. He steadfastly ignored Geran's suggestions and when they eventually walked past the same blacksmith's twice, he eventually conceded and ordered Geran to ask an elven street cleaner for directions.

In the meantime, Bran grew increasingly agitated and tried to pry himself from Connor's grasp. Connor lifted him to his shoulders, which, for the time being, seemed to please him. He tugged on Connor's hair, as if he had just mounted a horse and nudged Connor's neck with his feet. The kid was solid, obviously never having missed a meal in his very privileged life. Connor paced on the side of the road, leaving Endra to slump on a stoop while they waited for Geran. His shoulders started to ache, but that was a small price to pay to avoid a royal tantrum in the middle of an Orlesian slum.

Geran reported his findings—a convoluted set of directions involving a good deal of left and right turns and a mention of a headless statue. He concluded with, "In other words, it's just on the outskirts of the Alienage."

"What do you mean … on the outskirts of the Alienage?" Laurin said, in an exasperated tone. "My father will be hearing about this."

"You're gonna have to take that one up with the Mother." Geran turned to Connor, "Get moving… and keep up."

Connor collected Endra and she shuffled after him without complaint. Her pace had improved since he had given her the elfroot, and he hoped it would last until they arrived at this bookseller's place. Even though Bran's behavior threatened to put all three of the children at risk, Connor worried most about her wellbeing. He no longer asked her, as all her previous answers came as a blank, uncomprehending stare.

Bran remained on his shoulders, contented and relatively quiet, allowing Connor a moment to think. He had spent much of their journey trying to figure out how Laurin and Geran had come to be up mixed up with the likes of the Order of the Dragon. Although, now that he was in the middle of it, it seemed less like an Order, and more like a by the seat of one's pants type of affair. Connor pegged Geran's involvement had something to do with money, although Connor had no idea how a rogue blood mage group might pay. He didn't seem the sort to join a highly illegal organization because he agreed with them philosophically. Plus, the elf kept mentioning some vague payment when his part in the whole affair was finished.

Laurin, on the other hand, was not as easy to figure out. It was obvious that he came from money, so he wasn't with this ragged band for cash. The way that he spoke about his family made Connor think that they held rank in Tevinter. He had never met anyone from Tevinter before, but Laurin reminded him of his Orlesian relations. He was after something—and how that related to Morrigan, Connor was still trying to piece together.

They soon arrived at a more residential area of weather-worn and ivy tangled row-houses. The narrow streets were lined with old trees and laundry lines that drooped with greying whites and faded garments. Set back on a corner was a rambling old house, with peeling clapboard and crumbling brick. A recently refurbished sign, stuck out like a sore thumb in that it was the only part of the building that had undergone repairs. It declared "Mogador's" in a flourishing Orlesian-style script.

"You had better wait here." Laurin said, opening the door. The shop a bell rang in response and he disappeared inside.

Endra collapsed onto the stoop, slumping against a wrought-iron railing and stared blankly ahead. Connor lifted Bran off his shoulders and set him down beside her, which he immediately protested with a stubborn. "No sit!" Waiting quietly was probably the last thing that Bran was capable of doing. Connor expected the boy to bolt down the street, and prepared himself for a chase, but instead the young prince of Ferelden climbed up the stairs and then jumped down each one. When he was finished, he started all over again.

"You wanna get him to stop that foolishness?" Geran scowled.

Connor wanted to comply but knew the result would only anger Geran. He tried to look as contrite as possible when he spoke. "If I force him to sit, he'll just start screaming. At least he's quiet."

The elf must have agreed, his response came as a noisy exhalation. "Spoiled brat," he mumbled, then looked up at the door. "What the fuck is taking him so long?"

Bran stopped at the top of the stairs and pointed. "Kitty!" He raced down, slipping past Connor's grasp and as fast as his pudgy little legs could carry him, bolted into an untended patch of weeds that grew in front of the front window.

The cat was nuzzling the window ledge, when Bran approached, it sat up in response. It turned his head toward Geran, flattened its ears and hissed.

The bell rang again and Laurin stepped outside, opening the door wide.

"Upstairs."

Connor's took Bran by the hand and pulled him away from the window. The toddler resisted, screwed up his face and turned bright red. Connor knew what was coming.

"We're going into kitty's house. Come… let's go!" He used an over-enthusiastic tone, although it held no sway over the looming catastrophe.

As if it somehow understood Connor, the black and white cat jumped from the window, brushed against Connor's leg and dashed past Laurin into the shop.

A stout, portly man, with a full moustache and wiry hair that hung in a fringe around a shiny, bald head stepped into the doorway, forcing Laurin down a step to accommodate his presence. He wore a leather mask with a long hooked nose. His clothing might have once been at the height of fashion but was now threadbare and patched.

"Welcome! Welcome!" He turned toward Connor and nodded, then held his hand over his mouth to stifle a belch. Connor smelled wine.

Unsurprisingly, Laurin was unimpressed. "And this, unfortunately, is my entourage."

"Indeed mon Seigneur. I've been expecting Laurin, second son of the Vyrantium House of Ulixes for many weeks! As you know, I am indebted to your Father, Magister Lysander of House Ulixes, who has asked me to provide service to your Order… I am Lazaire Mogador, friend of the Order and your humble servant."

He held his meaty hands together as he spoke.

"Is this the best you can offer a weary traveller from Tevinter? A lodging but a street away from the Alienage?" Laurin sneered as he spoke.

Meanwhile, Bran had grown restless again. Connor jerked his hand, but it did nothing to calm the squirming.

"I apologize in advance mon Seigneur. My humble accommodations might be unacceptable to someone with refined standards such as your own. Perhaps after Dame Morrigan settles at the Palace she will send for you? She mentioned nothing of les enfants, however."

He combed his moustache as he spoke, looking directly at Connor. "Friends of little Lord Kieran, perhaps?" Connor knew better than to answer.

"Ain't no business of yours. Them is three orphans of interest to the Mother is all you need to know." Geran retorted. He did not seem to care about the strict hierarchy between elves and Orlesians. Perhaps being a member of the Order changed all that. But Connor knew Orlesians. Their attitude towards elves went deep into the bone.

"Very well! Very well! Come!" he opened the door wider so the members could file into the shop.

With a child in each hand, he climbed a narrow set of stairs, catching a glimpse through the bannister of the book shop on the main floor. He had never seen anything quite like it before. Books were piled from floor to ceiling, claiming every imaginable shelf, spilling onto the floor, stacked and crammed into any free space that might accommodate them. There was an artful arrangement in front of the bay window, leaving enough room for a walkway to a narrow counter, also crowded with books. Connor wondered if the shop was in the business of selling books or just collecting them. The overall sense of chaos reminded him of the mages collective, although Kalvindir appeared tidy and organized in comparison.

At the top of the stairs, Lazaire Mogador waddled down a narrow hallway. "Mon Seigneur Ulixes, you have the best room over here… overlooking the garden of course. And your elven companion…"

"Geran." The elf chided.

"You can take the room across the hall."

He turned, placing both fists against his ample hips. "As for you three… I have just the place for you!" There was something about him that made Connor want to trust him. The bookshop owner opened a small door at the end of the narrow hallway. The cat suddenly reappeared and dashed inside. "Luna! Little scamp."

Connor remembered his manners and bowed before taking the dark stairs on the other side of the little door. "Much appreciated, Monsieur, You can called me… Connor."

If Laurin or Geran wished him to assume another name, they should have spoken up sooner.

"Well met, Connor. You can called me Mogador. I am sure your little brother and sister will find their accommodations acceptable?"

Connor nodded and led both children into the dark stairwell. Mogador shut the door behind him, then poked his face in after a reconsidered moment. "I'll come up to check on you later." He showed a toothy smile. Connor tried to find something in his expression or tone of voice that would serve as some sort of warning, but there was nothing suspicious or dark.

Once the door was shut, he heard a rattle, and assumed that Lazaire Mogador had locked them into the attic. In reaction, his stomach churned with nervousness, although there was another part of him that was somewhat relieved. How much trouble could Bran get into locked inside an attic?

The attic was as all attics were—dusty, dark and stifling, and under a pitched roof. There was a window set into both gables, thick with cobwebs and grime.

What the attic lacked in furniture, it made up for in books. It too, was stacked to the ceiling. The first title that Connor recognized amongst the Orlesian and other foreign titles was the tome on Advanced Demonology that he had been caught reading at Kinloch Hold. It was the book that started this entire series of events. Never in a thousand years would he have imagined ending up in the hands of a group of blood mages in Val Royeaux. He pulled it from the pile, reorganizing the stack so that it would not collapse on top of him, and slipped it under his arm, momentarily appreciating his confinement.

Endra loomed like a ghost—dark circles had pooled beneath her eyes. Connor spotted the end of a chaise lounge beneath a dusty drop cloth. After he excavated it from the piles of books and scrolls, he set Endra there. She curled up almost immediately, resting her head against the arm and closed her eyes.

Next, Connor inspected the windows. A small pane in the corner could be popped open, but it was far too small for any of them to fit through. However, what it lacked in escape options , it made up for in allowing just a whiff of fresh air into the stuffy room. It was unfortunate that Laurin had taken his shapeshifting ability. That window would have surely come in handy. The cat jumped up on a tall stack of books nearest the window and rubbed its face against the edge.

"Kitty!"

Bran stood at the bottom of the stack and reached for the cat. It blinked languidly at the toddler, unbothered by the precarious swaying of his perch. Connor dashed over, grabbing the toddler's pudgy hands before he toppled the entire tower on top of himself.

"Let's not hurt Luna." Connor tried to pull him away, but the toddler scowled, his cheeks flaring crimson again. Connor knew what was coming.

"Come Bran, let's find you a bed, too." He pulled the boy to an overstuffed chair upholstered in leather. While it wasn't a bed, it would do. Connor patted the seat.

"No bed!" Tears started spilling down Bran's cheek, and he stiffened, pointing to the cat. "Want kitty!"

Connor was tempted to let the tantrum happen, but there was so much paper, he imagined the entire attic going up with a whoosh. With no ability to shapeshift, the locked door and two small children, he knew that even a hint of Bran's magic spelled disaster. Meanwhile, Bran was jumping up and down, his face as red as an apple.

"Kitty! Want! Kitty!"

In case of emergency, which seemed more and more like an inevitability, Connor made a quick plan to throw the biggest book he could find out the window and jump. A few broken bones would surely be better than burning alive. The better plan would be to figure out some way to calm the kid down. He looked around the attic in desperation. The cat. Of course. He reached up to pick it up, but it leaped on top of another stack, and sat, with a snaking tail, cleaning a paw. Bran collapsed to the floor with an ear piercing screech and started to pound the floorboards with his pudgy fists. Terrified at what would happen should the tantrum get worse, Connor picked the toddler up and dropped him into the leather chair. In reaction, the boy turned boneless and slithered onto the floor, his screams now blood-curdling.

"Call Kitty… what's kitty's name?" Connor used a soft voice, despite his own mounting panic, but Bran was too far into his rage to notice.

Bran's hand ignited. Connor clamped on it, burning his palm in the process and then pinched the boy's cheeks with his other hand, attempting to gain eye contact, but the boy clenched them shut, turned his face away and continued to scream. Fury consumed Connor. He started to shake and held out a hand to slap Bran across the face. He had to do something before the boy set the attic on fire and killed them all.

Somehow, he was able to stop himself. He clenched his hand into a fist and slumped in resignation. "Why can't you be a frost mage? Why does it have to be fire?"

He hoped that there were no customers in the shop, for surely they would be convinced that an unruly banshee occupied the building.

Then the begging began. Connor coaxed and pleaded, then he shushed and even resorted to singing again. All to no avail. He covered his ears, about to shout back when the cat jumped down from his perch and trotted over to the screaming child, unbothered by all the noise emanating from him. It then rubbed his face into the boy's downy hair. Bran stopped and sat up. His face was tear stained and dirt smudged.

"Kitty!"

Connor sighed with relief. "You can thank Luna for saving our lives. You can't just lose your wits like that, Bran. Your magic will hurt us." He said it out loud, although he was not sure whether the boy really understood. There was no point in reasoning with him.

"Kitty!"

"Luna." Connor gave the cat a scratch around the ears, as an expression of his gratitude.

Bran repeated the name over and over again, in a happy, bubby babble. The cat curled up beside him on the chair and the boy's eyes drooped shut. The silence felt like soft velvet.

He tucked in the child with a drop cloth and puttered around the attic, pulling out furniture, building partitions with stacks of books, trying to create some inhabitable space amongst the chaos of books, scrolls and paper. He constructed himself a sleeping area with a three-legged loveseat, an old door and a changing screen. Beneath some of the clutter, he discovered a stack of wool blankets riddled with moth-holes that would still do the job and keep them warm at night. There was an old bucket with no holes to serve as a chamber pot and he created an area that might afford Endra her privacy. He even built a table using the back of a large landscape painting and a stack of books that Connor determined to be of no use to him. Quickly, he flipped through the brittle and yellowed pages and saw nothing but endless family lineage diagrams. Boring. He would have spared a spell book, but this one would serve well as a table leg. He also uncovered an empty crate, a clawed foot ottoman which had lost half its fringe, and a trunk that would serve as chairs around his little banquet table. He looked over his efforts and felt pleased, then hoped that someone intended on feeding them at some point in time.

Dust motes fell like snow in the shaft of afternoon light that streamed through the garden window. Connor crawled onto his makeshift bed—the coziest place he had slept since his short stay at Castle Sutherland. He drifted to that place between waking and sleep—where the dark curled in around him like a warm hug, where thoughts drifted and hung, but did not cling to his awareness, where his body became boneless and seemed to dissolve into the mouldering cushions. Something landed on top of him, he startled back to wakefulness to find the cat kneading the blankets with an exuberant purr. He took a breath of relief and closed his eyes again, reaching out to scratch the cat.

He heard voices. Not the sort that makes you question your sanity, but a distant chatter that had drifted in from some part of the building. Laurin's room must have been directly below where Connor was trying to sleep. He perked up and listened more intently.

Laurin was having a heated argument, which at first came as no surprise to Connor. He and Geran were always at each other's throats. Quickly, he realized the opposing voice belonged to someone else. Laurin was arguing with Lazaire Mogador.

"You hear them up there? Something has to be done about that."

"Indeed mon Seigneur. Shall I deliver them elsewhere? For the love of Holy Andraste, What am I to do with three children?"

"She has given me no direction as to what I am to do with the brats. She made it absolutely clear that I was to bring them here—unharmed. Obviously, they are valued assets and until I hear otherwise, they are to remain here."

"Assets? Is that what this Order thinks of children? And don't take me for a fool. These are no orphans mon Seigneur."

Laurin's voice turned to a growl. "As you are well aware, the Order of the Dragon works on a don't ask, don't tell basis. Mind your tongue!"

"And I am in the business of staying in business! Kidnapped Fereldans! Surely, they are from an Arling… a Teyrnir? What kind of trouble have you embroiled me in? I at least deserve to know."

"Enough!" Laurin's voice reverberated so loud through the floorboards that Connor feared that he'd wake the other two.

There was a long stretch of silence, a muffled rumpling sound and then Mogador seemed to—whimper. "Y…Yes… mon Seigneur. … Yes… I shall find it… I am sure I have the records… just don't hurt me… not that magic…"

"I'll see that you are compensated fairly for the inconvenience." Laurin's voice had returned to its neutral, condescending tone. "Feed the brats. Keep them out of trouble. There are to be no questions. Send Geran up if they misbehave. They respond well to the whip. Pay off the neighbours… do whatever it takes to make it seem as if they are invisible."

A sickly feeling churned in Connor's stomach. Bran was going to be a huge wrinkle in that plan.

And just as he formed that worry, Bran let out a terrified yowl. Connor leaped across the floor and took the boy in a tight embrace before another sound could escape. Bran trembled and struggled awake. When he saw where he was, he collapsed, in what Connor thought was relief.

"Shhh, Just a bad dream buddy."

"Raya… Raya there…"

Connor thought it was meaningless babble. "It's just a dream. Connor's here… Luna too."

But Bran became more insistent. "No Conna… Raya! See Raya!"

"You had a dream, Bran? About… Nuraya?"

"No dream Conna. See Raya!"


a/n Bioware owns all. My unboundless gratitude goes to my dedicated betas DoorbellSpider and Kira Tamarion. They pushed and nudged this chapter in all the right places. Thanks to all who continue to follow this journey! And where this is my 50th chapter... if you have a suggestion for a scene/character that I should commission, please PM me!