Vol’jin and Baine were not thinking clearly. They were too caught up in how their own people functioned, in what Horde members would want to see, and how they would perceive things. Even if they did take into account the Light-loving members of the Alliance, the verdict would never be in question.
But the jury was not made up of members of the Alliance and Horde. It was made up of beings who were completely impartial—and completely detached from the more visceral, transitory, intense emotions of the other races of Azeroth. Perhaps that detachment would stretch to being aloof from concepts such as “mercy” and “second chances,” in which case she need not worry. Or perhaps it would distance them too much from white-hot vengeance and the unending ache of the deaths of people one had once loved.
Clarity came to her, calming and arrow-sharp. She could not take the risk that the celestials, “august” as they might be, would make the wrong decision.
Sylvanas would not let her “kill” come “in its own time,” as Vol’jin had urged. She would take matters into her own hands, as she had done many times before. But how, precisely? It was possible she could accomplish it alone, but unlikely. Whom, then, could she trust? Not Baine, of course. Not Vol’jin. Perhaps Theron—he had seemed willing to talk. And Gallywix doubtless had a price.
There was still some time left before court resumed. She always thought better in her own realm, in the Undercity, beneath lowering skies and surrounded by the Forsaken, who entrusted themselves to her guidance. She would let them, let her home, inspire her.
She approached the mage assigned to the court, Yu Fei, and requested a portal. Just as Yu Fei had finished murmuring the words of the spell and an image of the Undercity appeared before her, another pandaren, whom she did not know, raced up.
“Lady Sylvanas,” he said, “my apologies, but I was instructed to give this to you!” He pressed a scroll and a small package wrapped in blue cloth into her hands. Stepping back quickly, he bowed. Even as Sylvanas opened her mouth to inquire who had sent said scroll, the air shimmered around her and she manifested in her quarters.
They were spare, as befitted one who did not linger overlong in them. Sylvanas Windrunner no longer needed sleep as such, though she did come here from time to time simply to be alone and to think. She had few belongings: a bed hung with heavy, dark drapes; a desk with candles and writing materials; a chair; and a single shelf lined with a half-dozen books. Select weapons were displayed on the wall within easy reach. She needed very little else in her present existence, and she did not keep much from her past one.
Curious as to who might be sending her a missive and a package, and cautious about opening them, Sylvanas inspected the scroll thoroughly. She sensed no magic from it, nor did she notice any telltale signs that would alert her to poison. The scroll was sealed with red wax, but there was no identifying mark. Turning her attention to the package, Sylvanas noted that the blue cloth was an item commonly sold in all major cities. She shook it gently, and something clinked inside. Sinking down on the soft bed, she then removed her gloves, cracking the seal with a fingernail.
The handwriting was elegant, the lines few:
Once we were on the same side.
Perhaps we can be again.
Sylvanas narrowed her eyes speculatively, trying to think who this mystery person might be. The handwriting wasn’t immediately recognizable, but it was somehow familiar. She had a rather lengthy list of people who had turned against her, or whom she had defied. Amused, she unwrapped the parcel and opened the small wooden box.
Her chest contracted, and she dropped the package as if it had bitten her.
The banshee stared at its contents, then rose and unsteadily made her way to her desk. Her fingers shook as she unlocked a drawer. Here, untouched for years, was all that remained of her past. There were only a few items: decades-old letters, arrowheads from significant kills, some other odds and ends, the detritus of a life.
And a small box.
Part of her urged her to throw the new gift inside this drawer, turn the key, and forget again. No good could come of this. And yet . . .
Holding the box, she returned to the bed. With unwonted gentleness, Sylvanas lifted the lid and gazed at what was inside. An adventurer had found this, several years ago, lying among the ruins of the spire where she had fallen. It had been returned to her. The memories it unleashed had nearly broken her then, and threatened to do so now.
Such a small thing, to have such power over the Banshee Queen: a simple piece of jewelry. Sylvanas picked up the necklace, letting the cool metal rest in her hand and gazing at the blue, winking gem that adorned it. Gently she placed it down next to the one she had just received.
They were a perfect match, save for the gemstones. Hers was a sapphire; this was a ruby. Different, too, Sylvanas knew, were the inscriptions.
She opened hers and read: To Sylvanas. Love always, Alleria.
Alleria . . . the second of the Windrunners to have left them. First had been their brother, Lirath, the youngest of them all, and perhaps the brightest. Then Alleria, lost beyond the Dark Portal in Outland. Then . . .
Sylvanas shook her head, reclaiming her composure. Of the Windrunner immediate family, she was certain of only one who yet drew breath.
Sylvanas opened the ruby locket, knowing what she would find, but needing to see it with her own eyes.
To Vereesa. With love, Alleria.
13
The note was written in bold print, brief, and to the point.
I will see you at home after court.
So few words, to make Vereesa so nervous.
Her sister was clever; no one intercepting this would know who had sent it, and even if they did, it seemed so harmless a message.
Except it wasn’t. “Home,” in this case, had a very dark meaning. Vereesa thanked Jia Ji, the pandaren courier who had so unwittingly borne messages that could potentially have started a war, rolled the scroll up till it was barely as thick as the quill that had written on it, and tossed it into a nearby brazier.
“Vereesa?” She started and whirled. It was Varian. “It’s almost time to go back in. If you want some dumplings, best get them quickly.”
He and Anduin were finishing up some spring rolls and heading toward the temple. Belatedly Vereesa realized that the brazier into which she had tossed the note belonged to a stout pandaren cook, who was busily stacking bamboo steamers atop one another and using chopsticks to delicately fish out perfectly formed dumplings. He smiled inquiringly at her, and she nodded, although food was the last thing on her mind.
“You’ll like them. Anduin almost cleaned out Mi Shao yesterday,” Varian said, grinning and ruffling Anduin’s fair hair. The boy ducked sheepishly, looking his age for once.
“The human cub is growing stronger,” Mi Shao said. “Pandaren food suits him. I am honored to provide both sustenance and pleasure to one who understands my land so well.”
“Try one of the little ones with seeds on them,” Anduin urged Vereesa. “They’re filled with lotus root paste. Amazing.”
“Thanks,” Vereesa said. “I will take two, please.”
“So will I, on second thought,” Anduin said. “You head on in, Father. I’ll join you shortly.”
“I will see you both in a few moments then,” Varian said, pulling his son to him for a quick hug and then striding off toward the arena. Anduin watched his father go, thanked Mi Shao in the pandaren’s native tongue, and took a bite of the pastry. He closed his eyes in pleasure.
“These are so good,” he said. Vereesa was fleetingly reminded of her own sons and their inexhaustible appetites, but her thoughts quickly drifted back to Sylvanas. She made no move to eat. As he chewed, he regarded her, then asked, “Are you all right?”