"But some things cannot be repent,

Some coinage cannot be unspent,

When hearts are wagered, a fissure rent."

—Saga of Dane and the Werewolf, 4:85 Black

1

Malcolm

Weisshaupt was cold.

The Blasted Hills were cold, the Hunterhorn Mountains were cold, the long-abandoned griffon aeries were cold, the Fortress was cold, and Maker help him, the Anders Wardens were even colder.

Malcolm sat on a hard, wooden bench outside the First Warden's study, wrapped tightly in his grey cloak, hood draped over his head, and doing his best not to shiver. He wasn't doing a great job at it, either. Líadan paced nearby, her woolen cloak flaring around her body each time she turned within the tight confines of the hallway. When Malcolm hitched his cloak closer, she stopped her pacing and glanced over at him. "Poor Malcolm," she said, a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. "Can't stand the waiting to be yelled at by the First Warden."

"I'm not in trouble. I'm not the one who slept with Morrigan."

Líadan arched an eyebrow.

"That night, anyway," Malcolm amended. "And I'm not nervous, I'm cold."

"You aren't quaking in fear?"

He heaved a sigh. "No. I'm quaking in temperatures that are too low for human, dwarven, or elven habitation. Maybe even Qunari."

"So you say."

Her scoff made him roll his eyes. She smirked at his expression and resumed her pacing. Thus annoyed, he continued his shivering. Líadan was only warm because she was pacing, but he wasn't going to copy her. She'd tease him for that, too.

He'd lasted three days at Highever before he'd fled. The memories had pressed him too closely within the castle, and the notion that he had some other duty waiting for him outside the walls tugged at his mind as much as the taint did in the presence of darkspawn. With Fergus and Alistair, he'd seen Highever restored to the Couslands, and that particular duty fulfilled. More people had survived the massacre at the castle than they'd once thought and the castle had been mostly restored to its prior state. The collapsed sections of stone and burnt timbers had been rebuilt. The acrid smoke that had stung his nose had long since gone and the fresh scent of sawdust left in its place. When he'd finally gotten enough courage to visit the larder, he'd found out that the entire floor had been replaced. No traces of blood remained on the granite stones underfoot.

Eyes closed against the absence of physical evidence of his memory, he'd left the larder and hadn't gone back again. Fergus spent much of his time with the staff who'd returned to the castle and meeting with the banns sworn to Highever who started to appear when they heard that the rightful teyrn had returned. Alistair had sat in on many of the meetings, providing the support and backing of the Crown. Malcolm had attended some, but found himself growing restless once again, just as he'd been in Denerim. Between the oppressiveness of the memories and the specter of the events at the end of the Blight, Malcolm felt the need to get out and just... go. Since part of his problems stemmed from the riddle that had been Zevran's role in the archdemon's death and Riordan's non-death, Weisshaupt seemed like a good place.

Malcolm had left a note for Fergus and Alistair, telling them he was going to Weisshaupt and he'd be back eventually. Because he was a solitary traveler, he managed to catch up to the cortège rather quickly, just south of Val Foret and the Nahashin Marshes. Líadan had caught up with him just north of Val Royeaux, before they reached Montfort. She'd just appeared next to him around midday while they rode ever-northward toward Weisshaupt. At first, she said nothing and he hadn't bothered to look, not having particularly bonded with any of the Orlesian Wardens who were also making the escorting trip. It was bad enough they insisted on stopping at every town and city in Orlais to announce they were escorting the body of the man who slew the archdemon Urthemiel, and then having Malcolm recount the story of the battle time and time again. All that storytelling pretty much wiped him out from holding meaningful conversations with his fellow Warden brothers and sisters, all ten of them who were with him.

After a few minutes, he'd realized the presence next to him was a familiar one and he'd finally bothered to look, only to find himself face to face with his Dalish friend's determined green eyes. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

His atrocious manners didn't phase her in the least, though he hadn't been surprised. Her manners were no better than his. At times, they were even worse. "They got your note. Riordan sent me."

His brow furrowed. "Why you?"

She gave him a slight shrug. "I have longer legs than Oghren."

Though they rode on horseback, she still had a fair point. He scowled. "Are you supposed to bring me back? I know you're a mage and all, but I have the abilities of a templar. You'd have to try to drag me with brute force. I don't think that'd work too well."

"No. He told me to travel with you until you went back willingly."

Malcolm narrowed his eyes and moved his gaze forward again. "So, he sent you to torture me until I give up and go home."

"Pretty much."

"And you had no problem with that order?"

"None at all."

He hadn't even needed to turn around to confirm it. He knew she was grinning. And she'd been torturing him ever since. Around Montfort, they noticed they were starting to gain elevation rapidly. His knowledge of Thedas geography had come in handy when Líadan's inevitable questions came about what places they were passing through and where they'd be riding through. This particular stretch of the Imperial Highway eventually ended at Andoral's Reach, where they'd cross the Blasted Hills and cut through a pass in the Hunterhorn Mountains before swinging northeast on a straight shot to Weisshaupt. By the time they reached Churneau, Líadan visibly showed that she was starting to get cold. She denied whenever Malcolm asked, but even though her Dalish-made armor protected her in battle due to her rock armor spell, it did pretty much nothing against the cold. Finally, her shivering serving to make him more cold, he dragged her off to the marketplace in Churneau to get her heavier armor with warmer, thicker padding underneath, and a better cloak than the one she had. Of course, she'd objected, he'd told her to shut it, and she glared at him nastily for days.

But at least she'd stopped shivering.

A party of twelve Grey Wardens from Weisshaupt met them at Andoral's Reach, replacing their compliment of Orlesian Wardens. That's where he and Líadan found out that Anders Wardens weren't particularly warm. They were polite enough and not mean in the least. Malcolm just started to wonder if they had any feelings other than gruffness and thoughts other than 'all darkspawn must die.' Not that he disagreed with that sentiment. It just wasn't the only sentiment that he'd ever had, even throughout the Blight. They'd probably find something wrong with that. He didn't much care. They'd stopped the Blight without their help, so they could just shove it if they questioned his methods. Not that they really chatted with them enough to question things, anyway. Mostly, they kept to themselves and talked in Anders, which meant that he pretty much never understood what they were saying to each other. He had with the Orlesians, since he could speak Orlesian fluently, and he'd had a bit of fun with that for days before he told the Orlesian Wardens. But he knew nothing of Anders, and that left him to conversing with Líadan, which pretty much meant being teased for all his waking hours.

He started contemplating killing Riordan when they got home.

Gunnar put his heavy muzzle on top of Malcolm's leg, bringing him to the present. The mabari had been none the worse for wear during the entire trip, given his thick coat of fur that kept him perfectly warm. Malcolm had been sorely tempted to just sit on the floor next to his hound and use the massive wardog for heat. Instead, he remained on the bench, Gunnar at his side, switching between watching over him and watching over the elf. And shivering, he couldn't forget that. Did these people even know what a fireplace was? The Anders Wardens had spirited Zevran's body off away somewhere within these cold corridors and left him and Líadan here to await their meeting with the First Warden. Well, Malcolm assumed Líadan would also be in the meeting, though from how she acted, she apparently assumed it would just be him. He also assumed it would be the First Warden, because being left here just had that certain foreboding aspect to it.

The heavy, wooden door opened and Malcolm shot to his feet. Líadan did an about face to look at the newcomer. A severe-looking woman stood in the doorway, her ash blonde hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, her icy blue eyes piercing and, of course, cold. Maker, these people made Líadan seem cheery, and that was saying something, in his opinion.

"The First Warden wants to see you," she said, her voice more friendly than he'd expected.

"That's not surprising," Malcolm said.

At the same time, Líadan said, "Does he, now?"

He turned and glared at the elf. She merely gazed placidly back at him, daring him to try and scold her. With a sigh, he turned back to the Anders Warden. "Ignore her. I do."

"Clearly, it gets you far." The woman inclined her head. "I am Astrid, the Second Warden. You are Prince Malcolm, I assume?"

"Malcolm," he quickly corrected her. "Just Malcolm. I'm not here as any sort of royal representative of Ferelden. I'm here as a Grey Warden, escorting my friend's body to its final resting place."

"Actually," Líadan said from behind him, "he's here as someone who practically ran away from Ferelden and princely duties as soon as the Blight was over."

He fought against gritting his teeth. "What can I say? After being trapped in Ferelden fighting a Blight, I wanted to see the world. Or something of that nature."

Astrid's mouth twitched the tiniest bit. "Of course," she said, and then extended her arm towards the now open office. "If you would follow me, please."

He managed to fling a glare Líadan's way as they followed the Anders woman into an austere study. The vaulted ceiling was high enough that their booted footsteps echoed within the well-lit room. Closer inspection of the room revealed a few exceptional landscape paintings, along with some small, exquisitely carved statues decorating the room. There were, of course, various swords and spears and other martial items on the walls along with the paintings, but it was obvious a man who appreciated art worked within this space. A large fireplace occupied nearly an entire wall and Malcolm had to stop himself from running over to it and getting as close as he could without burning anything. Gunnar and Líadan, however, had no such inhibitions and scampered right over to the fire. Malcolm held in a sigh he really wanted to direct at the two traitors, but instead looked over at the older man he assumed to be the First Warden.

He was tall—taller than any man Malcolm had ever met—and by his silvery hair and worn lines in his pale skin, was older than his father or Duncan had been when they'd died. He idly wondered if the solemn man was close to his Calling, but it wasn't something you could tell just by looking at a Warden. After all, they could be recruited at any age, not just young like he and Líadan had been. The man wasn't wearing armor, which came as a surprise to Malcolm. Then again, neither was the Second Warden. Instead, he wore simple, yet elegantly tailored clothing in Grey Warden colors, the Warden Commander symbol of two griffons addorsed embroidered on the chest of his jerkin. Malcolm supposed they didn't see much in the way of darkspawn up here in the mountains, especially not lately, what with the Blight and all being in the south of Ferelden. The older man glanced at Astrid. "You may go." The Second Warden nodded wordlessly and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Then the older man turned to Malcolm. "I am First Warden Georg," he said. "And I presume you are Prince Malcolm Theirin?"

This time, Malcolm did grimace. "It's Malcolm," he corrected quietly. "I'm not here as a representative of Ferelden's royal family. I'm here as a friend and a Grey Warden, that's all." Part of him even wanted to amend his name somehow with Cousland, because he missed that part of his heritage. Bryce and Eleanor Cousland had raised him and even made him an heir in case anything happened to Fergus. But fate had other ideas about what exactly he'd inherit and he'd had to give up the Cousland name. Though, as Fergus and every other Highever survivor had repeatedly told him, he was still one of their own and still part of the family. They had also adopted Alistair and treated him no differently than Fergus or Malcolm. It made a nice break from court, that much was certain, being in Highever. As Bryce had run the castle before, and Fergus continued, they didn't stand much on ceremony. The servants and knights and soldiers treated them with respect and some deference, but also treated them like normal people when it was needed. They always gave honest opinions—there was never a place for a sycophant in a Cousland household. If one of them was an ass, they called them on it, lord and ruler or no.

Alistair had called it a blessed relief and hoped that one day court could be like that. Fergus had told him not to get his hopes up for that occurrence. Ever.

Georg inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement and motioned for Malcolm to take a seat. "Be that as it may," he said, dropping into his own chair, "King Hagan of the Anderfels has requested there be a feast held in your honor to welcome the Ferelden king's brother to this country. A state dinner, if you will. As the Grey Wardens encourage political cooperation when it benefits the Wardens, I would advise you act in all capacities while you are here, Malcolm."

Malcolm, now seated, raised an eyebrow. "Advise me or order me to do so?"

"Need I make it an order?"

"No, of course not." He'd already gotten the answer he was looking for, anyway. No need for him to be this oppositional of the First Warden's authority. He didn't even know why he did it at times—some people had incited that reaction within him. Georg, it seemed, even worse than Eamon. But, he would behave. The man had become First Warden for a reason, and in that, deserved his respect. He was also interested to see if what Riordan had said about the Weisshaupt Wardens was still true: that they ruled more so than the Anders king did. Seeing them interact with King Hagan would certainly tell him the truth of that circumstance.

Georg nodded. "Good. And the fellow Warden you brought with you is...?"

Malcolm reflexively glanced over at the elf. She glanced up from her contemplation of the toasty warm flames and toward the First Warden. "I am Líadan Mahariel," she said.

"Mahariel? I didn't even know you had a last name," Malcolm said, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. Of course, he didn't know the last names of almost everyone he'd traveled with in the Blight, or if they even had them in the first place. Wynne, Leliana, Oghren, Riordan, Morrigan... any of them. He'd heard that Grey Wardens gave up family names and titles, but somehow, he thought it was more of an option than a requirement, especially with the whole he and Alistair taking on the roles of Ferelden's royalty as ordered by the Grey Wardens deal.

Líadan smirked at him. "You never asked. Besides, to those outside the clan, the Dalish use the names of their clans to differentiate themselves from other clans. Mine was the Mahariel clan, obviously."

"Yes, obvious now. Your keeper Marethari never mentioned it, either."

"Did you ask her?"

She was making fun of him, he knew it. He'd fallen into one of her traps again. He suddenly missed Alistair. His brother had taken part of the brunt of Líadan's twisted humor and he was getting tired of suffering the full effects of it. Though, he had only himself to blame for it. Well, and Riordan, because while Malcolm knew he'd run off, the Warden Commander had sent Líadan after him on purpose. He'd come to learn during the Blight that Riordan could be a sneaky bastard like that. "No," Malcolm finally admitted.

"Maybe you should ask more questions, then," said the elf.

"Maybe you should—" Malcolm started.

The First Warden cut him off. "Traditionally, Grey Wardens give up their surnames."

Realizing that he'd nearly degenerated into one of his now practically trademark arguments with one of his close companions, Malcolm turned to look at Georg again. "I'd heard that," he replied. "But, the Wardens kind of made my brother and I take up the last name and legacy of our dead royal father."

A smile tugged at the First Warden's lips, the first hint of humanity Malcolm had seen from an Anders Warden since they'd met up with the group at Andoral's Reach. Perhaps these people weren't all bad and horribly dour. "All right, I'll give you that one," Georg said, with what looked like a spark of warmth in his deep brown eyes. "And you are much like Duncan and Riordan said in their letters."

"He gets that a lot," Líadan said.

Malcolm didn't deign to look at her this time. He refused to give her the satisfaction.

"I suspect that he does," Georg said to the elf, and then motioned toward Gunnar. "And your dog is a purebred mabari?"

Gunnar barked in reply himself instead of Malcolm having to answer.

The ghost of a smile on Georg's face twitched again. "Ah, yes. As intelligent as I remember. Of course, I haven't met one since I was a young man, but one cannot forget how fine an animal a mabari is."

Gunnar barked again.

Malcolm smiled and voiced his surprise at the First Warden's reaction to his dog, which was far from typical. "I think you're the first person to regard Gunnar nicely since we left Ferelden. I honestly hadn't expected that. The best he usually gets is fear, the worse being contempt."

"Which Gunnar quickly helps in providing an attitude adjustment for," said Líadan. "Often with teeth."

Though the elf generally made herself a pain to Malcolm, he had to give her credit in that she was one of the few who truly revered Gunnar as much as he did. Líadan had once explained to him that the mabari had a relationship with their imprinted masters as the halla did for the Dalish. The entire conversation that followed had been interesting and enlightening in learning something about Dalish culture, and even gave some reasons for why Líadan acted in the ways that she did. He'd been grateful for the opportunity to learn about her, as well, because more than anyone he knew, she was a mystery to him. Her words and actions confounded him some of the time, and drove him to distractions most of the rest.

"I have seen that in action," said the First Warden, and then he turned to Malcolm. "As for last names, yes, it is a tradition, but it has never been mandatory. For most Wardens, it's a relief to let go of the past life, especially when a Warden has a less than illustrious past. I know that when I joined, I myself was happy to give up my surname. It carried far too much weight."

"You a conscript, too?" Líadan immediately asked. "What'd you do?"

Malcolm's eyes widened slightly in alarm, even though he'd been impertinent to the First Warden just minutes before. His own bad example, he supposed. Yet, Líadan was three years his senior in age. In some ways, she should be setting the example. Yes, the blind leading the blind, they were. Neither of them were particularly well-behaved even at the best of times.

Georg laughed outright at the question and relief surged through Malcolm. "Oh, no. I was a volunteer. You see, my last name was Van Markham, a particularly noted name in my native Nevarra."

"I don't understand," Líadan said.

Malcolm turned to explain. "The Van Markhams are the ruling family of Nevarra. The first king of that family, Tylus, was crowned in 5:37 Exalted, five years before Calenhad Theirin united the Alamarri teyrnirs and became the first king of Ferelden."

She nodded her thanks for the answer as the First Warden said, "I see that you were well-educated. I was the fourth son of the king's brother and stood to inherit nothing. My choices were the Chantry or the army. After spending five years in the army and finding myself wanting something more substantial, I joined the Grey Wardens. My relatives were actually pleased, because that made one less possible heir to contend with. The Van Markhams have entirely the opposite problem of the Theirins—too many heirs. Though, we didn't have an Orlesian usurper kill off every member of the royal family that they could, so there's that."

"The Couslands have the same problem as the Theirins now, too," Malcolm said before he knew he was going to say it. Even though he'd put thousands of miles between himself and Highever, apparently it wasn't going to stay far from his mind.

"I heard about that. I'm sorry," Georg said. "The Couslands were well-known and admired in Nevarra and the Free Marches. I daresay, even I had heard of them. For me, it was mostly in history books when I read about the Ferelden Rebellion, though. Since Nevarra has fought Orlais so much, there were lot of admiring Nevarrans when it came to the Fereldan rebels." He stood up. "But enough of that, no need to be more somber than necessary here. The Anders more than make up for that on their parts."

Following the First Warden's example, Malcolm got to his feet. "You noticed that, did you?"

Georg raised an eyebrow. "How could I not? I have been here at Weisshaupt for many years now, but for one who is not Anders, it is very hard to get used to." He gestured toward one of the statues and a couple of the paintings. "I do what I can to liven up the place, but there's only so much one can change. Wardens from other nations assigned here will tell you much the same." He looked at Líadan. "I've heard about your particular magical talent with arms and armor, as well. If you wouldn't mind, at some point during your stay here, and you are amenable to it, I would love for you to teach the mages here who are willing to learn. It seems it would be an invaluable art."

The elf nodded. "Certainly."

Malcolm couldn't stop the surprise at Líadan's acquiescence from appearing on his face. She smirked at him when she saw it.

"And Malcolm," the First Warden continued as he moved from behind the desk and indicated they follow him out of the office, "I heard that you possess some templar abilities that are useful against emissaries?"

"Yes, my brother taught me. I think against the Grand Cleric's wishes, but he didn't say, and I don't think he much cared at that point." All three of them were able to walk next to each other, the hallways were wide enough to accomodate even four abreast if need be.

"Then you wouldn't mind teaching some of the warriors here?"

Malcolm had to admit: the man was good at his job. "Not at all."

"Excellent. Not today, of course. You've just arrived after a long journey. Though you've been shown your rooms and able to bathe, I suspect you'd like a hot meal and some well deserved rest?"

"Creators, yes," said Líadan. "I'm starving."

Georg laughed again, a relief to hear in these stark, grey halls of Weisshaupt with its warmth and good nature. Malcolm was reminded of Duncan and Riordan. He'd expected a much different man, someone with the cold, near-silent countenance like Astrid. Instead, so far the First Warden seemed a kind, understanding leader. But, being a Warden, Malcolm knew there would be steel in the man somewhere, and he'd be seeing the sharp end of it soon when it came to explaining what Morrigan and Zevran might have done. And his own role in the entire matter. More than once he wondered just how much was his responsibility and not Zevran's. Most likely, he should and could have done something more than just refuse her. What, though, he wasn't entirely sure. But he was fairly certain the Wardens here would have more than a few ideas of their own on what he should've done.

As the First Warden walked them through the fortress towards the dining hall, he continued chatting with them about Weisshaupt and its history, intertwining it with the history of the Grey Wardens. Líadan listened more raptly than Malcolm, as she'd not heard most of it, while Malcolm had learned about the Grey Wardens as a child, both in school and through bedtime stories. "I've never served with a Dalish elf," Georg said. "Met a few, but never worked with them closely."

"Be happy for that," Malcolm muttered, thinking more of Líadan rather than the Dalish in general. The elf in question punched him in the arm for his comment. He felt it through his heavy chainmail and suspected she'd quickly cast rock armor before letting her fist fly in case he tried to retaliate in kind, and for better penetration through his armor. He grimaced and rubbed at the sore spot on his arm. "Okay, I deserved that."

"You're just lucky I didn't give you a little lightning with that," she replied, a scowl marring her features.

"Zap me again and I'll smite you," Malcolm said. "I'm not kidding. I'll take rock armor, but not lightning." On seeing an idea spark behind the elf's eyes, Malcolm quickly added, "Or fire."

"You two are young," Georg said before Líadan could attempt a retort. "Reading the letters that come in and knowing what you've accomplished in this past year, one easily forgets just how young you are. Not that it's a bad thing, really. Maker knows having younger Wardens around this place would do it some good, I think. Then again, this place could have a detrimental effect on young people. Better we keep them in the outlying areas, I suppose, rather than that happen. Wardens age too quickly as it is. And I'm not talking about the taint giving us a slow but sure march towards our deaths. I'm referring to the mental aging, which I already see in both of your eyes. You're young, yes, but you've seen enough death and suffering and sacrifice for three lifetimes, if not more."

Malcolm wasn't sure if they were being chastised or complimented, so he just kept his mouth shut. Next to him, Líadan did the same, for once.

The First Warden slowed to a halt before two large, wooden double doors. "Ah, here we are. This room serves as both our meeting hall and our dining hall. Dinner will be served in a few minutes and we've a lot of Wardens here at the moment. Over five hundred, in fact. For two Wardens from Ferelden, it might be somewhat overwhelming. I'll have both of you sit at my table, which, I suspect, though I'm First Warden, might be a bit less intimidating. A few other Wardens will sit with us, my second, of course, and a good mix of Anders and Wardens from other countries." Then he pushed the doors open, revealing a room rivaling the size of the Orzammar Commons in its vastness. Considering how many it seated per meal, it made sense, though that fact made it no less impressive. Blue and grey banners bearing the rampant griffon hung from the rafters in rows mirroring the long tables below. The room thrummed with conversation from several seated or milling Wardens. Never in Malcolm's thoughts had he imagined this many Wardens could exist in one place. At one time in recent history, the most he could gather in one place had been two. At peak after Ostagar, before the Orlesian reinforcements came in, Ferelden boasted all of six Wardens, and one of them wasn't even officially assigned to their country. Well, now he was, but he hadn't been then.

Men and women in the dining hall slowly turned around as the doors opened, and the room fell silent. Malcolm noticed Líadan stiffen next to him at the sudden attention from all of those strangers. He nearly gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder, but refrained, figuring she'd just give him a black eye or something for his efforts. Georg had them to keep following him to a table set up on a dais. Once there, the First Warden turned to the rest of the room. "Wardens, we have two Wardens visiting us from Ferelden—" Anything else he might have said was lost in a surge of cheering. Both Malcolm and Líadan gaped as their brother and sister Wardens, so stoic before, whooped and hollered and clapped. Noticing the confusion of the two young Wardens, Georg leaned over and quietly said, "They're cheering because you defeated the Blight."

"Oh, that," Malcolm said. "Slipped my mind. Blights do that sometimes. You'd be surprised."

The First Warden smiled, and then called for silence. He motioned toward Líadan first. "This is Líadan of the Mahariel clan of the Dalish." Then he indicated Malcolm. "And this is Prince Malcolm Theirin of Highever in Ferelden."

To his horror, Malcolm felt a flush flash to his cheeks, certainly the worst flush he'd had in months. Years, even. He tried to will it away and it just made it worse.

"Your cheeks might catch fire," Líadan said, her face perfectly composed, if a bit pale behind her tattoos.

"Shut up."

Kindly not commenting on Malcolm's sudden change in color, the First Warden told the room to eat, bringing the murmurs and assorted cheers to an end for the time being.

As Malcolm gratefully took his seat, Georg leaned over and said, "Your father turned much the same color when he visited Weisshaupt and was announced to the Wardens. So you're in good company."

It didn't make him feel any better.

Then the First Warden started around the table, introducing the other Wardens sitting with them. Malcolm listened, matching names with faces and, he hoped, committing them to memory. His attention drifted from Warden to Warden, sometimes ahead of Georg's introduction. When his gaze fell on the Warden sitting at the end of the table, the familiarity of her eyes nearly caught him short and he had to force himself back to whom the First Warden was talking about. But the woman at the end of the table had the same eyes as his elder brother Alistair. So when Georg finally said, "And this is Senior Warden Fiona, originally from Orlais many years ago," Malcolm wasn't surprised in the least.