"Those who bear false witness

And work to deceive others, know this:

All things are known to our Maker

And He shall judge their lies."

—Canticle of Transfigurations 1:4

1

Malcolm

The Highever troops were readying for battle. As Malcolm made his way toward the main hall of Highever Castle to answer a summons from his father, he felt almost envious. No, no. That was a lie. He was envious. An air of excitement, of preparation, of anticipation had run through the castle over the past week. While Malcolm had felt that air, he wasn't enveloped by it because he was apart from it. He already knew that he would be left behind at the castle while his father and brother went with the troops to fight the darkspawn horde in the south. Intellectually, he knew perfectly well why it had to be that way—a teyrn couldn't have all his heirs on the battlefield at once—and he agreed. But, the idea of being left behind left him... itchy. Restless.

As Malcolm slipped quietly into the main hall, he took note that Arl Rendon Howe had finally arrived at least. Yet his troops seemed to still be missing. Howe must have ridden ahead of his contingent. Malcolm hid a smile. At how late Howe's troops were, riding ahead of them wouldn't take much effort at all. Howe could've outpaced them by riding a donkey if he wanted. He listened as his father, Teyrn Bryce Cousland, and Arl Howe continued their conversation reminiscing about the old days when they'd fought in the Rebellion. Malcolm had a hard time imagining them thirty years younger. Well, not as much his father. They had a portrait somewhere in the family library of him from the Rebellion days. Young Bryce had looked remarkably like what Malcolm's older brother Fergus did now. But Arl Howe... Malcolm just couldn't picture him as a young man. At the moment, he could barely get the droopy, hooked nose out of his mind.

Teyrn Cousland's eyes flicked over toward the door and he gave Malcolm a quick nod. "I'm sorry, Pup, I didn't see you there." Bryce motioned toward the door as Malcolm walked to the center of the room. "Howe, you remember my son?"

"You've grown into a fine young man," Howe said. "Pleased to see you again, lad."

Malcolm nodded. "And you, Arl Howe." Polite and diplomatic—it was always how you had to act with the nobility. Even if you were lying through your teeth and had dreaded seeing someone, you said you were happy to see them when they showed up. Like now. Arl Howe was much more formal than Teyrn Cousland, and when Howe was at the castle, protocols got a lot more complicated. And the heightened amount of ceremony and extreme politeness made Malcolm's dry sense of humor a lot more vocal, to his detriment.

Howe had continued speaking. "My daughter Delilah asked after you. Perhaps I should bring her next time."

Delilah had asked after him? Highly unlikely. She'd never been able to stand him since he'd accidentally spattered mud all over her new dress when they were little. He was so caught off guard that he had no idea what to say. "To what end?" he finally asked, honestly curious.

"'To what end' he says!" Howe repeated and laughed. "And so glib. The boy's a whip, like his father!"

Clearly Howe had misread the situation and decided that Malcolm was being acerbic and not serious. Though, to be fair, the normal odds were that he was being glib. At least this time his nature got him out of a social jam, however small it might have been.

"See what I contend with, Howe? You can't tell my fierce boy anything these days, Maker bless his heart," said Bryce, shaking his head at his son.

Malcolm knew very well that 'Maker bless his heart' really meant that he'd get a long lecture later about being appropriate when with company. He'd gotten a lot of those. Fergus reckoned that Malcolm had passed him years ago in total time spend being lectured by Teyrn Cousland, and Fergus had more than a decade on him. And that wasn't even counting if their mother got wind of it and took him to task herself. Maker, he hoped his father wouldn't pass along the story.

"At any rate, Pup, I summoned you here for a reason. While your brother and I are both away, I'm leaving you in charge of the castle."

I knew it, he thought. "I'll do my best, Father."

"Now that's what I like to hear."

Malcolm hoped that meant he'd escape being lectured for earlier. He wouldn't have objected in front of Arl Howe anyway. The family was always supposed to present a united front when other nobles were around. Yes, they could argue in private, but never in public. Malcolm had already tried pointing out that it would be better for him, the younger son, to go off to battle instead of Fergus, the eldest and therefore the heir. But for some reason, their father wouldn't allow it. Wouldn't even consider it. As Malcolm saw it, he was much more expendable than his brother, when looked at practically. Of course, his real reason was that he was getting antsy with staying in the castle and even within the territory of Highever itself. He'd never gone to a Landsmeet like Fergus had, or gone on long trips to Denerim, or even been a squire for another Bann or Arl. After nearly twenty years, he was starting to feel more than cooped up, even with how vast Highever was.

As he'd been thinking, Malcolm realized that his father had kept talking.

"Only a token force is remaining here and you must keep peace in the region," Bryce finished. "You know what they say about mice when the cat is away, yes?"

Malcolm looked up. "What? Oh, yes. Playing and all that. Leaving yarn everywhere. And dead birds. Cats love to give people dead birds for presents. Not sure why. Part of why I prefer dogs."

Arl Howe gave him a peculiar look.

"What? Do you like being given dead birds as gifts, Arl Howe? I didn't realize you were a cat person. My apologies."

"Malcolm," Bryce said, his voice tight in warning.

"Right, sorry. Manners. My apologies again."

The teyrn sighed. "Also, there's someone you must meet." He motioned toward one of the nearby servants. "Please, show Duncan in."

The servant gave a slight bow before disappearing into the hall briefly. When he came back, he was accompanied by a man near his father's age, perhaps a bit younger by a year or two. But his dark brown eyes held an age that seemed much older than Bryce. His face was darker, probably Rivaini. A longsword and dagger were sheathed on his back, ever ready for battle. The man inclined his head slightly toward Bryce. "It is an honor to be a guest within your hall, Teyrn Cousland." His voice was remarkably warm, yet Malcolm could tell it could be as piercing as the sword he carried if he so chose.

Howe looked from Bryce, to Duncan, and to Bryce again, his eyes looking like they might take the opportunity to jump from his head. "Your Lordship, you didn't mention a Grey Warden would be present."

Malcolm wondered if his father had neglected to tell Howe on purpose.

"Duncan arrived just recently, unannounced." Bryce raised an eyebrow. "Is there a problem?"

The eyebrow gave it away. Teyrn Cousland had done it on purpose. It took all of Malcolm's will to maintain a straight face as Howe spluttered. "Of course not, but a guest of his stature demands certain protocol. I am... at a disadvantage."

Malcolm didn't see how there was any sort of disadvantage. Seeing the beaten, yet well-cared-for armor that Duncan wore, obviously the Grey Warden didn't stand on ceremony. Neither did the Couslands. The only ceremony they stood on was whatever other people called for. The Howes did most of that calling. And his mother, when she decided he needed to practice manners. That happened much more often than he'd liked. More than once she'd threatened to send him to the Chantry for some proper teaching. As his son desperately tried to keep himself from laughing, the teyrn replied, "We rarely have the pleasure of seeing one in person, that's true." He turned toward his stricken son, whose blue eyes were darting everywhere but at Arl Howe's face. "Pup, Brother Aldous taught you who the Grey Wardens are, I hope?"

Malcolm racked his brain for some good information, but he was so busy trying not to laugh that he could only remember a vague and fairly lame answer. "They defeated the darkspawn long ago." Even five-year-olds knew that. He might as well had added something about griffons.

"Not permanently, I fear," Duncan said, the sadness in his voice evident.

"Without their warning of the darkspawn rising now, half our nation could've been overrun before we'd had a chance to react," Bryce said. "Duncan is looking for recruits before joining us and his fellow Wardens in the south. I believe he's got his eye on Ser Gilmore."

It took a lot of Malcolm's upbringing to keep himself from accusing his father of torturing him with this information. He really didn't need to know that more people were going south to help with the darkspawn threat, and that he wasn't one of those 'more people,' yet again.

"If I might be so bold, I would suggest that your son is also an excellent candidate," said Duncan.

"Honor though that might be, this is one of my sons we're talking about," said the teyrn.

Malcolm really wanted to tell his father 'I told you so' after all the arguments they'd had over the past few days. But he didn't actually say it. Not really. "I rather like that idea, Father."

Bryce addressed his answer to Duncan. "I've not so many children that I'll gladly see them of to battle. Unless you intend to invoke the Right of Conscription?"

It wasn't like his father didn't also have a grandson, either. His brother's son, Oren. That gave him three heirs right there. He could send two to battle. Except that Oren was just five and if anything happened to all three of them—the teyrn, Fergus, and him—then someone would be stuck being Oren's regent for many years. Which was actually a point his father had made several times over.

"Have no fear," Duncan replied. "While we need as many good recruits as we can find, I've no intention of forcing the issue."

Part of Malcolm was disappointed. The other, surprisingly relieved.

Teyrn Cousland glanced over at his younger son. "Pup, can you ensure that Duncan's requests are seen to while I'm gone?"

"Of course."

"In the meantime, find Fergus and tell him to lead the troops to Ostagar ahead of me."

Now that he thought about it, he hadn't seen his brother all day. "Where is Fergus?"

"Upstairs in his chambers, no doubt, spending some last moments with his wife and my grandson. Be a good lad and do as I've asked. And after supper, I want to have a talk with you."

Malcolm knew when he was dismissed. He nodded to the three men and left the room, wondering what he was getting a talking-to about later. His comments hadn't been that bad. Had they? He'd barely gotten out of the door before he heard one of his father's knights calling his name.

Ser Gilmore had been waiting outside the hall. "There you are. Your mother told me the teyrn had summoned you, so I didn't want to interrupt."

Malcolm blinked. "Hello to you, too, Ser Gilmore."

Gilmore gave a half-smile. "Pardon my manners, my lord. I fear your hound has the kitchens in an uproar again. Nan is threatening to leave."

That statement made Malcolm grin. "She was my nanny before she was the cook. Nan won't leave." Nan had threatened to quit at least fifty times since she'd become the cook instead of the nanny, and probably about forty of those times were due to Malcolm's dog or Malcolm himself. She'd yet to make good on any of those threats. She might scold a lot, but she had one of the biggest, softest hearts Malcolm had ever known.

"Your mother disagrees," continued Gilmore, still trying to catch his breath. "She insists you collect the dog, and quickly. You know these mabari hounds. They listen only to their master. Anyone else risks having an arm bitten off."

"Gunnar knows better than to hurt anyone." Malcolm, and everyone else, knew perfectly well that unless someone was threatened, the most risk they had around Gunnar was getting pounced on in a mabari version of a hug. Gunnar was just... aggressively friendly at times. Malcolm frowned in the direction of the kitchens.

"I'm not willing to test that," said Gilmore. "You're quick lucky to have your own mabari warhound, you know. Smart enough not to talk, my father used to say. Of course, that means he's easily bored. Like his master, my father also says."

"Very funny." He started walking towards the kitchens.

Gilmore followed. "Nan swears he confounds her just to amuse himself."

"He might have learned that from me," Malcolm said. At Ser Gilmore's dubious look, he amended, "Okay, he did learn it from me."

Nan's shouting came through the rough stone walls of the castle and the stout wooden door of the kitchens. "Get that bloody mutt out of the larder!"

The knight made a face. "When Nan's unhappy, she sure makes sure everyone knows it." He opened the door. "Calm down, good woman. We've come to help."

Nan turned around from scolding the two kitchen servants to the two young men who'd walked into her domain. "You," she said, pointing at Gilmore, and then at Malcolm. "And you. Your bloody mongrel keeps getting into my larder! That beast should be put down!"

Malcolm couldn't stop himself. "Maybe you should be put down."

Nan's eyes grew wider. "What? That monster is in my larder, slobbering all over the bacon, and you're insulting me?"

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Oh, Nan, it wasn't an insult—"

She threw up her hands. "That's it. I'll quit. Inform the teyrna. I'll go cook at some nice estate in the Bannorn."

Gilmore threw a glare at Malcolm before attempting to placate Nan. "Please! We'll get the dog. Calm down."

"Just get him gone! I've enough to worry about what with a castle full of hungry soldiers!"

The two young men scooted past the angry older woman and peered into the larder. Crates and sacks lay every which way, various ingredients spread across the floor, and in the middle of it all, Gunnar barked and spun around in happy circles.

"Just look at that mess," said Gilmore. "How did he even get in here?"

Malcolm ignored his friend's question. "Are you trying to tell me something, boy?" he asked his dog.

Gunnar, on his part, continued to bark and spin, indicating that, yes, he was trying to tell his silly human something important.

"He does seems like he's trying to tell you something." Gilmore paused and cocked his head toward the far wall. "Wait, do you hear that?"

That was when giant rats burst out of a couple holes in the wall and made Malcolm almost scream like a little girl. Between the three of them, they dispatched the rats rather handily. Once the problem was taken care of, Malcolm found a stray piece of burlap to wipe his blade with.

"Giant rats?" Gilmore took the other burlap scrap Malcolm offered. "It's like the start of every bad adventure tale my grandfather used to tell."

Malcolm laughed. "In those same stories, one or both of us would end up being some long-lost prince."

"If that has to be true, I hope it's not me. That would put the end to my joining the Grey Wardens." Gilmore finished cleaning off his blade and pocketed the burlap to throw away later. "You know, you could pass for a Theirin prince if you wanted to masquerade as one. I remember meeting King Maric when I was a boy. You resemble him. And King Cailan, too."

Malcolm scoffed. "If I look like them, it's coincidental. And if you go back far enough, Couslands are related to Theirins somewhere around the time of Calenhad the Great. Or after. I really should have paid a bit more attention to Brother Aldous."

The knight smiled. "It's not your fault, my lord. He was my teacher too, and boy, was he ever boring." Gilmore looked at the dead rats on the stone floor again. "Your hound must have chased the rats in through their holes or something. Looks like he wasn't raiding the larder after all."

Gunnar barked happily. Malcolm smirked. "It certainly looks that way."

"Those rats were from the Korcari Wilds. Best not tell Nan. She's upset enough as it is. But seeing as you've got your mabari well in hand, I'll be on my way. I'm to prepare for the arrival of more of the arl's men. Oh, and I won't tell anyone how you screamed like a little girl."

"I did not scream like a little girl. I didn't even scream. Don't you go and spread rumors like that, ser knight."

Gilmore just smiled at walked away. Malcolm sighed and left the larder, Gunnar at his side.

As soon as they were back into the kitchen proper, Nan fixed a glare on the mabari. "There he is, as brazen as you please, licking his chops after helping himself to the roast, no doubt!"

Malcolm couldn't let that pass, not after his dog had practically saved the kitchens. "Actually, he was defending your larder from rats." He paused for effect. "Big ones."

The two servants in the room gasped.

Nan rounded a glare on him. "See! Now you've gone and scared the servants. I expect those filthy things are dead?"

Malcolm scratched Gunnar behind the ear. "My faithful warhound made sure it's safe."

Nan looked doubtful. "Hmph. I bet that dog led those rats in there to begin with."

Gunnar whined indignantly. He knew very well what Nan was going on about.

"Oh, don't even start with the sad eyes." Nan put her hands on her hips. "I'm immune to your so-called charms."

Gunnar whined again.

Nan let out a sigh before grabbing some morsels off the table. "Here, then. Take these pork bits and don't say that Nan never gives you anything. Bloody dog." She looked at Malcolm. "Thank you, my lord. Now we can get back to work." Then her attention was away from the boy and back to her staff. "That's right, you two, quit standing about!"

Malcolm made his escape before Nan put him to work, too. She'd done it enough times before where he knew to scoot when he had the chance. Before he could fully escape, she managed to ruffle his short, reddish hair, letting him know she forgave him for his comments. Gunnar stayed with him as he slowly made his way up to where his brother's rooms were located. He wondered if he'd get a chance to talk to Duncan at all while he was here. If he was going down to Ostagar with his father's contingent, he wouldn't be here long. If he couldn't join the Grey Wardens, he'd like to at least hear some stories from an actual Grey Warden instead of his tutor. And since there'd been a few battles with darkspawn in the south already, the stories could even be recent events instead of ancient history.

As he rounded a corner, he heard his mother talking. "And my dear Bryce brought this back from Orlais last year. The marquis who gave it to him was drunk and mistook Bryce for the king." Eleanor Cousland noticed her son walk around the corner. "Ah, here is my younger son. I take it by the presence of that troublesome hound of yours that the situation in the kitchen is handled?"

Malcolm nodded. "Yes. Nan's head exploded and my hound ate the kitchen staff."

His mother, used to his comments, played along. "Well, at least one of us will have had a decent dinner."

Gunnar barked in agreement.

"Perhaps your hound left something I can feed my guests," Eleanor said. "Darling, you remember Lady Landra? Bann Loren's wife?"

Dear Maker, how could he forget? The last formal event they'd held here, Lady Landra had gotten astonishingly drunk and had spent the night flirting with him. His face had never burned so red in his entire life.

"I think we met at your mother's spring salon," Landra said.

Malcolm inclined his head. "Of course. It's good to see you again, my lady."

Landra smiled in self-deprecation. "You're too kind, dear boy. Didn't I spend half the salon shamelessly flirting with you?"

"And right in front of your family, too," said Dairren.

"You remember my son, Dairren?" Landra asked.

Of course he did. Dairren's face has been just as red as his own.

"I believe you two sparred in the last tourney." Landra just wasn't pulling any punches today.

"And you beat me handily, as I recall," Dairren said, shaking Malcolm's hand. "It's good to see you again, my lord."

"And you, Dairren." Malcolm was still surprised Landra had brought up her son's defeat. She seemed kinder than that. Perhaps she was absentminded. Or drunk. Or on her way to drunk.

On her part, Lady Landra continued with introductions. "And this is my lady-in-waiting, Iona. Do say something, dear."

Iona inclined her head. "It's a great honor, my lord. I have heard wonderful things about you."

Malcolm couldn't imagine just what any of those 'wonderful things' could be. Before he could reply, Landra was nudging his mother and saying, "Don't look now, Eleanor, but I believe the girl has a crush on your lad."

Iona giggled. "Lady Landra!"

"Hush, Landra," said Eleanor. "You'll turn the poor thing scarlet."

Right. Even more awkward. "I'm standing right here," Malcolm said.

Lady Landra, followed by her lady-in-waiting and her son, excused themselves for the rest of the day. The awkwardness faded with each step the small retinue took in the opposite direction of him.

Turning back to his mother, Malcolm asked, "Did you know there's a Grey Warden here?"

Eleanor crossed her arms. "Yes, your father mentioned that." Her eyes narrowed. "You haven't gotten it into your head that you want to be recruited, have you?"

Malcolm crossed his own arms. "The darkspawn have returned. Grey Wardens are needed."

"There's enough here at the castle to occupy you. I don't need you off chasing danger like your brother."

The argument could not be won. It hadn't been won in the past weeks, and it was obvious to Malcolm that it wouldn't be won today, either. "I should go." He began to walk away, toward his brother's rooms. His mother's voice stopped him.

"I love you, my darling boy. You know that, don't you?"

He turned back towards her. "What brought this on?"

"You've grown up so fast, that's all. And now you're old enough to tell... well, there's no point in dwelling on it right now. I will see you later tonight." She walked away quickly, before Malcolm could ask her what it was she and his father wanted to talk to him about. Frowning, he went in search of his brother once again.