Standing next to them, but not officially part of them, was the stone-faced Vereesa. Jaina was glad she had been permitted to attend. Surely she had earned the right by losing the one she loved best in this world.
“Sad is the occasion that welcomes Lady Jaina Proudmoore a second time to these chambers, but glad are we to see you survived.” It was Khadgar who spoke, and this time he seemed to truly be the age his appearance proclaimed him as. His voice was weary; he leaned heavily on a staff; and even his formerly dancing eyes looked old. His companions, too, appeared strained. Modera had dark circles beneath her eyes. Disciplined Karlain was clearly having difficulty restraining his anger and pain. Aethas, the leader of the Sunreavers, who had recommended Thalen Songweaver, still wore his helmet, so Jaina could not see his face. But his body language was agitated.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Jaina said. “Forgive me if I dispense with formalities. I came here not so long ago, asking for the Kirin Tor’s help to defend Theramore. You granted it, and for that I am grateful. For the death of Archmage Rhonin, I grieve with you. He died a true hero. I am alive because of him. I am humbled by that gesture, and I vow to honor it as best I can. I will not mince words. I am here to ask you to join with the Alliance in attacking the Horde. The armies gather in Orgrimmar, to feast and drink and celebrate a massacre. If we strike now, we will destroy them so that they are unable to perpetrate such evil again.”
“Dalaran is neutral,” said Modera. “We went to Theramore only to protect and advise.”
“And if you had done more than that, Theramore might be of note to mapmakers of the future,” Jaina retorted. “Rhonin gave his life to stop the mana bomb as best he could. If there had been more—if the full force of the Kirin Tor had been brought to bear—he might still be alive!”
“I am… revolted by Garrosh’s actions,” said Aethas. “And I take responsibility for the harm done by one of my own Sunreavers. But attacking Orgrimmar is not the answer.”
“You Sunreavers cannot be trusted,” growled Vereesa. She looked imploringly at the other members of the council. “Why is he even still here? They are traitors, all of them! I warned you not to let them join the Kirin Tor!”
“There have been human traitors, and high elf, and gnome, and orc,” said Aethas calmly. “I will do what I can to atone for the treachery of Songweaver. The irony that I sent him as a gesture of goodwill does not escape me. But we must not abandon our stance of neutrality for vengeance!”
Others were nodding. Khadgar looked thoughtful, as if he were turning things over in his mind. Jaina could not believe their reactions, their hesitation.
“What will it take for you to realize that the Horde will eventually turn on you? They do not understand ‘neutral,’ just as they do not understand ‘diplomacy’ or ‘decency.’ They will flow over Kalimdor, then turn on the Eastern Kingdoms, then come here. Your refusal to stop them will mean that one day soon, Horde will be swarming over Dalaran itself! Please, strike while we still can! We have uprooted the city once—let us do so now. Take it to Orgrimmar. Attack from above while they lie in a drunken stupor, dreaming of conquest! You’ve lost Rhonin and an entire city. Will you act when Teldrassil falls? When they are burning a World Tree?”
“Lady Jaina,” said Modera, “you have been through the unspeakable. You have beheld horrors and watched a friend die while he saved you. There is no one here who approves of the actions of the Horde. But… we must meet, to decide what next to do. We will summon you when we have reached a decision.”
Jaina bit her tongue against a flood of retorts and nodded. They would do the right thing. They had to.
Jaina found both Windle and Jaxi Sparkshine in a corner at the inn called A Hero’s Welcome. The normally lively and bright tavern was quiet and solemn; there was little “welcoming” about it. Jaina hesitated in the doorway, wondering if she should intrude upon their grief. Wondering if she could bear the torment she knew she would see in their eyes. They had entrusted Kinndy to her, and she had failed them. There hadn’t even been enough of the girl left to bury.
She closed her eyes against the sting of tears and turned to leave. As she did so, she heard a voice calling, “Lady Proudmoore?”
She flinched, then turned around. Both gnomes had slipped from their table and were walking over to her. How old they looked now, Jaina thought. Kinndy had come to them later in life, a little “miracle,” they called her. Jaina’s words floated back to her: I give you my word, I will keep her as safe as I possibly can.
She had planned to be eloquent, to praise Kinndy as the girl deserved. To give her bereaved family comfort, to let them know that Kinndy had fought well and bravely, that she had been a light to everyone who knew her. That she died defending others.
What burst from Jaina’s lips was, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” And for several long moments, it was the Sparkshines who gave Jaina Proudmoore comfort. They sat back down at the table, talking of Kinndy, wanting to be farther along in the healing process than any of them were.
“I’ve asked the Kirin Tor for help,” Jaina said, her feelings too raw to continue speaking of her apprentice. “I’m hoping they will join the Alliance and attack Orgrimmar. To stop anyone else from—from ending up like Kinndy.”
Windle glanced away for a moment, and Jaina realized he was listening to the chimes sounding the hour. Before she could apologize for keeping them so long, the gnome mage had slipped off his chair. “It’s nine o’clock.”
“Oh, yes,” Jaina said, remembering. “You light all the streetlights in Dalaran. I should let you be about it.”
The little mage swallowed hard, and his bright eyes grew even brighter with tears. “Come with me on my rounds,” he said. “I’ve gotten… special permission. Only for a time, but… it helps.”
Jaxi shooed them both along with a faint glimmer of her old self. “I’ve gone with him before,” she said. “I think it’s right you should go.”
Jaina was utterly confused but still so racked with guilt and pain that she was more than ready to do whatever the Sparkshines asked of her. So she followed Windle out, keeping her steps slow and short so she didn’t outpace him.
He shuffled outside and stood beneath one of the lamps, then drew out a small wand with an almost childish-looking star on the end. Then, with more grace than she expected, he pointed the wand at the lamp.
A spark flew from the tip, dancing around like a firefly. It did not light the streetlamp immediately. Instead, the glowing magical flame began to draw lines in the space above the lamp. Jaina’s eyes widened, then filled with tears.
The golden light was tracing the shape of a laughing gnome girl with pigtails. When the sketch was done, it came to life for a moment, small hands covering a giggling mouth, and Jaina could have sworn she heard Kinndy’s voice. She glanced down with blurred vision at Windle and saw that the gnome, too, wept, though his eyes crinkled in a loving smile. Then the golden lines broke apart and reformed into a larger ball of light, darting under the shade of the lamp. This lamp lit, Windle turned and trudged toward the next. Jaina stayed where she was, watching once more as Windle Sparkshine paid tribute to his murdered daughter, letting her “live” for a little while each night. No doubt when the tragedy had faded in others’ eyes, Windle would be asked to light the lamps in the usual fashion. But for now, everyone in Dalaran had a chance to see Kinndy as Jaina and her parents had—bright and sparkling, her face alight with laughter.