“Hello, Your Majesty,” she said. She was, he guessed, a little bit older than Jaina, tall and slender with long golden hair and arresting blue-green eyes. She looked familiar somehow, though Anduin knew he had never met her before. “Please let me offer my condolences on the death of your father. Stormwind and the Alliance lost a truly great man. Your family has always been so kind to mine, and I regret that I wasn’t able to pay my respects.”
“Thank you,” Anduin said. He was trying and failing to place her. “You’ll have to pardon me, but…have we met?”
The woman smiled a little sadly. “No, we’ve not,” she said, “but you’ve probably seen a family resemblance in some portraits. You see…I’m Calia Menethil. Arthas was my brother.”
Calia Menethil. Hers was another name straight out of the history books. Calia, like the archbishop, had been thought lost. The older sister of the ill-fated Arthas Menethil, she was believed to have perished on the day when the heir to Lordaeron, who was by then a servant of the terrifying Lich King, had marched into the throne room, murdered his father in cold blood, and unleashed the undead Scourge upon the city. But his sister had survived, and she was here in the Netherlight Temple. The Light had found her.
Moved in a way he couldn’t quite describe, Anduin closed the distance between him and Calia in three quick, long-legged strides and extended his hand mutely.
Calia hesitated, then took it. Anduin squeezed her hand and smiled. “I am gladder than I can say to find you still alive, my lady. After so long with no word, we assumed the worst.”
“Thank you. There were moments, I assure you, when I thought the worst was upon me.”
“What happened?”
“It is…a long story,” she said, clearly unwilling to share it.
“And we have no time for a long tale this day.” It was Velen. Anduin was filled with questions for both the archbishop and the queen of Lordaeron, for such, now, she was. But Velen was completely right. Despite the pleasant shocks he’d received in the last few moments, Anduin, Moira, and Velen were here with a grim purpose.
He smiled at Calia and, releasing her hand, turned to regard the assembled priests.
There were so many. As if reading his mind, Faol said, “It seems like a lot of us, doesn’t it? But this is only a handful compared to the numbers we could have. There is plenty of room for all of us.”
Anduin couldn’t even wrap his mind around it. “What an amazing thing you’ve achieved here,” he said to Faol. “All of you. I knew you were working toward this, but to truly see it with my own eyes is something else again. I wish this were nothing more than a visit to a place I’ve longed to behold, but we have received some dire news.”
He nodded to Moira. She was the daughter of Magni, “the Speaker,” who had brought the warning to them. She was also well known and well regarded here, whereas he was a newcomer—a king, to be sure, but in a place where that was not seen as the highest authority. The dwarf queen squared her shoulders and addressed the group.
“We’re servants of the Light, but we live on Azeroth,” she said. “And my father has now become the Speaker for our world. He came to Ironforge, where the Prophet and the king of Stormwind were visiting, with terrible news.”
Her blunt, steady speech faltered slightly. And for a moment Anduin saw in her the face of the girl she had once been, lost and uncertain. She recovered quickly, though, and continued.
“Lads, lasses…our world’s hurt badly. She’s in trouble. In horrible pain. My father told us that she needs healing; she can’t do it by herself.”
Soft gasps rippled through the assembled crowd of priests.
“It is that monstrous sword!” a tauren rumbled, his deep voice reminding Anduin sharply of Baine Bloodhoof, the tauren high chieftain—and his friend.
“How can we possibly heal the world itself?” a draenei said, a note of despair making her melodious voice crack.
It was a valid question. How indeed? Priests healed, but their patients were flesh. They mended wounds, cured illnesses and curses, and sometimes, if the Light willed, brought the dead back to life. What could they do with a wound to the world?
He knew where they could start. He could feel the answer inside his coat, next to his heart, where he had placed the small, precious piece of Azerite. For a moment he hesitated, looking at the Forsaken, troll, and tauren faces turned toward them. Horde faces. Could they be trusted?
He asked the question of the Light—and his own body.
Anduin had been gravely injured when Garrosh Hellscream had caused an enormous artifact known as the Divine Bell to come crashing down upon him in Pandaria. Since that moment, his bones ached whenever he was on the wrong path—when he was being cruel, or thoughtless, or courting danger.
There was no ache in his body now. Indeed, he felt better than he had in a long time. Was it the Netherlight Temple or the piece of Azerite that placed this calm upon him?
He did not know. But he knew that both were benevolent influences.
Besides, Azeroth herself had asked for their aid.
Anduin stepped forward, lifting his hands for silence as the crowd began to grow increasingly anxious. “Brothers and sisters, listen to me, please!”
They quieted, their oh so different faces turned to him with exquisite, beautifully similar expressions of concern and a desire to help. And so he trusted them, these priests whose people owed allegiance to the Horde. He let them hold the Azerite, watching their reactions.
“Magni was once a dwarf, the father of a priestess,” Anduin said as each of them held the small item. “It makes sense that he would turn first to our order. I feel certain that there is something we ourselves can do at some point, but first we’ll need to do research. Ask questions. And in the meantime, we need to reach out to other types of healers. Shaman. Druids. Those who have closer ties to the earth and its living things than we do.”
Anduin paused, looking around at the great hall. He wondered what the druidic equivalent looked like, or the shamanic. No doubt beautiful and perfectly right for them, as this temple was for the Conclave.
“I will be traveling to Teldrassil myself very shortly.” He corrected himself. “No. Not shortly—on the morrow.” He wished he had been able to spend more time in Ironforge. He had wanted to meet with Mekkatorque and his people and thank them for their contribution of gnomish brains and gnomish technology that had helped turn back an enemy so dire that there had been true doubt they would ever succeed. But events had overtaken them all. Mekkatorque would understand.
“You have been out in the world, finding your fellow priests,” the king of Stormwind continued. “Now we need to broaden that outstretched hand of aid. We need to extend it to those who have a better chance of helping right away. This will not be easy. So I would ask the Horde and Alliance members present to seek out the druids and shaman on their own sides.”
They began nodding, calmer now, and Anduin realized what he had just done. He had come, an invited guest, into this hall and had assumed he had the right to instruct members of the Conclave on their next actions.
Chagrined, he turned to Faol.
“My apologies, Archbishop. These are your people.”
“They are people who serve the Light,” the undead priest reminded him. “As are you.” His head cocked to one side, and he smiled slightly. “You remind me of Calia’s brother when he was younger, when he still followed the Light. You have a gift for ruling, my young friend. People will follow where you lead them.”
Anduin understood that the comparison was meant as a compliment. He had heard it before, most memorably from Garrosh Hellscream.
While the former warchief of the Horde had been imprisoned below the Temple of the White Tiger during his trial, he had asked for Anduin to visit him. Garrosh had brought up the specter of the man who had become the Lich King. There was another golde
n-haired, beloved human prince once. He was a paladin, and yet he turned his back on the Light.
Not an unexpected comparison at all, given their outward similarities, yet it was an uncomfortable one. Anduin found he glanced at Calia, who was smiling in agreement, nostalgia sharpening the premature lines on her face. Not even Jaina could smile when thinking of Arthas. No one could except the few left who remembered Arthas Menethil as an innocent child.
“Thank you,” Anduin told Faol. “But I shan’t insert myself again unless invited to do so. I respect the Conclave and its leadership.”
Faol shrugged. A tiny piece of mummified skin fell off and wafted to the floor at the gesture. It should have been repellent, but Anduin found himself regarding it in much the same way as he would a feather falling from a trimmed cape. He was learning to see the person, not the body.
In a way, we are all trapped in a shell, he thought. Theirs is just held together differently.
“All voices are listened to here,” Faol said. “Even the youngest acolyte may have something useful to say. Your voice is welcome here too, King Anduin Wrynn. As is your presence.”
“I would like to return soon,” Anduin said. He looked at Calia and Faol. “There is much I see here that I think I can learn from.”
And much, he thought but did not say, I need to learn about. An idea was beginning to form, daring and audacious and unexpected. He would have to speak with Shaw.
Faol chuckled, a raspy but not unpleasant sound. “Admitting you do not know something is the beginning of wisdom. Of course. Any time…priest.”
He inclined his head. Anduin looked at Moira and Velen. “I must return to Stormwind shortly and prepare for my trip. It has a fresh urgency.” He handed Moira the Azerite sample. “Would you please deliver this to Mekkatorque for me? Tell him I’m sorry I can’t deliver it in person.”
“Aye,” Moira said. “I’ll share anything he learns, of course. My father will no doubt have some suggestions for us as well.”
“I’m certain he will,” Anduin said. The import of the task settled again upon his heart and mind, chasing away the peace of this place and his curiosity about Calia…and about the Forsaken.
When he was feeling restless, Kalecgos, the former blue Dragon Aspect and present member of the Kirin Tor’s Council of Six, liked to walk through the streets of his adopted city. He addressed, reliably and responsibly, the concerns and troubles for the daylight hours—when he needed to be present to help tackle a thorny problem or suggest ancient methods that the current council might not have investigated. In the evenings, though, his concerns and troubles were his own.
Dragons often took on the forms of members of the younger races. Alexstrasza the Life-Binder appeared as a high elf. Chronormu, one of the most important of the time-warding bronze dragons, favored the guise of a gnome known as “Chromie.” Kalecgos had long ago settled upon the face and body of a half-human, half-elf male. He’d never been sure why. Certainly not because it allowed him to pass unnoticed: there weren’t a lot of half-elves running around.
He had decided that the form appealed to him because it represented a melding of two worlds. Because he, “Kalec,” also felt that he was a blend of two worlds: that of dragon and that of human.
Kalec had always felt drawn to and protective of the younger races. Like the great red dragon Korialstrasz, who had given his life to save others, he liked humans. And unlike Korialstrasz, who until his last breath had been loyal only to his adored Alexstrasza, Kalec had loved humans.
Two, in fact. Two strong, kind, and brave women. Loved and lost them both. Anveena Teague—who in the end realized she was not a true human at all—had sacrificed herself so that a monstrous, devastatingly powerful demon would be denied entry into Azeroth. And Lady Jaina Proudmoore—she was gone, too, sinking ever deeper into a dark pit of pain and hatred that he feared would consume her.
She used to join him on these rambles. They would walk together, hand in hand, often to pause and watch Windle Sparkshine light Dalaran’s lamps at nine o’clock sharp. Windle’s daughter, Kinndy, had been Jaina’s apprentice and was one of the many casualties of Garrosh Hellscream’s attack. No, Kalec thought, call it what it was: destruction of Theramore. Windle had gotten permission to nightly create a memorial to his little girl; her image, drawn in magical golden light, appeared when Windle used his wand to light each lamp.
But Jaina had left, wrapped in anger and frustration as if in a cloak. Left the organization of magi known as the Kirin Tor and her position as its leader; left him, too, with only a few angry words spoken between them. She had been pushed farther than she could bear, and now she was gone.
Kalec could have followed her, could have forced her to confront him, demanded an explanation as to why she had left so abruptly. But he didn’t. He loved her, and he respected her. And although every day that passed made it less and less likely that she would return, he still held out hope.
In the meantime, he had been appointed to fill the vacancy left by Jaina’s exodus, and the Kirin Tor had been busy indeed during the war against the Legion. He had a purpose. He had friends. He was making his way in the world.
He had thought about visiting his good friend, Kirygosa, who had quietly taken up residence in Stranglethorn. After a life spent in a part of the world that knew mostly winter, Kiry was enjoying a permanent summer. It might be nice to join her for a while. But somehow he never did. If Jaina was ever to seek him out, it would be here. And so he stayed.
Tonight, his feet brought him to the statue of one of Dalaran’s greatest magi, Antonidas, who had been Jaina’s tutor. It had been she who had commissioned the statue, which hovered a few feet off the green grass thanks to a spell. And it had been she who had written the inscription:
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
It was here that he and Jaina once had a terrible argument. Devastated by the brutal obliteration of her city, Jaina had desired vengeance. When the Kirin Tor would not help her strike against the Horde, she had turned to him. Her words, first pleading, then scathing in their hurt-fueled anger, lingered with him still.
You once said you would fight for me—for the lady of Theramore. Theramore’s gone. But I’m still here. Help me. Please. We have to destroy the Horde.
He had refused her. This implacable…well, hatred—it’s not you.
You’re wrong. This is me. This is who the Horde made me.
In so many ways, Jaina was as much a casualty of Theramore as Kinndy was. It had been the Kirin Tor’s decision to again allow members of the Horde among their number. Azeroth was too vulnerable to the Legion to turn down aid out of fear and hatred. Kalec had wanted to speak with Jaina, but she had disappeared without a word.
And then—his skin prickled, and a sudden knowing filled his brain.
Lady Jaina Proudmoore had returned to Dalaran. He sensed her, and she was right—
“I thought I might find you here,” came a soft voice behind him.
His heart leaping, Kalec swung around.
She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered as she slipped off the hood of her cloak. Moonlight shone upon her white hair with its single golden streak, and it looked like she was crowned with luminous silver. She wore it differently, in a braid this time. Her face was pale, her eyes pools of shadow.
“Jaina,” Kalec breathed. “I—I’m so glad you’re all right. It’s so good to see you.”
“Rumor has it you’re now a member of the council.” She was smiling as she said it. “Congratulations.”
“Rumor is correct,
and thank you,” Kalec replied. “Though I’d vacate it more than happily…if you are back to stay.”
The smile faded, turned sad. “No.”
He nodded. It was what he had feared, and his heart hurt, but it would do no good to say that. She knew.
“Where will you go?” he said instead.
The light was bright enough to catch the little furrow between her brows that was so uniquely hers. It affected Kalec even more than the smile had.
“I don’t know, actually. But I don’t belong here anymore.” Her voice sharpened slightly with anger. “I can’t agree with what—” She caught herself and took a deep breath. “Well. I don’t agree.”
This is who the Horde made me.
They gazed at each other for a long moment. Then, to Kalec’s surprise, Jaina stepped forward and took his hands in hers. The touch, so sweetly familiar, moved him even more than he expected it to. “You were right about something. I wanted you to know that.”
“What?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
“About how dangerous, how damaging, hate is. I don’t like what it’s done to me, but I don’t know that I can change it now. I know what I’m against. I know what angers me. What I hate. What I don’t want. But I don’t know what calms me, or what I love, or what I do want.” Her voice was pitched softly, but it trembled with emotion. Kalec gripped her hands tightly.
“Everything I’ve felt or done since Theramore has been a reaction against something. I feel…I feel like I’m in a pit and every time I try to climb out of it, I just tumble back down.”
“I know,” Kalec said gently. Her hands were so warm in his. He didn’t want to ever let go. “I’ve watched you struggle so hard for so long. And I couldn’t help.”
“No one could,” Jaina said. “This is something I have to do for myself.”
Before the Storm Page 8
