The pair ate in silence for a long time. The fowl was anything but foul, for it was treated with a concoction of rosemary, bacon, and sheep’s butter placed beneath the skin before roasting. Even cold it fell apart in the mouth. The ale for its part was pungent, rich with bottomland hops.
Beneath them the city unfolded. The citadel itself was atop a rocky outcropping that already separated the King from his subjects, and from the tower’s additional height, the citizens of Stormwind looked like naught but small dolls busying themselves along crowded streets. Some sort of market day was playing out beneath them, brightly-tarped storefronts occupied with vendors bellowing (very quietly, it seemed to Khadgar at this altitude) the virtues of their wares.
For a moment Khadgar forgot where he was, and what he had seen, and why he was there in the first place. It was a beautiful city. Only Lothar’s deep grumble brought him back to this world.
“So,” said the King’s Champion in his way of introspection. “How is he?”
Khadgar thought for a moment, and replied, “He is in good health. You have seen that yourself, milord.”
“Bah,” spat Lothar, and for a moment Khadgar thought the knight was choking on a large piece of meat. “I can see, and I know Med can dance and bluff his way past just about anyone. What I mean to say is, How is he?”
Khadgar looked out at the city again, wondering if he had Medivh’s talent to bluster his way past the older man, to deny answers without causing affront.
No, he decided, Medivh played on loyalties and friendships older than he was. He had to find another way to respond. He let out a sigh and said, “Demanding. He’s very demanding. And intelligent. And surprising. I feel I have apprenticed myself to a whirlwind, sometimes.” He looked at Lothar, his eyebrows raised, hoping that this would be sufficient.
Lothar nodded, “A whirlwind, aye. And a thunderstorm, too, I suspect.”
Khadgar shrugged awkwardly. “He has his moods, like anyone.”
“Hmmpph,” said the King’s Champion. “An ostler has a mood and he kicks the dog. A mage has his moods and a town disappears. No offense meant.”
“None taken, milord,” said Khadgar, thinking of the dead mages in the tower room. “You ask how he is. He’s all these things.”
“Hmmmph,” said Lothar again. “He’s a very powerful person.”
Khadgar thought and you worry about him like the other wizards do. Instead he said, “He speaks well of you.”
“What did he say?” said Lothar, more quickly than perhaps he meant to.
“Only,” Khadgar chose his words carefully, “that you served him well when he was ill.”
“True enough,” grunted the Champion, starting into the other drumstick.
“And that you are extremely observant,” added Khadgar, feeling that this was a sufficient distillation of Medivh’s opinion of the warrior.
“Glad to know he notices,” said Lothar, with a full mouth. There was a pause between the two of them, as Lothar chewed and swallowed. “Has he mentioned the Guardian?”
“We have spoken,” said Khadgar, feeling that he was on a very narrow verbal cliff. Medivh did not tell him how much Lothar knew. He settled for silence as the best answer, and let the statement hang in the air for a moment.
“And it is not the Apprentice’s place to discuss the doings of the Master, eh?” said Lothar, with a smile that seemed just a jot too forced. “Come now, you’re from Dalaran. That nest of mage-vipers has more secrets per square foot than any other place on the continent. No offense, again.”
Khadgar shrugged off the comment. Diplomatically, he stated, “I notice that there is less obvious rivalry between mages here than in Lordaeron.”
“And you mean to tell me that your teachers didn’t send you out with a laundry list of things to pry out of the high Magus?” Lothar’s grin deepened, and looked almost sympathetic.
Khadgar felt some heat in his face. The older warrior was firing bow shots increasingly close to the gold. “Any requests from the Violet Citadel are under Medivh’s consideration. He has been very accommodating.”
“Hmmph,” snorted Lothar. “Must mean they aren’t asking for the right stuff. I know the mages around here, including Huglar and Hugarin, the saints rest their souls, were always pestering him for this and that, and complaining to His Majesty or myself when they didn’t get it. Like we had any control over him!”
“I don’t think anyone does,” said Khadgar, drowning any additional comment he might have made in his ale.
“Not even his mother, I understand,” said Lothar. It was a small comment, but it slipped in like a dagger thrust. Khadgar found himself wanting to ask Lothar more about her, but contained himself.
“I fear I am too young to know,” he said. “I’ve read some on her. She seems like a powerful mage.”
“And that power is in him, now,” said Lothar. She whelped him from a conjurer of this very court, and weaned him on pure magestuff, and poured her power into him. Yes, I know all about it, pieced it together after he went into that coma. Too much, too young. Even now I’m concerned.”
“You think he’s too powerful,” said Khadgar, and Lothar froze him with a sudden, penetrating stare. The young mage kicked himself for speaking his mind, practically accusing his host.
Lothar let out a smile and shook his head. “On the contrary, lad, I worry that he’s not powerful enough. There are horrible things afoot in the kingdoms. Those orc-things you saw a month ago, they’re multiplying like rabbits after a rain. And trolls, nearly extinct, have been seen more often. And Medivh is out hunting a demon even as we speak. Bad times are coming, and I hope, no, I pray, that he’s up to it. We went for twenty-some years without a Guardian, when he was in a coma. I don’t want to go another twenty, particularly at a time like this.”
Khadgar felt embarrassed now. “So when you ask, How is he? You mean…”
“How is he?” finished Lothar. “I don’t want him weakening at a time like this. Orcs, trolls, demons, and then there is…” Lothar let his voice trail off and looked at Khadgar, then said, “You know of the Guardian, by now, I can assume?”
“You can assume,” said Khadgar.
“And the Order, too?” said Lothar, then he smiled. “No need to say anything, young man, your eyes gave yourself away. Never play cards with me, eh?”
Khadgar felt on the very precipice itself. Medivh warned him not to let too much loose to the Champion, but Lothar seemed to know as much as Khadgar knew. More, even.
Lothar spoke in a calm voice. “We would not send for Med for a simple matter of a magical misfire. Nor even two common conjurers being caught in their own spells. Huglar and Hugarin were two of our best, two of our most powerful. There was another, even more powerful, but she met an accident two months back. All three, I believe, were members of your Order.”
Khadgar felt a chill creep up his back. He managed to say, “I don’t think I’m comfortable speaking of this.”
“Then don’t,” said Lothar, his brows furrowed like the foothills of some ancient mountain chain. “Three powerful mages, the most powerful in Azeroth. Not a patch on Med or his mother, mind you, but great and powerful wizards nonetheless. All dead. I can buy one mage being unlucky, or being caught unawares, but three of them? A warrior doesn’t believe in that much coincidence.
“There’s more,” continued the King’s Champion. “I have my own ways of finding out things. Caravan traders, mercenaries, and adventurers that come into the city often find a receptive ear with old Lothar. Word comes from Ironforge and Alterac, and even from Lordaeron itself. There has been a plague of such mishaps, one after another. I think someone, or worse yet, something is hunting the great mages of this secret Order. Both here, and in Dalaran itself, I don’t doubt.”