“Tayo wishes to act as my ambassador,” Talanji told them. “She will be my eyes and ears, serving me as Zekhan served you.”
The troll smiled boldly, endearingly unafraid.
“Without her, we would have been torn to pieces by Blightcaller’s traps.” Thrall chuckled. “She is welcome among us.”
“I’m Zekhan.” The troll tried to hold himself up under all the stiff bandages. “I promise I’m pretty handsome under here. Or I will be, when all me hair grows back.”
They joined the long line of warriors leaving Zandalar through the nightborne’s portal. Talanji was surprised to find herself sad. The city would be much emptier without them.
But a queen’s work was never done. With two Rastari enforcers to protect her, Talanji began the lengthy journey back to the Great Seal. She would take it on foot, among her people once more. As they approached the stairs leading out of the port, a young troll girl skipped toward her, angling past her guards. The enforcers made to stop her, but Talanji shook her head.
“Let her pass,” she said, kneeling.
The girl pressed a squashed purple flower into her hand. “For you.”
“That is a great kindness, thank you,” Talanji said. “I do not know if I am worthy of your gift, but I will endeavor to be so.”
“Ma’da says you not worthy, that you will make us worship Bwonsamdi.” The girl frowned, clasping her hands behind her back and swinging them. “Please do not make us worship him! I like Gonk!”
“Of course you do.” Talanji touched the girl lightly on the chin. “He is the Lord of the Pack, what is not to love? You should give him many offerings and sing chants to him every day! We need all of our loa, small one, for our soldiers to grow big and strong, for our fields and seas to flourish, for the health of the Zandalari people. And Bwonsamdi is not so bad! He helped us fight off the rebels, and he protects our souls, keeps us safe when it is time for us to depart this place.”
“Then…Then ma’da is wrong?” The girl scrunched up her nose.
“She is right to worry, but tell her that all loa will be whispering in my ear, that all will advise me,” Talanji told her seriously. “That is my promise to her and to you.”
“Okay!” The child squealed with delight and disappeared back into the crowd.
By the time Talanji had taken all the questions brought to her in the port and then the bazaar and found her way back to the palace, the sky had darkened, turning indigo and teal, the sun as lovely and lush as an orange. She watched a servant hum to herself as she pulled down a garland of flowers in the corridor outside the council chambers. Songs and the low thump of drums echoed through the halls.
Talanji removed her crown upon reaching her chambers, setting it gently in the velvet-lined case in her wardrobe. When she turned around to find her basin and splash her face with water, Bwonsamdi startled her, hovering in the purple dusk glow bathing her balcony.
“Big words ya said to that little girl in the market today.”
“Words you do not agree with?” Talanji crossed her arms.
The loa shrugged and tapped his cheek thoughtfully. “We had a deal. You protect me, our bond is broken, the pact undone. I keep my promises, girl.”
With that, Bwonsamdi drifted back from her, scooping up handfuls of air that gradually became tinged blue and then black. Wisps of energy curled around his forearms, then gathered before him a vortex that gradually took shape, the ghostly image of a knife. The room grew unbearably cold, whispers circling the knife, unknowable and foreboding.
“Come forward,” he told her. “The knife will sever our bond.”
Something almost tempted her to take the knife, but then she shied away, retreating to her bed, staring at him from there, a smile building on her lips.
“I’ve thought about it,” Talanji said, removing her sandals and rubbing her aching feet. “What I said to that girl is true—you must relinquish some of your say in matters, Bwonsamdi. There will be no crown for you to protect if things continue this way. You are still the loa of kings, but Gonk, Pa’ku, Akunda, all of the loa, they are crucial to our survival.”
At that, his smile widened. “Hm. Might be I’m not the foremost expert on crops and the like. ’Tis a fair deal, unless there’s a trick here I not be seein’…”
Talanji blew out a labored breath. “No. No more tricks, Bwonsamdi. I’ve had my fill.”
“Then?” He gestured to the ghostly knife.
“We can make each other stronger, Bwonsamdi. I am not foolish enough to think this will be the last of my troubles, or the last time our kingdom is threatened. I want power. I want it on my terms this time.”
“I still be the loa of kings?” He flashed her a ridiculous smile, the knife obliterated, the room suddenly warm again.
“You still be the loa of kings, Bwonsamdi.”
“Then I suppose our bargain is…amended, eh?” The loa bowed, and when he lifted his head again his blue flame eyes had darkened. “But I warn ya, Talanji: Do not gloat. This battle is won, but not the war. A time will come when ya will be tested, and that time is comin’ soon.”
She shuddered, hugging herself again. “I do not like it when you talk that way. It frightens me.”
“Good.” Bwonsamdi passed a shaking hand over his mask. “It should. I have one more thing to say before I go.”
Talanji groaned. “I am exhausted, Bwonsamdi, little more than walking bones.”
“Ya will like this. Trust me.” The loa winked, stepping aside to reveal a familiar silhouette standing behind him on the balcony.
He glittered like silver in the falling light, his eyes glossy with tears even appearing as he did then, as a spirit.
“Talanji, my girl.”
King Rastakhan opened his arms to her, and Talanji gasped. Warrior or queen, she felt no shame in rushing to her father, in letting him see just how much his presence meant to her. She wrapped her arms around nothing, his spirit chilling her skin as she tried to pull him into an embrace.
“Dry your eyes, my daughter,” he chided, wiping a ghostly finger across her cheek.
“You first!”
“You have grown wiser and stronger, just as I knew you would,” Rastakhan told her, craning back to look her up and down. “I am proud of the queen you have become.”
“I…I made so many mistakes, Father. I do not know if the people of this nation will ever trust me again.” Talanji shook her head, but her father laughed gently and hushed her.
His spirit wavered, as if the thought of being away from her was too much to bear. The light in him nearly went out, a darkness like a passing cloud casting him in shadow.
“What is happening?” Talanji demanded. “Bwonsamdi…”
Rastakhan’s image strengthened again, and he clutched his chest. “Something unnatural…I feel oblivion is near.”
“Say what ya must and quickly,” the loa warned. “The Other Side be too unpredictable these days.”
Rastakhan nodded, his hand hovering comfortingly above her shoulder. “Show me the perfect queen, Talanji, and I will show you a monument of stone. Perfect rulers live only in memory. Your mistakes will be forgotten when your victories and triumphs come. You have already faced so much, too much; if only I could be there to guide you.”
“You do,” Talanji murmured. “You guide me every day.”
“Time to go.”
Bwonsamdi watched them quietly from the corner of the balcony, but now he pointed to the setting sun. “The queen needs her rest, and ’tis time I returned ya to my care, Rastakhan.”
The king nodded, taking one long, last look at his daughter. “Remember, Talanji, you are more than just my daughter, more than blood: You are the queen Zandalar deserves. You will make your ancestors proud, as you have already made me proud.”
Talanji nodded, bracing for the moment wh
en he left her. “Goodbye, Father.”
“Goodbye, sweet little saurid. Be brave, daughter.”
“I will.” His spirit dissipated, dissolving into the cool dusk breeze like a soft puff of pollen, carried away and spread across the jungle on the wind. Bwonsamdi had already gone, leaving her alone with her thoughts and her kingdom. The fires had gone out. Tomorrow she would address her people. The Zanchuli Council must meet. Petitions must be heard.
The work of a queen never ended.
I will be brave, father, Talanji thought. I already am.
Epilogue
“That power will be your prison,” the Lich King warned. But he was a broken thing, and no longer her concern.
“This world is a prison.”
* * *
—
At last. At last. Sylvanas Windrunner’s hands tightened around the helmet, finding the weak spots, digging in, savoring the deep breath in before the plunge. It had all led to this moment. All the power she had accumulated, all the bargains she had struck, all the promises she had made. Wraithlike wisps of ice gathered around her, the glacial exhalation of the mountains pouring down around her, Icecrown Citadel breached, its lord defeated.
Power surged through her. Power. Power unmatched. Ecstasy’s twin. The Helm of Domination brittle in her grasp, the prison of Ner’zhul, the crown of Arthas Menethil, splitting down the middle, snapped like a bone. The barrier between the mortal realm and the Shadowlands, indeed the very Maw itself, was so perilously thin there, she could feel the other world vibrating just on the other side, as if eagerly awaiting her arrival. The helm seared her hands, resisting her, but Sylvanas had come ready. It could not resist the irresistible, the power of death and unmaking itself. She felt a scream well in her gut before it poured out of her, the Helm of Domination sundered, ripped in two, the blast from its breaking roaring up toward the sky, mingling with her cry.
And then it was done, and the helm useless, dropped at her feet, just rubbish for the pile. Bolvar Fordragon, the Lich King, a hulk of armor and cracked skin, riddled with arrows, stared up at her, and then at the sky, silent, in dumb wonderment at what she had done. At all that she had accomplished. Let him stare, she thought. Let him wonder. He was nothing now, alive but as broken and useless as Menethil’s crown, to be forgotten and left behind.
“And I…” She finished her thought. “Will set us all free.”
A new world was opening itself up to them, unfurling, the sky as torn and broken as the helm on the ground. The winds howled. Her cloak whipped at her knees. The heat of the helm still pulsed in her palms. Sylvanas gazed upon the tower that reached toward her from above, slender and dark, beckoning her like a finger.
She obliged. She took a step forward, closer to the realm of death. She could already hear a chorus of wails as high and sharp as the gales screaming down off the mountains of Icecrown. Here the wind tore at her just as steadily, but her gaze lay fixed on the way ahead. The Maw gathered, churning out its endless dark dirge, waiting and hungry.
She felt the ground suddenly tremble and ceased her advance. Black swirls gathered, then funneled toward the snow-covered peak. When the darkness abated, Nathanos was there, kneeling, his hands still clutching the empty vial.
“My champion,” Sylvanas purred. “Your timing could not be better. Tell me of your victory as we take these first steps together.”
Nathanos stood, slowly, and she noticed a tremble in his hands. Before he could even get his bearings, she felt simmering anger in her soul begin to boil. The story was etched in sorrow across his face.
“I…I failed you, my queen. Bwonsamdi lives. Sira Moonwarden has been captured. I could not carry out your command. The Horde…They came in force. They resisted us. I fear that Bwonsamdi will only grow more defiant now.”
Sylvanas slid her gaze from his blubbering lips to the tower looming above. His failure would complicate things considerably, and soured the triumph that had a moment ago felt so complete. She raised her head higher, closing her eyes briefly. In the back of her mind, Saurfang’s baritone mocked her: You just keep failing! With a snarl, she silenced the long-dead voice and dug her nails into her gloved palms. Nathanos stared at her, and his lips quivering with rage, his veneer cracking as he struggled, no doubt, to contain all the excuses and justifications he had prepared and that she would not hear. Sylvanas could strike him, scream and hollow out his soul, but it would not correct the failing. Only forward momentum would do that. This was a blow, but one she felt sure they could overcome. It would not be easy, but then, her mission required great sacrifice.
“Must I tell you to go?”
Nathanos swallowed hard, crushing the vial in his hand, a crunch like bone. The shimmering dust slid between his fingers like sand. “I will return to the Marris Stead, my lady, and await your orders.”
She heard the note of hope in his voice, fragile as a fledgling dropped from the nest.
“Go where you will, Nathanos, but do not be idle. The loa knows the Shadowlands well, I expect you will return to me with means to prevent his meddling.” Sylvanas flicked her fingers, as if ridding herself of a speck of muck. “My path lies ahead.”
And so it did. And so she continued, for power sought power, and she would have more of it, not for its own sake, but to wield it. The unjust ladder of their lives must be dismantled, not rung by rung, but all at once. All of it. She had been the plaything of a self-righteous cosmos long enough. The Jailer, too, understood what must be done. She did not know if or when Nathanos left, it mattered not—she had merged entirely with the shadows there already, part of the darkness at last.
For my brothers, who built my first computer, introducing me to the wonder of videogames. And for all the devs, writers, artists, and players who love Azeroth—this one is for you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A story of this scope involves a lot of eyes, and hearts, and hands, and there are many people who deserve praise for all that they contributed. First, I want to thank the entire team at Blizzard for creating this incredible world, a second home for me and many others. I would also like to sincerely thank Allison Irons, Chloe Fraboni, Cate Gary, Paul Morrissey, and all the editors that had a hand in helping me craft this narrative. At Del Rey, I need to acknowledge the hard work, humor, and patience of Tom Hoeler, and Elizabeth Schaefer for stepping in to help, along with Julie Leung and Lauren Kretzschmar. Thank you for sharing so many glorious memes in the margins with me and letting me take risks.
The Blizzard lore team was obviously invaluable during this project, and I want to thank them all for their insight and attention to detail, and I would like to specifically thank Steve Danuser and narrative designer Raphael Ahad. I want to acknowledge the hard work and creativity that came before me—Christie Golden and Richard A. Knaak have written some truly phenomenal books for Warcraft, and I found their work incredibly inspiring. It’s a remarkable thing for a fan to have this opportunity, and I feel fortunate to be here at the acknowledgments after taking this journey with the Blizzard and Del Rey teams.
On a personal note, I would like to thank my agent, Kate McKean, for her continued support and hard work. My family and friends supported me through this project and were extremely understanding over the holidays, so thank you to Lynn, Yves, Nick, Tristan, my niece Gwen, and nephew Dom. Thanks also to Taylor Bennett for keeping my spirits up and always being my cheerleader. I want to also acknowledge my two silent writing partners, Smidgen and Bingley, who put up with late nights and long hours, and never complain when we miss a walk or two.
Finally, I want to thank the World of Warcraft players who have been so sweet and supportive—thank you for giving me a chance.
BY MADELEINE ROUX
Allison Hewitt Is Trapped
Sadie Walker Is Stranded
Salvaged
THE HOUSE OF FURIES
House of Furies
&nb
sp; Court of Shadows
Tomb of Ancients
ASYLUM
Asylum
The Scarlets
Sanctum
The Bone Artists
Catacomb
The Warden
Escape from Asylum
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MADELEINE ROUX is the New York Times bestselling author of the Asylum series, which has sold in eleven countries around the world. She is also the author of the House of Furies series, Salvaged, Traveler: The Shining Blade, and the Allison Hewitt Is Trapped series, and she has contributed to anthologies such as Resist, Scary Out There, and Star Wars: From a Certain Point of View.
Twitter: @Authoroux
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