“Garrosh doesn’t plan to stop there,” Jaina said. “It’s just a jumping-off point to conquer the whole continent. You know Garrosh; he’s a hothead.”
“So am I,” said Rhonin.
Not bothering with tact, Jaina said, “You once were, perhaps, but since you became a husband and father and leader of the Kirin Tor, you’ve calmed quite a bit.”
He shrugged and smiled a little, acknowledging the comment.
“Thousands will die,” Jaina said, pressing him. “The Alliance will be driven from the shores of Kalimdor. Those who survive will be refugees. We already have too many without food and shelter still from the Cataclysm. The Eastern Kingdoms will not be able to care for the population of half an entire continent!”
“I ask you again, Jaina Proudmoore,” Rhonin said quietly, “what does this have to do with me?”
“The Kirin Tor does not take sides; I know that,” Jaina said. “But even Kalecgos thought you might be willing to come to our aid.”
“Protect an Alliance city from an attack by the Horde?”
She nodded mutely. He looked off to the side for a long moment, his eyes not focused, then said, “I cannot make such a decision alone. You’re going to have to convince others besides me. Dalaran is lovely this time of year.”
12
Every time Jaina traveled to Dalaran, she was reminded anew of just how beautiful it was. The rich purple-hued spires of the city reached skyward, even as Dalaran hovered in the sky itself, untouched and untroubled by the concerns of Northrend below it. The streets gleamed, their red cobblestones clean, and its citizens, most of them as untouched and untroubled as the city itself, wandered freely. Here and nowhere else could be found remarkable items from vendors of all things rare and curious; here could be learned spells and history, whispered in hushed voices in quiet, peaceful halls.
Once, Dalaran had been a firm part of another continent altogether. Jaina remembered it best from those days, remembered strolling in the gardens, plucking goldenbark apples warm from the kiss of the sun.
Then Arthas had come.
Dalaran had been destroyed but not vanquished. The Kirin Tor had returned and rebuilt the mage capital, protecting it with a dome of violet magic, until the time had come for Dalaran to flourish anew as a hovering city. From here, the city-state had been the central focus of the Nexus War against Malygos, and, later, the fight against the Lich King. Yet one would find little here that was martial. Dalaran was at its best, and its populace happiest, when knowledge and learning were its greatest concerns.
Jaina herself had erected a monument to Antonidas. Usually when she traveled here, she paid “him” a visit, sometimes speaking her thoughts aloud as she sat in the shadow of the man’s statue. But now her mission was of utmost importance.
She materialized inside the Violet Citadel itself, and the first face she saw was Rhonin’s. He smiled in welcome, but his eyes were troubled.
“Welcome, Lady Jaina,” he said. “You know everyone here.”
“Indeed I do,” said Jaina. Standing next to her husband was the white-haired, beautiful Vereesa Windrunner. She was the founder of the Silver Covenant and sister to Sylvanas, leader of the Forsaken, and Alleria, lost in Outland. Though the Windrunner family had suffered more than its share of tragedies, Vereesa, it seemed, had found happiness as the wife of a great mage and the proud mother of two beautiful children. Such domestic achievements, though, did not mean the high elf was content to stay in the shadows. As leader of the Silver Covenant, Jaina knew, Vereesa had publicly and staunchly opposed the admission of blood elves into the Kirin Tor.
She was, however, destined to be doomed in that pursuit, as the mage on Rhonin’s left proved. This was Archmage Aethas Sunreaver, the blood elf who had struggled as hard to gain admittance into the Kirin Tor as Vereesa had struggled to forbid it. The fourth present was a human female who, though her hair was snowy white, looked as though she could take—and best—anyone in a fight. Archmage Modera had the distinction of serving the longest in the high council of magi, the Council of Six, having been a member since the Second War.
Jaina nodded respectful greetings to them all, then turned to Rhonin. He stepped back a pace and moved his hands with the ease of one long used to working magic. A portal appeared. Jaina frowned slightly. Usually one could get a good glimpse of the place one was traveling to, but this portal seemed to lead not into a room, or even a place on land, but into open air. She gave Rhonin a quizzical glance.
“The rest of the Six are assembled there,” Rhonin said, not bothering to answer her unasked question. “Let’s not keep them waiting, shall we?”
Trusting him completely, Jaina stepped through.
The floor, simple gray and thankfully solid stone inlaid with a diamond pattern, was all that seemed stable. Above and on every side was a shifting sky. Now it was bright blue with lazily drifting clouds, but a heartbeat later stars appeared and a rich blackness seemed to seep over the blue like spilled ink.
“Welcome, Lady Jaina, to the Chamber of the Air,” said a voice. Or was it several voices all speaking at once? Dazzled by the room’s endless and constantly changing vista, Jaina couldn’t be sure. She tore her gaze away from the compelling, almost hypnotic sky-wall and looked at the Six, who formed a circle with Jaina in the center.
In bygone days, she knew, they had concealed their identities, even from other members of the Kirin Tor. But that tradition had recently fallen by the wayside. She could plainly identify each member. In addition to Modera, Aethas, and Rhonin, she beheld Ansirem Runeweaver. He was not often in Dalaran; recent tasks had necessitated his traveling extensively. On what mission, of course, Jaina did not know. Runeweaver Square was named in homage to this sharp-eyed, decisive man. Present too was Karlain, alchemist and mage both. Once at the mercy of his emotions, Karlain had learned to master them. Few were as controlled and thoughtful as he.
Last but most assuredly not least, Jaina recognized the aged visage of a young man—Khadgar, one of the most powerful magi in Azerothian history. Though he looked to be thrice Jaina’s age, she knew the mage was only a decade older than she. Apprentice to Medivh, observer for the Kirin Tor, the closer of the Dark Portal, he dwelt in Outland, working with the naaru A’dal. That he was here, willing to discuss the matter of the protection of Theramore, gave her hope.
“Don’t just stand there gawking,” he said chidingly, but with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m not getting any younger.”
Jaina inclined her head respectfully. “First, let me say that you do me great honor by listening to my plea. I shall be brief. You all know me as a moderate, a diplomat. For years, I have ceaselessly worked toward peace in Azeroth between the Alliance and the Horde. That I am here now, asking the aid of the Kirin Tor to defend an Alliance city against the Horde, must convey to you how dire and one-sided the situation truly is.”
She moved slowly as she spoke, catching the eye of each mage in turn, letting them see her earnestness. Khadgar, she suspected, was inclined to agree. Karlain was harder to read, as was Ansirem, and they both regarded her with folded arms and blank expressions.
“The Horde has destroyed Northwatch Hold. Not only did Garrosh Hellscream amass an army of all Horde races, but his shaman used dark magic to control and direct molten giants—unpredictable and violent fire elementals. The use of such coercion could trigger an event similar to the Cataclysm, if the elements grow sufficiently angry.”
On to Modera, who gave her the slightest of smiles, and the helmeted Aethas, who stood as still as if he had been carved out of stone.
“They have set their sights on Theramore. We have a strong defense, and King Varian Wrynn has agreed to send us support in the form of the 7th Legion’s naval fleet.”