That fear had proven to have merit. Perenolde had indeed betrayed the Alliance, but his dastardly act had, fortunately, been short-lived. Terenas, hearing of it, had quickly moved Lordaeron troops in and declared martial law in Alterac. With the war in progress, no one had, at the time, seen fit to complain over such an action, especially Stromgarde. Now that peace had come, Thoras Trollbane had begun to demand that, for its sacrifices, Stromgarde should receive as just due the entire eastern portion of its treacherous former neighbor.
Terenas did not see it so. He still debated the merits of either annexing Alterac to his own kingdom or setting upon its throne a new and more reasonable monarch . . . presumably with a sympathetic ear for Lordaeron causes. Still, Stromgarde had been a loyal, steadfast ally in the struggle, and all knew of Thoras Trollbane’s and Terenas’s admiration for one another. It made the political situation that had come between the pair all the more sad.
Gilneas, meanwhile, had no such ties to any of the lands involved; it had always remained separate from the other nations of the western world. Both the Kirin Tor and King Terenas knew that Genn Greymane sought to intervene not only to raise his own prestige, but to perhaps further his dreams of expansion. One of Lord Perenolde’s nephews had fled to that land after the treachery, and rumor had it that Greymane supported his claim as successor. A base in Alterac would give Gilneas access to resources the southern kingdom did not have, and the excuse to send its mighty ships across the Great Sea. That, in turn, would draw Kul Tiras into the equation, the maritime nation being very protective of its naval sovereignty.
“This will tear the Alliance apart. . . .” muttered the young mage with the accent.
“It has not come to that point yet,” pointed out the elven wizard, “but it may soon. And so we have no time to deal with dragons. If Deathwing lives and has chosen to renew his vendetta against Alexstrasza, I, for one, will not oppose him. The fewer dragons in this world the better. Their day is done, after all.”
“I have heard,” came a voice with no inflection, no identifiable gender, “that once the elves and dragons were allies, even respected friends.”
The elven form turned to the last of the mages, a slim, lanky shape little more than shadow. “Tales only, I can assure you. We would not deign to traffic with such monstrous beasts.”
Clouds and sun gave way to stars and moon. The sixth mage bowed slightly, as if in apology. “I appear to have heard wrong. My mistake.”
“You’re right about the importance of calming this political situation down,” the bearded wizard rumbled to the fifth. “And I agree it must take priority. Still, we can’t afford to ignore what is happening around Khaz Modan! Whether or not I’m wrong about Deathwing, so long as the orcs there hold the Dragonqueen captive, they’re a threat to the stability of the land!”
“We need an observer, then,” interjected the elder female. “Someone to maintain watch on matters and only alert us if the situation there becomes critical.”
“But who? We can spare no one now!”
“There is one.” The sixth mage glided a step forward. The face remained in shadow even when the figure spoke. “There is Rhonin. . . .”
“Rhonin?!?” burst out the bearded mage. “Rhonin! After his last debacle? He isn’t even fit to wear the robes of a wizard! He’s more of a danger than a hope!”
“He’s unstable,” agreed the elder woman.
“A maverick,” muttered the corpulent one.
“Untrustworthy . . .”
“Criminal!”
The sixth waited until all had spoken, then slowly nodded. “And the only skilled wizard we can afford to be without at this juncture. Besides, this is simply a mission of observance. He will be nowhere near any potential crisis. His duty will be to monitor matters and report back, that is all.” When no more protests arose, the dark mage added, “I am certain that he has learned his lesson.”
“Let us hope so,” muttered the older of the women. “He may have accomplished his last mission, but it cost most of his companions their lives!”
“This time, he will go alone, with only a guide to bring him to the edge of Alliance-controlled lands. He shall not even enter Khaz Modan. A sphere of seeing will enable him to watch from a distance.”
“It seems simple enough,” the younger female responded. “Even for Rhonin.”
The elven figure nodded brusquely. “Then let us agree on this and be done with the topic. Perhaps if we are fortunate, Deathwing will swallow Rhonin, then choke to death, thus finishing forever the matters of both.” He surveyed the others, then added, “And now I must demand that we finally concentrate on Gilneas’s entry into the Alterac situation and what role we may play to diffuse it. . . .”
He stood as he had for the past two hours, head down, eyes closed in concentration. Around him, only a dim light with no source gave any illumination to the chamber, not that there was much to see. A chair he had left unused stood to the side, and behind him on the thick, stone wall hung a tapestry upon which had been sewn an intricate, knowing eye of gold on a field of violet. Below the eye, three daggers, also gold, darted earthward. The flag and symbols of Dalaran had stood tall in their guardianship of the Alliance during the war, even if not every member of the Kirin Tor had performed their duties with complete honor.
“Rhonin . . .” came a voice without inflection, from everywhere and nowhere in the chamber.
From under thick, fiery hair, he looked up into the darkness with eyes a startling green. His nose had been broken once by a fellow apprentice, but despite his skills, Rhonin had never bothered to have it fixed. Still, he was not unhandsome, with a strong, clean jaw and angular features. One permanently arched brow ever gave him a sardonic, questioning look that had more than once gotten him in trouble with his masters, and matters were not helped by his attitude, which matched his expression.
Tall, slim, and clad in an elegant robe of midnight blue, he made for quite a sight, even to other wizards. Rhonin hardly appeared recalcitrant, even though his last mission had cost the lives of five good men. He stood straight and eyed the murk, waiting to see from which direction the other wizard would speak to him.
“You summoned. I’ve waited,” the crimson-tressed spellcaster whispered, not without some impatience.
“It could not be helped. I myself had to wait until the matter was brought up by someone else.” A tall cloaked and hooded figure half-emerged from the gloom—the sixth member of the Kirin Tor inner council. “It was.”
For the first time, some eagerness shone in the eyes of Rhonin. “And my penance? Is my probation over?”
“Yes. You have been granted your return to our ranks . . . under the provision that you accede to taking on a task of import immediately.”
“They’ve that much faith left in me?” Bitterness returned to the young mage’s voice. “After the others died?”
“You are the only one they have left.”
“That sounds more realistic. I should’ve known.”
“Take these.” The shadowy wizard held out a slim, gloved hand, palm up. Above the hand there suddenly flashed into existence two glittering objects—a tiny sphere of emerald and a ring of gold with a single black jewel.
Rhonin held out his own hand in the same manner . . . and the two items appeared above it. He seized both and inspected them. “I recognize the sphere of seeing, but not this other. It feels powerful, but not, I’m guessing, in an aggressive manner.”
“You are astute, which is why I took up your cause in the first place, Rhonin. The sphere’s purpose you know; the ring will serve as protection. You go into a realm where orc warlocks still exist. This ring will help shield you from their own devices of detection. Regrettably, it will also make it difficult for us to monitor you.”