“There is,” Sylvanas replied. “I am no night elf, but they understand this. There is a sweetness and a purity in night, in the time when the moons shine and the sun hides its face. There is beauty in death.”
“Do you . . . think they will accept your decision? To bring me in, to rule alongside you?”
“The Forsaken, or the Horde?”
“Either. Both.”
“Perhaps not at first,” Sylvanas said. “They will need a little time to grow accustomed to the idea. But soon, they will learn to value you, and be glad of your presence in the Undercity.”
“I am not worried about myself,” Vereesa continued. “I am concerned for the boys. It will be . . . very strange to them.”
Sylvanas was taken completely by surprise at the statement. Was Vereesa really thinking of—no. That was impossible.
She chose her words carefully. “It would,” she agreed, as if the idea had just occurred to her. “They would have no friends their own age, and it would be difficult to explain to them why. They might be very unhappy. The Undercity . . . is really no place for children, Sister.”
Vereesa looked away. Sylvanas watched her like a hawk, cursing herself that she had not appreciated that Vereesa was not just a widow, but the sole parent to two children. This was the first time Vereesa had mentioned them since the sisters had begun their secret meetings. It was as if, with their father’s death, Vereesa could not think of anything other than revenge.
“No,” Vereesa sighed. “No, I suppose it is not.” Her hand dropped to the grass and she picked up a pinecone absently.
Something in her voice alerted Sylvanas. “Of course, if you really want them to come along, I would do my best to make them welcome. They are, after all, my closest kin—other than you.”
She shook her white head. “No, you are right. I cannot imagine it would be a good place for them. They are better off where they are.” Vereesa laughed without humor. “I have not been the best of mothers to them anyway.” Abruptly Vereesa crushed the cone in her hand. The scales cracked and fell off as she tossed it away.
Sylvanas was reassured. Vereesa understood. Sylvanas was glad—she would just as soon not have to murder her own nephews. Nonetheless, she would feel easier when her sister was safely dead. Then they could be together.
Forever.
30
“I summon King Varian Wrynn to speak,” said Baine.
Anduin couldn’t resist. He leaned over to his father and whispered, “Stick to the questions. Don’t volunteer anything.”
“Ha, ha,” muttered Varian as he rose. Anduin saw Jaina’s shocked expression and realized that he was likely the only one Varian had informed that Baine wished to present him as a witness for the Defender. Her blue eyes went from father to son; then she pressed her lips together and stared stonily ahead.
She was not alone in her surprise, of course. It would have seemed odd to have the king of Stormwind speaking in favor of the leader of the Horde under any circumstances, even if that leader had been Go’el. But Garrosh? Anduin sat back, wondering what Baine had in mind.
Varian made his vow, and then looked expectantly at Baine. “May it please the court,” Baine said, “before I begin asking the witness questions, I would like to present an evidence item. Most of you know King Varian Wrynn as the one who counseled against an outright execution of the Accused. But he was not always so moderate.”
“With respect, I protest,” said Tyrande, rising. “King Varian is not on trial.”
“No, he is not,” agreed Baine, “but without a choice he made, Garrosh would not be alive, and none of us would be assembled here today.”
Jaina muttered something under her breath about mistake. Kalec frowned unhappily, and, seated behind Jaina, Vereesa looked smug. She was a beautiful woman, but the expression was ugly. Anduin bit his lip, then returned his attention to his father.
“While that is undeniably true,” said Taran Zhu, “it is not a sufficient argument for me to ignore the protest.”
“Fa’shua, as odd as it may seem, I wish to establish King Varian’s credibility as a character witness for the Accused.”
“Even if your request were not reasonable,” said Taran Zhu, “that would be something I would wish to see. I agree with the Defender.”
Tyrande accepted the decision with grace, but her lips were thin as she sat back in her chair. She began making notes.
“Then if it please the court, I will show a Vision that establishes this.”
Kairoz strode toward the Vision of Time. Anduin noticed that the hourglass had been inverted, and the top bulb, which had all but run out with Tyrande’s presentation of the Destruction of Theramore, was now full. Gently, the flesh bronze dragon wove the spell around the artifact, and the metal-crafted one came to life to send the glowing sands flowing downward.
At first, the scene was dark. Then came the sounds of muffled battle—angry shouts, screams, the clash of steel on steel.
“What was that?” a frightened female voice demanded—one that only recently had begun taking on the more typical accent of her people.
Moira Thaurissan. Anduin knew now what was coming next. What he didn’t know was whether it would strengthen the Defender’s case—or if he even wanted it to.
A lamp was lit and Moira peered about fearfully. She was not alone in her quarters in Ironforge. Next to the bed, a cradle contained a sleeping infant, and two Dark Iron dwarves stood at the door. One of them started to open it.
“No!” hissed Moira. She rose, standing up on the bed, staring at the door. She was clad in a nightgown, and her hands crept up to her throat. “I order you, do not go outside! They might not find us!”
They drew their weapons, just in case. They did not have to wait long. There was a massive thump on the door, and Moira gasped. A second, and a third time someone on the other side tried to break in. The door bowed and then gave way completely on the fourth try.
Moira shrieked in terror. The baby, startled awake, added his piercing, frightened wail to the din. The three intruders burst into the room and began attacking the guards. The Dark Iron dwarves fought fiercely, but they were outnumbered. The intruders’ masked leader expertly wielded two swords, quickly dispatching one dwarf with a thrust so powerful that the killer could not immediately pull his weapon free, and he left it in the body.
He whirled to face Moira and, panting, tugged off his mask. The spectators, and the image of Moira as well, gasped when they realized it was Varian. Anduin had known, but found himself still grieving at the violence. If only he had arrived sooner. His eyes went to where the real Moira was seated, and he saw her looking composed, if uncomfortable. Anduin regretted that she was being forced to watch this—and angry at Baine for showing it.
Varian seized the terrified dwarf, hauling her off the bed and dragging her out of the room as she struggled to escape. The Vision followed them as Varian took his captive to the open area near the Great Forge. Dwarves and gnomes were beginning to cluster, watching in frightened incomprehension. Varian pulled Moira to him by the collar of her nightgown and pressed his sword against her throat.
“Behold the usurper!” Varian shouted. “This is the child Magni Bronzebeard wept countless tears over. His beloved little girl. How sickened he would be to see what she’s done to his city, his people!”
He turned his head to look into Moira’s wide eyes. “This throne is not yours. You bought it with deceit, and lies, and trickery. You have threatened your own subjects when they have done nothing wrong, and bullied your way to a title you have not yet earned. I will not see you sit upon this stolen throne one moment longer!”
“Stop here,” said Baine. Anduin could feel the spectators collectively returning to the present, all eyes trained on Varian. “We recognize you and Queen-Regent Moira Thaurissan, who obviously has survived the ordeal. Can you please tell us what is happening?”