“What was his response?”
Jaina looked down at her hands again. “He said . . . we couldn’t risk adding to the Alliance’s losses by acting precipitously. And Anduin said he thought even some of the Horde might be angry with Garrosh for his cowardly actions. I told them it was too late for that.”
“What exactly did you say?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Lady Jaina, I can produce a Vision of this encounter if you cannot tell me what you said.” His voice was kindly, but nonetheless her head whipped up, and he saw . . . shame in her face.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said quietly. “I told Varian he was a coward, and I . . . apologized to Anduin for any part I had in creating his gullibility. And . . . I walked out.”
“What did you do then?”
“I went to Dalaran. I told Vereesa what had happened. How brave her husband had been, that he had been the one to save me, and her, and everyone else he possibly could.” Baine did not look up to see Vereesa’s reaction; she had not returned after the respite. “I begged the Kirin Tor for aid. I wanted them to uproot Dalaran, as had been done before, and use it to raze Orgrimmar. They refused.”
“So no one, it seemed, wanted to wipe out an entire city. Even after what had happened in Theramore,” said Baine.
“No, they didn’t.”
“What did you do then?”
“I had recovered the Focusing Iris before the Horde could do so. And when no one else would aid me, I learned how to use it.”
“With no army, no flying city to assist you?”
“That’s correct.”
“What was your plan?”
Her eyes didn’t move from his. She stuck her chin out. “To send a tidal wave composed of water elementals to wipe out Orgrimmar.”
“I think it safe to say that we all know that you did not do so,” Baine said. “Were you prevented? Or did you change your mind?”
“I . . . a little of both.”
“Can you explain that?”
Jaina’s brow furrowed. “I . . . had everything worked out. I knew exactly what I planned to do.” She paused, perhaps trying to choose her words carefully, perhaps trying to remember just how she had felt at the time. Kairoz had found this precise moment and was quite irritated that the tauren had opted not to show it. Baine did not think it would help Garrosh’s case to show a raging, broken Jaina carefully crafting vengeance, nor did he think it would bring anything but further pain to a woman who had had more than her share foisted upon her in one day.
“I was on Fray Island, and I had created the wave. I was only a few moments away from sending it north, to Orgrimmar, where it would gather even more strength along the way.”
“Why did you not release it, Lady Proudmoore?”
“Go’el interrupted me.”
“How did he know where to find you?”
“He had had a vision, from the elements. They called out to him and asked him for help. He said he would not let me drown Orgrimmar. We . . . fought for control of the wave.”
Baine looked over at Go’el. He was with Aggra, leaning forward, watching intently, his blue eyes sad. The friendship between human diplomat and orc leader had been unique. Garrosh had destroyed that, too.
“Who was winning?”
Jaina followed Baine’s gaze, then glanced down quickly. “I was,” she said. “I was about to kill him.”
“What happened?”
“Kalec found me. He joined with Go’el in trying to dissuade me from my path.”
“Did they? Or did they overpower you?”
Jaina’s expression was troubled. “They . . . told me that I would be no better than Garrosh. No better than . . . Arthas. And I realized . . .” She lifted her face. “I realized they were right.”
“And that Garrosh would also be like you?”
“With respect, I protest!” said Tyrande.
“Fa’shua, I am attempting to make sure we all understand the witness’s words correctly,” Baine said.
“I agree with the Defender,” said Taran Zhu. “Witness may respond to clarify.”
“Yes,” said Jaina. “We would be alike.”
“And you didn’t want that.”
“No. Never.”
“But for a moment, you understood how he could want to do such a thing. To destroy a whole city, even civilians.”
“I—yes. Yes, I did.”
Baine inclined his head. “Thank you, Lady Jaina. I have no further questions.”
“Do you, Accuser?” asked Taran Zhu. His paw went to the mallet; apparently he assumed the answer would be no.
“Yes, Fa’shua, I do,” said Tyrande, rising and walking to Jaina’s chair. “Lady Jaina . . . you also later discovered that, had you released the tidal wave, you would have destroyed the Alliance fleet. Would you say that is the reason you are glad you refrained?”
Baine held his breath. It would be easy for Jaina to simply say yes. That was the answer Tyrande wanted, and Jaina would be free to leave, and to try to do what she could to salve wounds that had been so brutally reopened. He knew that the betrayal of the Sunreavers in Dalaran—her new city, her new Theramore—had cut deeply. Many said it had catapulted her right back to where she was emotionally after Theramore fell, and there had been rumors that she had pushed Varian to actually dismantle the Horde.
Jaina did not answer immediately. She gave the question the consideration it was due. “Of course, I was relieved to hear that I hadn’t inadvertently wiped out the fleet. But no—that wasn’t why I was glad.” She looked at Garrosh, and there her gaze remained. “I am glad I refrained, because I would never, ever want to be like him.”
Later, Baine would think that Tyrande should have accepted that. But the night elf could not leave well enough alone. Jaina was Tyrande’s final, best witness. The Accuser would henceforth be confined to follow-up questioning, and it was clear she wanted to end on a strong note. And so, she asked one question too many. “Or like the Horde?”
Jaina went very still. Tyrande waited. After a moment, she prompted, “Lady Jaina? My question was, do you wish to never, ever be like the Horde?”
And Jaina—battered, angry, wounded, devastated, honest Jaina—replied simply, “The Horde isn’t Garrosh.”
Tyrande’s eyes grew wide as now, too late, she realized her error. “No further questions, Fa’shua,” Tyrande said quietly, gave Jaina a long look, and returned to her seat.
• • •
When Sylvanas arrived at Brightwater Lake in Tirisfal Glades, near the Undercity, she found her sister waiting.
“I got your note,” Sylvanas said, “and I brought horses for us.” Sylvanas had not expected Vereesa to return to the courtroom after the respite. She had just watched her husband die—or, more correctly, watched her husband be turned into a pure arcane manifestation, then die. But Sylvanas had been surprised at the note, which said only, Brightwater Lake. I want to ride. Sylvanas took it as a good sign that Vereesa had suggested meeting at a place so deep in the Forsaken lands. She was proud of her sister for even knowing about the site, and for getting to it unspotted and unscathed. The Windrunner “Moons” were both superior rangers. Vereesa’s requested activity, though, was not a surprise. They had loved riding together as children; Vereesa especially had taken to it.
Vereesa sat with her back against the trunk of a dead tree. She turned her head slowly. She looked haggard, fragile, and Sylvanas was glad she could, she hoped, offer something pleasurable to her sister. Vereesa’s eyes widened at the mounts. The dead things regarded her steadily. One of them bent its long neck, devoid of flesh, and bit at a patch of grass. The grass fell back to the earth as its teeth ground it, but the being did not appear to notice, and bent its vertebrae for another mouthful.
“They are . . . skeletons,” Vereesa murmured. “Horse skeletons.”
“Few living things will bear me willingly, Sister, or even bear being near me. You will need to learn to ride these, if you are t
o come live in the Undercity. I promise you, they will obey.”
“Yes, I imagine they will,” Vereesa said.
She made no move to get up. Sylvanas dropped the reins of the two horses, knowing they would go nowhere, and sat beside her sister. Awkwardly, she asked, “How are you?” It had been so long since another’s welfare mattered.
Vereesa closed her eyes, but tears slipped from beneath her lashes. “I miss him so much, Sylvanas. So very much.”
Sylvanas had no comfort to give. She couldn’t even reanimate Rhonin’s corpse for her sister. So she sat quietly.
“I am so, so happy we are killing Garrosh,” Vereesa said. “I hope whatever poison you have is slow and painful. I want him to suffer—suffer as he has made me suffer. I am glad I saw what I did today. It is fuel for my fire. I never want to have to see that again—even think about his death again. I want nothing to do with that world anymore.”
“Well,” said Sylvanas, withdrawing a small vial from her pouch, “I think I can make all your dreams come true. This tiny vial contains enough poison to kill twenty orcs. And yes . . . it is everything we both want—slow, agonizing, and utterly without a cure.”
Vereesa reacted as if Sylvanas had just given her a birthday present. Her face lit up, the sorrow retreated, and she accepted the vial almost reverently. “So small, to be so lethal,” she murmured.
“One drop on each segment of the sunfruit, and Garrosh Hellscream will be no more.”
Vereesa clutched the vial tightly, her other hand closing around the locket that draped her slim throat. Sylvanas had returned Vereesa’s necklace to her, and both sisters now routinely wore the jewelry during their time together. “Thank you, Sister. I knew I could turn to you.”
Sylvanas smiled. “You have no idea how much it pleases me that you did. And as for leaving that world—I open mine to you. Is that why you wished to meet here?”
Vereesa nodded. “It was . . . becoming too sad to keep meeting at the spire,” she said. “I wanted to start investigating where I will soon be living.”
Sylvanas hid a smile at the choice of words, but said nothing. The strange phantom pains were increasing, but Sylvanas ignored them with the same steely will that had won her freedom from Arthas. For the first time since he had marched on her people, leaving behind the Dead Scar like the trail from a slug, Sylvanas was . . . happy. She had lost so very much, and it seemed to her that fate had delivered this unexpected gift—both for her personally and for any attempt to obtain more power within the Horde. She and her sister would indeed be unstoppable. Violence and horror had brought Sylvanas to the place she was today, and the same had driven Vereesa to seek her out.
How good it would be, she mused, to have someone she trusted. Truly trusted, who did not merely obey her orders out of fear or personal gain. Someone who thought, felt, as she did. And it seemed as though Vereesa longed for this as well.
Sylvanas had not told Vereesa everything, of course. One could not be equal to the Banshee Queen unless one was oneself a banshee. Her people would resent having to obey a living thing. But she would make her sister’s death so much gentler, easier, than her own had been. Kind. Vereesa would merely go to sleep, and awaken beautifully transformed, reborn with insight and ambition that one who breathed could never fathom.
“It may amuse you to learn that I now know how to make green curry fish,” Vereesa said, carefully tucking the precious poison into a bag.
“You are more than trusted in the kitchens, it would seem.”
“Yes. Another day or two, and then . . .” She frowned. “Sylvanas—can it truly be this easy? I keep feeling that something will go wrong somehow.”
“Nothing will go wrong, Little Moon,” Sylvanas reassured her. “We have not been given this moment—we have bought it with sweat and tears and torment. We have earned the right to this victory.”
“We have. My only regret is we cannot watch Garrosh Hellscream breathe his last.”
“Ah,” Sylvanas said, “but we can certainly imagine it, and that will have to do. What we will see is his corpse, and the chaos that his death will cause. And when one day we are able to claim credit for our kill, those who were too slow or too timid will envy us.”
Vereesa gazed out over the lake, arms wrapped around her knees. “I had always thought these lands dark and . . . sad,” Vereesa said. “But there is a strange kind of beauty in the darkness, is there not?”
“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
Day Eight
“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!”
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