Anduin had lifted sad but determined eyes to his father. “I know this is a horrible thing,” he said. “And… I realize we have to attack the Horde. They’ve shown us what they are willing to do, and we must prevent them from harming more innocent people. But I don’t want to be like Jaina. Not about this. We can protect our people—but we don’t have to do it with hate in our hearts.”
Varian’s own heart had swelled with pride. He had not expected such acceptance, reluctant though it was, from Anduin. He was honestly surprised that he himself hadn’t shared Jaina’s feelings, and realized how far he had come from the man he had once been. There was a time when he had been filled with anger and rage, when parts of himself had been at war. He had been two beings, literally, and the rejoining physically was only a portion of the battle. He’d been taught to integrate those parts in his very soul, through the blessing of the wolf Ancient, Goldrinn. Truly, he had made great progress.
He might even be as wise as his son one day.
Broll had departed Teldrassil through magical means, an option not available to most of his people. The report of the blockade had been sobering but not unexpected.
“It is good, to see this construction,” the druid said as the three stood together. “Do not think that you will sail alone, Varian. While we have many ships trapped by the Horde’s blockade, there are many more elsewhere. Malfurion and Tyrande are more than willing to help you as best they can. You may look to see a few dozen of our graceful ships alongside yours in the not-too-distant future.”
Anduin turned to regard the druid, craning his neck to look up at this friend of his father’s. Anduin knew that Broll, too, had had to face loss and rage and hatred. Varian thought it must hearten the prince to see two former gladiators standing and discussing what had to be done with regret rather than glee. Light, it heartened him.
“You will not try to fight your way out of the blockade?” asked Anduin.
“No. Our energies are best put toward teamwork right now. What lives we must sacrifice need to count, Anduin. We have a better chance of winning when we focus together.”
Anduin’s golden head turned again to the ships in the harbor. “Why did the Horde do this? They didn’t know we had relocated the civilians. They just…” His voice trailed off. Varian laid a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder.
“The easy answer is that the Horde are monsters. What they did was monstrous, certainly. And I have a few choice words about Garrosh and his Kor’kron that I will not utter in front of young ears.” Anduin gave him the ghost of a grin. Growing sober again, Varian continued. “I don’t know why, Son. I wish I could tell you why people do such horrible things. The fact that I am certain many who are not Alliance are quietly muttering about Garrosh doesn’t sway my hand.”
“But… we won’t fight like Garrosh did?”
“No,” Varian said. “We won’t.”
“But if he is willing to do things we’re not… won’t that mean he will win?”
“Not while I have breath in my body,” said Broll.
“Nor I,” said Varian. “The world has become… unhinged. I saw violence and blood and madness in the pit. I did not expect to ever see anything like what Jaina was forced to witness.”
“Do… do you think she will recover? From the hurt to her soul that seeing that gave her?”
“I hope so,” was all Varian could say. “I hope so.”
22
The Violet Citadel was somber and still as Jaina slowly walked up the stone steps from the entrance hall. Pain wrapped this place. Once, Dalaran had felt light to her. The designs and structures certainly were graceful, but more than that, it was a place where magic was integral. Now it felt… heavy in a way it had never had before. Jaina, bearing her own burdens, sensed it, feeling kin to those who had lost so much.
Several extremely powerful magi, including the leader of the Kirin Tor. And one traitor, who was at least partially responsible for those bitter losses. No wonder the very air felt thick and sad.
“Lady Proudmoore,” said a voice brittle with pain. Jaina turned, and she felt a stab of sympathy.
Vereesa Windrunner stood alone in the huge entrance chamber. She wore clean plate armor in shades of silver and blue, and any wounds she had endured in battle were either healed or healing. All but one, which Jaina felt would never fully heal.
The widow of Rhonin looked impassive, as if she were little more than an animated statue, except her blue eyes blazed with fury. Jaina wondered if that fury was directed at the Horde for murdering her husband, or at Jaina, or even herself, for surviving.
“Ranger-General Vereesa,” Jaina said. “I… find I have no words.”
Vereesa shook her head. “There are no words,” she said flatly. “Only action. I have been waiting for you, since I heard you yet lived, for I knew you would come. And I come to you to implore that you will help me in obtaining that action. You survived; my beloved did not. You, I, and a handful of night elven Sentinels are the only ones who can give voice to the slaughter at Theramore. You have obviously come to speak to the Kirin Tor. May I ask what you intend to say to them?”
Jaina knew that Vereesa was leader of the Silver Covenant, a presence the high elf herself had formed as a precaution against possible treachery from the Sunreavers, blood elves who had been granted permission to join the Kirin Tor. As such, Vereesa was vocal and outspoken—but had no formal voice in the Kirin Tor. Neither did Jaina, officially, but as the sole living mage to report about the disaster—and as the one whom Rhonin had chosen to portal to safety even as he called the mana bomb down upon himself—she knew she would be given an audience. Now that Rhonin was gone, Jaina found herself remembering a particular conversation. How he had told her that many of the Kirin Tor wished she had not chosen the path she did, how they wanted her to be one of their number.
Jaina might not have been a member of the Kirin Tor. But she was certainly going to speak to them.
Vereesa was still looking at her, her face an implacable mask that doubtless concealed a maelstrom of anguish and rage. Suddenly moved, Jaina strode to the other woman and blurted out, “Rhonin cared about two things when he died. He wanted to make sure you would survive—and he made the effort to get me to safety. He bought both our lives with his own.”
“. . . What?”
“The bomb landed where it did because Rhonin called it to him. Rhonin used his magic to redirect it to the tower, which was heavily warded and magically protected, so the blast would cause as little damage as possible.”
The façade was starting to crack. Vereesa lifted a trembling hand to her lips, listening.
“He—he told me that I needed to survive. That I was the future of the Kirin Tor, and if I didn’t go through the portal he was struggling to keep open, we would both die—and his efforts would be for nothing. I refused to leave and—he pushed me through. Vereesa—I don’t understand why he chose me. Theramore was my city; I should have died for it. But he was the one who died. And I will not forget that, not as long as I draw breath, and I will do all that I can to be worthy of his sacrifice. I was there, Vereesa. I know what they did. And I will urge the council to make sure the Horde is never, ever, in so powerful a position again. That no one else has to suffer as we have.”
Vereesa’s lips curved into a trembling smile, and the next thing the mage knew, the two women were hugging each other tightly, and Jaina felt warm tears against her neck.
For the second time in more than a week, Jaina stood in the Chamber of the Air. It looked the same, if something that constantly changed could be called “the same.” The simple gray stone beneath her feet was the same, and the display of shifting sky from night to day, from storm to stars, was familiar. Yet everything was different. Jaina was no longer dazzled by the glorious vista, nor by the honor of being permitted to speak to the Council of Six. Five, now. She was unmoved as she looked about at the faces of the remaining members of the council.