Reminded him that he might yet die, just as he had originally imagined. . . .
The human was strong. Stronger than imagined.
Clad once more in the guise of Lord Prestor, Deathwing considered the pawn he had chosen. Usurping the wizard that the Kirin Tor had sent on this absurdly impossible quest had seemed the simplest thing. He would turn their folly into victory—but his victory. This Rhonin would do that for him, although not in the way the mortal expected.
Yet the wizard showed much more defiance than Deathwing had assumed possible. Strong of will, this one. A good thing that he would perish in the course of matters; such strong will bred strong wizards—like Medivh. Only one name among humans had the black leviathan ever respected, and that had been Medivh’s. Mad as a goblin—not to mention as unpredictable as one—he had wielded power unbelievable. Not even Deathwing would have faced him willingly.
But Medivh was dead—and the ebony leviathan believed that to be the case despite the recent rumors to the contrary. No other wizard came anywhere near to having the mad one’s skills, and never would, if Deathwing had his way.
Yet if Rhonin would not obey him blindly—as the monarchs of the Alliance did—he would obey out of the knowledge that the dragon watched his every move. The two insipid goblins had made for an object lesson. Perhaps they had only planned to put terror into the heart of their passenger, but Deathwing had not had time for such foolishness. He had warned Kryll to choose a pair who would fulfill their mission without any nonsense. When the chief goblin had completed his own tasks, Deathwing would speak to him about his choices. The black dragon was not at all pleased.
“You had better not fail, little toad,” he hissed. “Or your brethren on board the airship will have considered themselves fortunate compared to the fate I will deal you. . . .”
He dropped all thought of the goblin. Lord Prestor had an important meeting with King Terenas . . . about the Princess Calia.
Clad in the finest suit to be found among any of the nobles of the land, Deathwing admired himself in the lengthy mirror in the front corridor of his chateau. Yes, every inch a future king. Had humans carried within them even a shred of the dignity and power that he possessed, the dragon might have thought to spare them. However, what stared back at him represented to Deathwing the perfection that the mortals could never even hope to attain. He did them a favor by ending their miserable existences.
“Ssssoon,” he whispered in promise to himself. “Ssssoon.”
His carriage took him directly to the palace, where the guards saluted and immediately bid him enter. A servant met Deathwing inside the front hall, begging his pardon for the king not being there personally to greet him. Now fully into his role as the young noble who sought only peace between all parties, the dragon pretended no annoyance, smiling as he asked the human to lead him to where Terenas desired him to wait. He had expected the king not to be ready for him, especially if Terenas still had to explain to his young daughter her chosen future.
With all opposition to his ascension swept aside and the throne only days from his grasp, Deathwing had hit upon what he felt the perfect addition to his plans. How much better to strengthen his hold than to wed the daughter of one of the most powerful of the kingdoms in the Alliance? Of course, not all of the reigning monarchs had had viable choices. In fact, at this moment in time, only Terenas and Daelin Proudmoore had daughters either single or beyond infancy. Jaina Proudmoore, however, was much too young and, from what the dragon had so far researched, possibly already too difficult to control, or else he might have waited for her. No, Terenas’s daughter would do just fine.
Calia still remained at least two years away from marriage, but two years hardly mattered to the ageless dragon. By that time not only would the others of his kind be either under his domination or dead, but Deathwing would have maneuvered himself into a political position in which he could truly begin undermining the foundation of the Alliance. What the brutish orcs had failed to do from without—he would do from within.
The servant opened a door. “If you’ll wait within, my lord, I’m sure His Majesty will be with you shortly.”
“Thank you.” Caught up in his reverie, Deathwing did not notice that he had two new companions awaiting him until just after the door had shut behind him.
The cloaked and hooded figures bowed their shadowed heads slightly in his direction.
“Our greetings, Lord Prestor,” rumbled the bearded one.
Deathwing fought back the frown nearly descending upon his mouth. He had expected to confront the Kirin Tor, but not in the palace of Terenas. The enmity the dragon had magically built up among the various rulers toward the wizards of Dalaran should have prevented the latter from daring to visit.
“My greetings to you, sir and madam.”
The second mage, old for a female of the race, returned, “We had hoped to meet you sooner than this, my lord. Your reputation has spread throughout the kingdoms of the Alliance . . . especially in Dalaran.”
The magic wielded by these wizards kept their features obscured for the most part, and although with but a single action Deathwing could have pierced their veils, the dragon chose not to do so. He already knew this pair, albeit not by name. The bearded one had a familiar feel to his aura, as if Deathwing and the wizard had recently come into contact. The false noble suspected that this mage had been responsible for at least one of the two major attempts to break through the protective spells around the chateau. Considering the potency of those spells, it surprised Deathwing a little that the man still lived, much less confronted him now.
“And the reputation of the Kirin Tor is known to all as well,” he replied.
“And becoming more known with each day . . . but not in the way we wish, I must say.”
She hinted of his handiwork. Deathwing found no threat there. By this time, they suspected him a rogue wizard—powerful but not nearly the threat he truly presented.
“I had expected to meet His Majesty here alone,” he said, turning the conversation to his advantage. “Has Dalaran some business with Lordaeron?”
“Dalaran seeks to keep abreast of situations important to all kingdoms of the Alliance,” the woman replied. “Something a bit more difficult of late, due to our not being notified of major summits between members.”
Deathwing calmly walked over to the side table, where Terenas always kept a few bottles of his best on hand for waiting guests. Lordaeron wine represented in his mind the only worthwhile export the kingdom offered. He poured a small amount in one of the jeweled goblets nearby. “Yes, I spoke with His Majesty, urging him to request you join in the deliberations over Alterac, but he seemed adamant about leaving you out of them.”
“We know the outcome, regardless,” huffed the bearded man. “Congratulations are in order for you, Lord Prestor.”
Not once had they offered their names, nor had he offered his. Yes, they truly kept an eye on him—as much as Deathwing allowed, that is.
“It came as a surprise to me, I must tell you. All I ever hoped was to help keep the Alliance from falling apart after Lord Perenolde’s unfortunate behavior.”
“Yes, a terrible thing that. One would’ve never thought it of the man. I knew him when he was younger. A bit timid, but didn’t seem the traitorous type.”
The elder female suddenly spoke up. “Your former homeland is somewhere not too distant from Alterac, is it not, Lord Prestor?”
For the first time, Deathwing felt a twinge of annoyance. This game no longer pleased him. Did she know?
Before he could answer, the grandly decorated door on the opposite side of the entrance opened and King Terenas, his mood clearly not at all pleasant, barged inside. A blond, cherubic boy barely more than a toddler followed behind, clearly trying to get his father’s attention. However, Terenas took one look at the two shadowy wizards and the frown on his face deepened further.