Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War

by Christie Golden

“Oh, yes,” Jaina said, remembering. “You light all the streetlights in Dalaran. I should let you be about it.”

  The little mage swallowed hard, and his bright eyes grew even brighter with tears. “Come with me on my rounds,” he said. “I’ve gotten… special permission. Only for a time, but… it helps.”

  Jaxi shooed them both along with a faint glimmer of her old self. “I’ve gone with him before,” she said. “I think it’s right you should go.”

  Jaina was utterly confused but still so racked with guilt and pain that she was more than ready to do whatever the Sparkshines asked of her. So she followed Windle out, keeping her steps slow and short so she didn’t outpace him.

  He shuffled outside and stood beneath one of the lamps, then drew out a small wand with an almost childish-looking star on the end. Then, with more grace than she expected, he pointed the wand at the lamp.

  A spark flew from the tip, dancing around like a firefly. It did not light the streetlamp immediately. Instead, the glowing magical flame began to draw lines in the space above the lamp. Jaina’s eyes widened, then filled with tears.

  The golden light was tracing the shape of a laughing gnome girl with pigtails. When the sketch was done, it came to life for a moment, small hands covering a giggling mouth, and Jaina could have sworn she heard Kinndy’s voice. She glanced down with blurred vision at Windle and saw that the gnome, too, wept, though his eyes crinkled in a loving smile. Then the golden lines broke apart and reformed into a larger ball of light, darting under the shade of the lamp. This lamp lit, Windle turned and trudged toward the next. Jaina stayed where she was, watching once more as Windle Sparkshine paid tribute to his murdered daughter, letting her “live” for a little while each night. No doubt when the tragedy had faded in others’ eyes, Windle would be asked to light the lamps in the usual fashion. But for now, everyone in Dalaran had a chance to see Kinndy as Jaina and her parents had—bright and sparkling, her face alight with laughter.

  • • •

  The summons to return to the Chamber of the Air was not too long in coming. For the third time, Jaina stood in the center of the strange but beautiful room, regarding the council with enforced calmness.

  “Lady Jaina Proudmoore,” Khadgar said, “before I tell you our verdict, know this: We utterly condemn the attack on Theramore with all our hearts, down to a member. It was cowardly and despicable. The Horde will learn of our displeasure and be cautioned against the usage of such wanton destruction. But this is a troubled time indeed. Especially for those of us who wield and would regulate and manage magic. A short time ago, we chose to offer our expertise and wisdom. We even agreed to help defend Theramore. Because of that decision, we were betrayed by one of our own and lost several fine magi, including our leader, Archmage Rhonin. Magic is in a dire state in this world now, Lady. No one is sure who’s supposed to be doing what. The blues no longer have an Aspect; they have lost a precious artifact that has been used for destruction; and we don’t even have a leader to guide us or take responsibility.”

  Jaina felt a cold sensation in the pit of her stomach and fought to keep her hands from clenching. She knew what they were about to say.

  “We can’t take care of Azeroth if we are in disarray ourselves,” Khadgar said. “We’ve got to reform, examine just what exactly went wrong. We can’t give what we don’t have, Lady. And what we don’t have is any real sense of what needs to happen next. You’ve come to ask us to throw the full force of our magi behind the Alliance. You’ve asked us to transport Dalaran to Orgrimmar and rain destruction down upon an entire city. We can’t do that, Jaina. We simply can’t. We’ve only just figured out we’re grown-up enough to deal with having Horde representatives among us, Sunreavers, and now you want us to destroy Orgrimmar? The world would erupt in civil war, and our part in it would ensure this very city, which has endured so much, would also be divided. And even if we weren’t, even if Dalaran and the Kirin Tor were in a state where we could handle this, there are merchants and craftsmen and innkeepers and travelers who never marched on Theramore. For pity’s sake, there’s an orphanage in Orgrimmar, my lady! We can’t—we won’t—obliterate innocents.”

  Jaina had to take a moment to make her voice steady enough to speak. “The orphans there will grow up to become Horde,” she said. “They are being taught to hate us, to plot against us. There are no innocents in that Light-forsaken city, Khadgar. There are no innocents anywhere. Not anymore.”

  Before Khadgar could speak, she had conjured the portal. The last thing she saw before she stepped through was his young-old eyes filled with sorrow.

  • • •

  Jaina did not go far. Her destination was the main library. She had been here before, long ago, when she had lived and studied in Dalaran. As she crossed the threshold in the company of one of the Kirin Tor librarians, she felt the very air of the place brush against her body, then subside. In years past, she had cast a recognition spell in order to enter safely; the library wards still remembered her.

  The librarian respected her request to be alone to peruse the books. He, as Khadgar had, looked at her with sad, sympathetic eyes. She did not want his sympathy, but she was willing to use it for her own purposes. Her request for solitude in this vast storehouse of books and scrolls had nothing to do with her alleged desire for quiet and reflection.

  Once the sound of his footfalls had died away and she was certain she would not be disturbed, Jaina turned her attention to the books. It was a daunting task, to be certain. The room was enormous and filled with shelf after shelf that towered high into the air. Jaina knew from experience there was no real order here; chaos and illogical filing methods would help to confound more mundane thieves yet be no hindrance to magic.

  She flicked her right hand. A small radiance appeared at the tips of the fingers, and she pressed the glowing digits to her temples for a moment. Then she extended her hand. The faint light-purple radiance left her fingers, like a tiny tendril of fog, and rose to the topmost shelf. While Jaina examined copies of books and read the labels of scroll cases with more ordinary senses, the arcane mist was seeking something else.

  Time passed. Jaina found many tomes that, in the past, she could have happily curled up with for days. Now they held no interest for her. She was single-minded and pure of purpose. Title by title she read and discarded. This was Dalaran. It had to be here.

  There came a sudden flash in the corner of her eye and she turned, smiling. The little arcane mist had accomplished its task. It had found something on a shelf that contained some of the library’s rarest tomes, the most dangerous, the ones that were carefully locked with magical seals. Even the ones that weren’t visible.

  Jaina quickly scanned the titles. Dreaming with Dragons: The True History of the Aspects of Azeroth. Death, Undeath, and In Between. What the Titans Knew.

  The Sixth Element: Additional Methods of Arcane Augmentation and Manipulation.

  Gently, she placed her hand on the spine of the book. It felt as if she were touching a living thing. It almost… quivered beneath her questing fingers. She pulled it out, and immediately it began to glow violet as the protective wards hummed. Jaina gasped and nearly dropped the book as an image formed, made of purple smoke.

  Archmage Antonidas’s visage peered at her, stern and cautionary. “This is not for idle hands, nor prying eyes,” the familiar, loved voice said. “Information must not be lost. But it must not be used unwisely. Stay your hand, friend, or proceed—if you know the way.”

  Jaina bit her lip as Antonidas’s visage faded. Each mage who consigned a book to the great library put his or her own warding seal on it. That meant that Antonidas had discovered this book, probably before Jaina was even born, and placed it on this shelf. Judging by the dust, it had not been disturbed since. Was it a sign of some sort? That she was meant to find this?

  The book continued to glow. She did not know the proper words to open it easily and so had to resort to a less pleasant method. She could force the seals to bre
ak, but she would have to act swiftly to avoid setting off magical alarms. Jaina sank into one of the comfortable chairs and placed the book on her lap. She took a deep, steadying breath and cleared her mind. Gazing at her right hand, she murmured an incantation of shattering. Her hand suddenly glowed bright purple.

  Now she lifted her left hand and concentrated. The hand began to fade before her eyes, visible only because it was limned with pale violet light.

  This could work, but only if she was very fast. She took another steadying breath, then placed her right hand down on the book.

  Shatter.

  The violet glow emanating from her hand danced and crackled over the book like lightning. She could feel it breaking the magical seal Antonidas had placed on the book, feel it… hurt as it was unwillingly forced open. She stared, not daring to blink. The very instant that the violet lightning started to subside, she slammed her left hand over the tome.

  Silence.

  A field flared to bright white life, encircling the book, silencing the magical cry it emitted. Slowly, the glow on both hands faded, and her left one gradually became visible.

  She’d done it.

  Quickly and carefully, mindful of the book’s age, Jaina began to leaf through it. There were all kinds of illustrations of magical items. Jaina didn’t recognize most of them. It seemed that many things had been lost to time and—

  There it was. The Focusing Iris. She began to read, skimming over the compelling but now unnecessary details as to how the blue dragons had created it and the various things it had been used for. She didn’t care what it had done. She knew firsthand what it had done. She wanted to know what could be done with it now.

  …amplification. Any and all arcane commands will be augmented by proper directional usage of the object. In keeping with this author’s theory that the arcane is an element unto itself, he humbly offers the fact that there is at least one documented occasion wherein the Focusing Iris was utilized to enslave, direct, and control various elemental beings.

  Jaina felt almost giddy. She rose and looked around, making certain she was still alone in the vast chamber. Then, carefully, she wrapped the book in her cloak and moved swiftly out the door and down the steps. She had one more visit left to make in this city before she departed on what was looking to be a solitary venture of revenge.

  23

  It had been Jaina herself who had designed the statue. She had covered the costs and selected the artist. Now Antonidas supervised the city he had given his life to protect. The image of her friend had had a spell cast upon it so that it hovered about six feet off the grass. Below the image of the great man was a plaque:

  ARCHMAGE ANTONIDAS, GRAND MAGUS OF THE KIRIN TOR

  THE GREAT CITY OF DALARAN STANDS ONCE AGAIN—A TESTAMENT TO THE TENACITY AND WILL OF ITS GREATEST SON. YOUR SACRIFICES WILL NOT HAVE BEEN IN VAIN, DEAREST FRIEND.

  WITH LOVE AND HONOR, JAINA PROUDMOORE

  Jaina now stood on the soft green grass and looked up at her friend. The sculptor had been talented, able to capture Antonidas’s combination of sternness and kindness. In one hand ceaselessly turned a small orb, sparkling with magic. In the other, Antonidas bore his greatstaff, Archus.

  Jaina still kept the book hidden in her cloak, lest some sharp eye spy it. She placed a hand on it as it lay, solid and reassuring, wrapped in the fabric.

  The memories flowed easily and, for the most part, painlessly here, in the shadow of her mentor’s statue. This man had seen so much promise in her and had taught her with cheer, enthusiasm, and pride. She remembered long conversations with him about esoteric matters and the finer points of magic, such as the positioning of one’s fingers and the angle of one’s body. At that time, both she and he had been certain that in Dalaran she would progress far, even rise high in the Kirin Tor. And the beautiful city would be her home.

  The soft smile that had touched her lips faded. So much—too much—had happened. She clung to the hope that somehow her mentor had reached past the grasp of death to guide her to the book that would tell her precisely how to use the Focusing Iris. She hoped he would bless her endeavor. Surely he would, if he had seen what she had seen.

  A gentle touch on her shoulder caused her to start and almost drop the cloak-wrapped book. She caught it at the last second and turned.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Kalecgos said.

  Paranoia gripped her. “How did you know I was here?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light and casual.

  “I returned to the Nexus, after we… after you left. I sensed your arrival here in Dalaran from there.” His blue eyes were unhappy. “I think I can guess why you’ve come.”

  She looked away. “I came to ask for help from the Kirin Tor. Help to fight the Horde after what they did to Theramore. They refused me.”

  He hesitated, then said quietly, “Jaina… I went to Theramore too. If the bomb fell on the city, and we know it did, then the Focusing Iris should have been there as well. It was gone.”

  “I’m willing to bet the Horde sent someone to retrieve it,” Jaina said. “I fought several of them.”

  “That’s likely,” he said in agreement.

  “Can you still sense it?” she asked.

  “No. But I would definitely know if it had been destroyed. So that means that once again, it appears that a powerful mage is hiding it from me—and doing an even better job this time. And as we have so tragically seen, if it still exists, it can be used to do great harm in this world.”

  So… her shielding spell had worked. “Then you’d better be about finding it.” She disliked lying to him, but she knew he wouldn’t understand. Or… would he? If he had been to Theramore… seen what she had seen… maybe he shared her feelings.

  “Kalec—the Kirin Tor won’t help me. You once said you would fight for me—for the lady of Theramore. Theramore’s gone. But I’m still here.” Impulsively she reached out and grasped his hand. He held hers tightly. “Help me. Please. We have to destroy the Horde. They won’t stop with just this, and you know it.”

  She could see the struggle in his soul reflected on his face and understood how deeply he truly cared for her. As, she was coming to realize, she cared for him. But this was no time for the gentle sweetness of courtship, of romance. There was no room for love when the Horde still existed, was able to do such hideous things. She needed every weapon she could find, and regardless of her own desires, Jaina knew she had to make her heart turn to steel.

  “I can’t do that, Jaina,” he said, and his voice was raw with pain. “This implacable… well, hatred—it’s not you. The Jaina I knew still sought peace. Still tried to understand, even as she prepared to defend her people. I can’t believe you truly want to perpetrate the same horror on them as they did to Theramore. No sane mind, no good heart, should ever wish that on anyone.”

  “So, you think I’ve gone insane?” she said lightly but angrily. She drew her hand back.

  “No,” he said, “but you are too close to the situation to judge your next course of action wisely. I think you would be acting out of pain, out of anger. No one blames you for feeling that way. But you mustn’t act when you are in this irrational state of mind! I know you, and I believe you’d come to regret it.”

  She narrowed her eyes and stepped back. “I know you care for me, and you mean what you say in the kindest way possible. But you’re wrong. This is me. This is who the Horde made me when they dropped that cursed bomb on my city. You don’t want to help me? You don’t hear the voices that cry out for justice? Fine. Don’t help me. But whatever you do, do not get in my way.”

  He bowed low as she turned and strode off, clutching the book—the book that Antonidas had warded, the book that would help her let the dead rest in peace, the book that would give her the power to make the Horde taste what it had done—to her heart.

  • • •

  The inn at Razor Hill was raking in the revenue, and the innkeeper, Grosk, didn’t mind at all. Razor Hill had always
been a rough-and-tumble town, populated as it usually was with soldiers and transients who never stayed long. With so many coming in for meals and grog at all hours while the celebrating continued in Orgrimmar, Grosk thought—as he made his usual halfhearted effort to “clean” the glasses—that it was about time he got some of the spillover from the capital city. If some of the talk wasn’t all praise and approval, well, so what? There had been grumbling about Thrall, too. People loved to complain. Discontent, about the warchief, the weather, the wars, the other races of the Horde, the Alliance, one’s mate—it was good for business. There was a reason visiting a bar was called “drowning one’s sorrows.”

  So with his grungy little inn filled to capacity with all the races of the Horde, Grosk was feeling very good indeed about life.

  Until the Kor’kron walked in.

  They filled the door, making the dark building even darker as their mammoth forms blocked out the light. Frandis Farley, having a poor excuse for a drink with Kelantir Bloodblade, turned at the sight.

  “Trouble,” Kelantir whispered.

  “Not necessarily,” Frandis replied in an equally soft voice. Before his companion realized what he was about to do, the undead was waving and calling cheerfully, “Friend Malkorok! Are you slumming? The contents of a chamber pot are probably better than the swill this rascal Grosk serves, but it’s cheap and I hear it does the job. Come, let us buy you a round.”

  The Kor’kron looked to their leader, who nodded. “Grosk,” Malkorok rumbled, “drinks all around.” He clapped Frandis on the back so hard the Forsaken nearly fell forward on the table. “I might expect to find tauren or Forsaken here.” He sneered as Grosk busied himself plopping down dirty glasses and a large jug of grog. “But I must say, you look sorely out of place.”

  “Not at all,” said Kelantir, narrowing her eyes. “I have been in worse places than this.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps,” Malkorok said. “But why are you not in Orgrimmar?”

  “Iron allergy,” Kelantir said. For an instant, Malkorok stared at her, then he threw his head back in a guttural laugh.