Thrall nodded his comprehension of the dire words, but his mind was on other words, spoken not so long ago by a woman now dead.
Nothing is free, Go’el. Your knowledge and skills were bought at a cost… Garrosh is stirring up trouble between the Alliance and the Horde—trouble that didn’t exist until he started it… You can control the winds as a shaman. But the winds of war are blowing, and if we do not stop Garrosh now, many innocents will pay the price for our hesitation.
And many had. For a long moment, Thrall simply stood, lost in painful, soul-searching thought while the rest of the Ring spoke their concerns. Had she been right? Could this have been avoided if he had let others do the working here?
There was a time when that question would have haunted him for days. Now he examined it, as the rational mind must, and dismissed it. Jaina had always maintained that it was as foolish to downplay one’s abilities as it was to exaggerate them. Thrall had held the space of Earth for the four Aspects during the battle against Deathwing. He was most certainly not solely responsible for the healing that had taken place here, but he knew he had been able to significantly contribute.
To, quite literally, change the world by healing it.
He was as disturbed by the use of molten giants as the other shaman and as grieved as any by the honorless attack upon Theramore, the use of stolen magic to enact mass murder from a distance. But he knew that he could not—in fact, none of them could—leave now.
Nobundo was saying that very thing as Thrall’s heavy heart turned to the conversation. “We are seeing progress. We cannot stop now—none of us.”
“What might he do next?” asked Rehgar. “To enslave molten giants for his own selfish purposes threatens to undo all that we have worked toward!”
“We united with the Cenarion Circle and the Aspects to heal Nordrassil,” Muln Earthfury said. “This union was unprecedented and accomplished all we had hoped. With Nordrassil whole again, the world has a chance of healing. If Garrosh will do this, what might he do to our World Tree?”
Thrall looked over at his friends. Their faces reflected his own indecision. Nobundo and Muln exchanged glances, and then Nobundo approached.
“I am angered and saddened by this news,” he said. “Not just word of the abuse of the elementals, but all of this. It is true that the earth may rise up in anger at being so mistreated, and even Nordrassil is at risk. But if we halt our work here now, in an effort to rebuke Garrosh—and I am not sure how such efforts would be received—we risk undoing what good we have managed to achieve. Go’el—the Horde was once yours. You chose to place Garrosh in charge of it. And all of us know of your friendship with the peace-seeking lady Jaina Proudmoore. If you feel the need to depart, no one here will question you. I would say the same to anyone else. We are here because we choose to be—because we are called. If you no longer hear that call, you may walk away with our blessings.”
Thrall closed his eyes for a long moment. He was grieving, shocked, furious. He wanted nothing more than to don armor, pick up the Doomhammer, and march on Orgrimmar. To punish Grom Hellscream’s son for all the foolish, arrogant, devastating things he had done. Garrosh was his mistake, his responsibility, and no one else’s. Thrall had tried to instill orcish pride in Garrosh, but instead of taking the best of his father’s lessons, the young Hellscream had taken the worst of them.
But he could not go, could not satisfy his pain. Not yet. Even if Jaina Proudmoore’s ghost were to show up and cry for vengeance right this moment, he would have to tell her no.
He lifted sad blue eyes to Nobundo and said, “I grieve. I am angry. But I am still called to be here. Nothing is greater than this duty, right now.”
No one spoke, not even Aggra. They all knew what the admission had cost him. Rehgar reached out and clapped Thrall on the shoulder.
“We won’t let anyone, Horde or Alliance, who fell in this ill-conceived abomination die in vain. Let us honor them by what we do here. Let’s get back to work.”
Jaina teleported into Stormwind’s Valley of Heroes, directly beneath the statue of General Turalyon. General Jonathan used to patrol here, but there was no mounted soldier waiting to greet newcomers to the city or attend the king at a moment’s notice. Jaina looked up at the scaffolding that supported several towers still under repair from Deathwing’s attack.
She had hidden the Focusing Iris safely, close enough so that Kalecgos would still blur the artifact and her together, but other than that, she had not bothered to do much to “prepare” for her meeting with Varian. Her face and robes were still dirty, her body lacerated by small cuts and discolored by bruises. She did not care. This was no formal dinner, no celebratory gathering, no occasion for baths and cosmetics or even clean clothes as far as she was concerned. Jaina had come for a more somber and colder reason than that. Her only concession to her appearance was to wear a dark cape with the hood pulled down to hide her newly white hair with the single remaining golden streak.
Stormwind, it seemed, had already gotten the dreadful tidings of Theramore’s fate. The city was bustling at all hours, but now there was a precision and a grimness to it. Soldiers patrolled the streets, no longer nodding and greeting citizens casually but striding with purpose, their eyes scanning the rushing crowds. The bright banners of gold and blue had been taken down, replaced by simple, plain black ones of mourning.
Jaina pulled her cloak about her more tightly and set out for the keep. “Halt!” The voice was sharp, commanding. Jaina whirled, instinctively lifting her hands to cast a spell, but stopped herself. It was no Horde member assaulting her; it was one of Stormwind’s guards. He had drawn his sword and regarded her, frowning. The frown turned into shock as the guard’s eyes met hers.
Jaina forced a smile. “Your devotion to duty is to be commended, sir,” she said. “I am Lady Jaina Proudmoore, come to have an audience with your king.” She moved the hood back slightly, enough so that her features could be distinguished. Jaina did not recall meeting this man personally before, but it was likely she had encountered him during her many formal visits. If not, she was a familiar enough figure that he would recognize her.
It took a moment, but then he sheathed his sword and bowed. “My apologies, Lady Jaina. We were told there were no survivors save those on the outskirts of the city. Thank the Light you are alive.”
It has nothing to do with the Light, thought Jaina. It has everything to do with Rhonin’s sacrifice. She still did not know why Rhonin had chosen to die while ensuring that she survived. He was a husband and father of twins, the leader of the Kirin Tor. He had more to live for than she did. Jaina should have died with her city, the city she had been too trusting to truly protect.
Nonetheless, the words were meant kindly. “Thank you,” she said.
The guard continued. “We are preparing for war, as you see. Everyone—we were all stunned to hear—”
Jaina couldn’t bear any more and lifted a hand. “Thank you for your concern,” she said. “Varian is expecting me.” He wasn’t. He thought her dead, lost with Kinndy and Pained and Tervosh and—“I know the way.”
“I am certain you do, Lady. If you have need of anything, anything at all, any of the Stormwind guards would be honored to assist.”
He saluted again and resumed his patrol. Jaina continued on to the keep. Here, too, the banners of the Alliance had been replaced with black ones, hanging on the front of Stormwind Keep behind the huge statue of King Varian Wrynn. Jaina had seen it before, and gave it and the fountain upon which it stood little heed. Quick footfalls carried her up the steps to the main entrance of the keep, where she announced herself and was told that Varian would, of course, see her shortly.