Maybe Vereesa had been right—maybe the Light was at work. It was going to take care of Garrosh Hellscream. All Anduin would need to do was stay silent. He’d been an idiot to think he could help. That he could somehow reach Garrosh. The orc had been correct about one thing. Nothing good could ever, ever reach him.
He tried to kill you, he thought. He’d kill you now, if he could. Let him die. The world really would be better off without him.
Garrosh watched the prince of Stormwind struggle against his rage, and laughed. He squeezed a sunfruit quarter over his curry and picked up the bowl, raising it to his lips.
With an anguished sob that was half a snarl, Anduin darted forward, reaching his arm through the ensorcelled window and knocking the bowl from Garrosh’s hands. It clattered to the floor, its contents spattering the furs.
Garrosh seized Anduin’s arm and yanked, slamming the prince’s face against the hard iron. He twisted the arm sharply, taking it to an almost impossible position, and Anduin gasped.
“Roused you to anger, have I, boy? Then I have won!”
“Your food—it’s poisoned,” Anduin hissed, clenching his teeth against the pain.
“You lie! I can’t squeeze your skinny little throat through the bars, but I’ve got your arm, and I can rip it out of its socket!”
Anduin let the Light fill him, and the pain fell back before him. Calmness replaced the agitation in his spirit, and he offered no protest. He simply regarded Garrosh. The orc was right. He could tear off Anduin’s arm as easily as ripping a plant from the earth. Anduin was at the orc’s mercy, and he surrendered his concern. He had done the right thing, and that was what mattered. Whatever would happen, would happen.
Garrosh stared at him, panting in fury, but Anduin’s gaze never wavered.
A small motion near Garrosh’s feet drew both their attention. It was the rat that Anduin had seen before, drawn out of hiding by the tantalizing aroma of fish curry. It scurried forward, whiskers twitching as it sniffed, then plucked out a morsel with its forepaws and began to eat.
It jerked, sat very still, then resumed eating. Again, its body shook, and this time it began to convulse. Blood and foam appeared on its muzzle, and it thrashed about in agony, trying to crawl back to its hole with limbs that refused to obey. It made grunting, wet breathing noises as its lungs labored for air, and then, mercifully, it ceased to move.
Anduin swallowed, hard, fixated on the rat, then raised his eyes from the wretched creature to see Garrosh staring intently at him. The orc glanced away, and he shoved Anduin back so hard the prince stumbled.
Anduin hesitated for a moment, rubbed his now-healed arm, then turned and ascended the ramp. With a steady hand, he knocked on the door. It opened to him, and he left without another word to Garrosh.
He had made his peace. It was time for Garrosh to do the same.
Before he headed back down the corridor, he turned to Li Chu. “When Garrosh is brought in to hear the verdict,” he said, “please . . . remove his bonds.”
“We cannot do that, Prince Anduin,” Li said.
“Then—at least take off the leg chains. Let him walk as a warrior. Surely six guards will be enough if he tries to flee. I . . . don’t think he will. He knows he’s probably going to die.”
They exchanged glances. “Very well. We will ask Taran Zhu,” Li said. “We make no promises.”
It had been a busy day for Jia Ji. As one of the court’s couriers, he was oath-bound not to speak of his missives or who had sent what to whom, and his services were much in demand. Today seemed to be the busiest day yet.
First, there was the letter from Warchief Vol’jin to Lady Jaina, then a verbal response from the lady to the warchief to be conveyed. Then there was a note from the ranger-general Vereesa Windrunner to her sister. He had waited for a reply, and had been told to “Get out!” in a very loud and angry voice. Even so, he did have a verbal message for the ranger-general—from Prince Anduin, not Sylvanas. Yu Fei portaled him to Dalaran, where he found Vereesa sitting by the fountain, watching her two boys. They were all making wishes and laughing, each with fistfuls of coins.
“Ranger-General,” he said, bowing politely, “I have a message for you.” He looked meaningfully at the two red-haired, half-elven children.
The ranger-general paled a little and rose from where she had been sitting next to the fountain. The boys stopped and fixed her with worried looks. “I will be right back,” she promised them, and walked out of earshot.
“Yes?” She was polite, but wary.
“The message is from His Royal Highness, Prince Anduin Wrynn of Stormwind. It is as follows: ‘He lives. I will not make two children both fatherless and motherless. What you do now is your choice.’ Shall I bear back a response?”
Her face softened and became beautiful again with peace. “Yes,” she replied. “Tell him . . . Rhonin thanks him.”
The dead horse galloped as swiftly as it had in life, and never tired. Its rider killed as swiftly as she had in life, and she, too, never tired. The corpses were starting to litter the forest: wolves, bears, stags, spiders. Whatever had the bad luck to cross her path died, not always quickly and seldom clean.
The Banshee Queen uttered the horrifying shriek of her kind, infusing it with all the sickening sense of betrayal and raging, insane grief that filled her. A bear fell, weakened and panicked by the sound alone. She peppered the thick brown hide with arrows, and the beast bellowed in pain and churned up the mossy earth. Sylvanas drank in its suffering. She leapt off her skeletal mount and charged a wolf, which met her snarl for snarl until she tore off its head with her bare hands.
The pain was unbearable. It was the same phantom agony she had experienced over the last several days, when she had felt so happy with Vereesa. Except now, even the joy that had accompanied the pain was gone, and there was nothing left but torment.
Torment, and hate.
Her leather clothing was now spattered with blood, but she did not care. The only way to stop hurting was to hurt something else, to vent her anguish and sorrow and despair on something living, since she could not vent it on Vereesa, sister, Little Moon—
She staggered, clutching the wolf’s head, blinking eyelashes sticky with crimson fluid. She dropped the head, and it bounced hollowly. Sylvanas fell to her knees, buried her face in her hands, and wept, wept like a broken child who had lost everything, everything.
Little Moon . . . !
Gradually the sobbing ceased, and the familiar peace of coldness drove out the heated hurting. Sylvanas rose, licking blood from her lips.
She should have known. The pain she had felt at first, when she dared foolishly permit herself to hope for something different from what she had now, to feel something for another . . . to feel love again . . . It had been a warning. A warning that she was no longer made for feelings such as hope, or love, or trust, or joy. These things were for the living; these things were for the weak. In the end, they would slip through her fingers, trickling away like the violet remnants of Jaina Proudmoore’s apprentice Kinndy, and she would be left alone. Again, and always. Calmed now through tears and slaughter, she remounted her horse. Sylvanas Windrunner, the Banshee Queen of the Forsaken, would never again make the mistake of believing she could love.
34
Go’el was surprised to see that Sylvanas’s seat was empty. Of all the Horde leaders, he had thought she held the most personal, most virulent hatred of Garrosh. What had Baine said? Vol’jin had told the tauren, Ain’t nobody knows more of hate than the Dark Lady. And she like her hate dished out icy cold.
And yet, on the day when Garrosh was to finally break his silence, she was not here to lap up his suffering. Strange.