Vereesa smiled. “Good. We had best be getting back.”
They fell into easy step with one another, returning to their respective mounts. “When do you think you can talk to Mi Shao?”
“I can do it tomorrow at the first respite, get the conversation started,” she said.
“Then let us meet back here tomorrow after court.”
“Are you sure that is wise? We do not want to arouse suspicion.”
Sylvanas almost stumbled at the thought of not seeing Vereesa again tomorrow. A strange pang she should not be able to feel, like the ache of a phantom limb, stabbed her, and she bit her lip against crying out.
“You said yourself time is of the essence,” Sylvanas replied. “And we do not know yet what poison will be required, how it will be administered—”
Vereesa held up a hand, smiling a little. “All right, all right! I will be so glad when this is done. Think of it, Sylvanas!” Her eyes were bright with delight. “Garrosh Hellscream . . . on the floor of his prison cell, gasping out his last breath as he feels cold poison slowly stopping his heart. How I wish there could be some way for him to know who had done this to him.”
“You are more bloodthirsty than I remember,” said Sylvanas. “It becomes you.”
“I have to be. I have thought of nothing else but that orc’s death since—” Her voice caught and she glanced away. “Well. I will see you tomorrow, Sister.” She smiled with an odd shyness, and suddenly looked less like the harsh, angry woman recent events had molded her into and more like the little sister Sylvanas remembered. “It may sound strange, but . . . I am glad we are doing this. Together.”
“So am I, Little Moon. So am I.”
“We will not make it in time!” Zaela snarled, pacing up and down the deck of the Lady Lug. Harrowmeiser stood, the balls and chains still at his feet, his arms crossed. His glower was truly magnificent.
“Well, lady—”
“Warlord!”
“Warlord, I think the Lady Lug is doing a fine job considering I’ve not been allowed to really tinker with her for a few years. I’m doing the best I can!”
“Do better! All this will be for nothing if we do not get there before the sentencing!”
“It might help if you take these off,” snapped Harrowmeiser, pointing to the iron balls.
“I leave them on so that you will fall faster to your death when I throw you overboard for failing me!”
“Actually,” said Harrowmeiser, “objects of equal mass fall at the same speed.”
“Correct, but you are not factoring air resistance into that equation,” Thalen said, inspecting his fingernails. “Or any magical means of intervention. For example, suppose you had a parachute or a slow fall spell cast on—”
“You will help him, Thalen.”
The archmage froze. “I beg your pardon?”
“Since you are both so clever, work together. Now. Find a way to get us to Pandaria swiftly.”
Until right this moment, Thalen had been enjoying the flight. Zaela was a worthy colleague. She had overthrown a fel orc to seize leadership of a clan hardly known as pushovers, and she had given the anti-Garrosh traitors a good run for their money. It was unsurprising that their draconic ally had appointed her head of the unlikely band. The Dragonmaw had gone on ahead and were currently waiting to regroup with them in Pandaria.
Shokia had been recruited next. The orc sniper seemed to know their leader personally, though she would not mention how. Her understanding of battle tactics, particularly from heights and distances, had helped to refine their strategy.
And Harrowmeiser . . . had stayed out of his way. Until now.
The two went belowdecks, where Harrowmeiser sullenly briefed the blood elf on how the Lady Lug operated. Thalen found himself reluctantly impressed.
“This zeppelin is not quite the deathtrap that you lamented it is,” he commented. “How did you keep it running so well for so long while you were a prisoner?”
Standing next to a wheezing bellows and a loudly turning crank, the goblin replied, “Taffy, twine, and a troll voodoo fetish.”
Thalen laughed. “You are a funny fellow. But, all joking aside, how?”
Harrowmeiser sighed and pointed a grimy green finger at the engine’s inner workings. Thalen found himself staring at the skull of some small, hapless animal that had been decorated with paint and colorful feathers.
“Oh, dear,” he said. “I see.” He could feel the magic coming off the fetish and mused, “Well, nonetheless, what you have done did seem to be working. Mostly.” Gingerly, he reached for the item and peered at it for a long moment. “I have a proposition for you.”
“Hey, right now my mind is totally wide open to anything that doesn’t end with me plummeting to my death. At any velocity.”
“You use some spit and polish and get this running as smoothly as possible.” He waved his fingers, and violet mist began to subtly roll off them. “And I will see if I cannot augment our little friend here to give us more speed.”
He raised the fetish and blew on it, softly, and smiled as the feathers fluttered.
22
Jaina Proudmoore fidgeted in her seat. She looked around the vast arena and spoke quietly to Varian and Anduin about inconsequential matters. Though she and Kalecgos continued to sit next to one another, Jaina knew the strain had to be evident to others. It wasn’t over between them—not yet—and she didn’t want to send something so precious to an early grave. Not if she could help it, and still look at herself in the mirror.
Chromie and Kairoz had their heads together at the Vision of Time, possibly discussing the order in which the various Visions would be displayed. In an attempt to break the silence that thundered on her ears, Jaina said, “It really is good of Kairoz to offer the use of the Vision of Time. It completely eliminates hearsay. We know that what we see is entirely true.”
Kalec, too, was watching the bronzes, and he had a slight frown on his face. “I appreciate the accuracy the Vision of Time is providing, but . . . Garrosh made mention of the Darkmoon Faire, and I worry that these scenes we are watching are becoming more entertainment than evidence.”
And so it comes back to that . . . always, ever, back to that. “Garrosh brought this on himself,” Jaina snapped.
“I will not argue that, but the theatricality of it all . . .” He shook his blue-black head. “What is happening here is important. It’s not sport—it’s supposed to be justice. It should not have the air of the gladiator ring.”
“People are hurting, Kalec,” Jaina said. “Some of us will never really recover from what this monster chose to do. We need this.”
He turned to her, and concern was writ plain on his beautiful features. He took her hand, enclosing it in both of his, and said quietly, “To what end? To put the past behind you? To move on? You haven’t done that, Jaina. As I said before—I’m not sure you even want to.”
Emotions flooded Jaina and she jerked her hand from his grasp.
Taran Zhu struck the gong for silence. Grateful for the interruption, Jaina crossed her arms across her chest, seething and aching both.
“This Pandaren court of justice is open. So shall it be,” Taran Zhu said. “Chu’shao, summon your first witness.”
Tyrande nodded, rose, and walked to the witness’s seat.
“The Accuser summons Alexstrasza the Life-Binder.”
Jaina’s jaw dropped. This, she had not expected. Alexstrasza, whose true form was of course a dragon, did not usually display much modesty in her choice of clothing when in her humanoid guise. Today, however, she was clad in a shimmering, red-gold gown that covered her from neck to toe. Only her arms and throat were bare. She rose with quiet dignity and made her way to the chair.
A handful of people stood up—her flight, and her sister. Then members of the other flights, and then still others, until the room was filled with the gentle thumping sounds of hundreds of booted feet hitting the floor. Nearly everyone present was standing in silent respect as the former Aspect, who had guarded, protected, and loved all life on Azeroth for millennia, reached the chair. Before she sat down, Alexstrasza tilted back her horned head and looked up at the sea of faces. A gentle smile illuminated her visage, and she placed her hand on her heart in a gesture of gratitude. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears.