The Spiral Path

by Greg Weisman

  “You’re the artist from the Speedbarge.”

  “And you’re the winning pilot, Aramar Thorne.”

  “I am.”

  Makasa said, “Aram, we can’t stay—”

  But she didn’t finish, because just then the goblin peered at Aram over his candle and said, “You wouldn’t happen to be related to Greydon Thorne, would you?”

  Makasa and Aram stared. Aram said, “I’m his son.”

  “Well, well,” the goblin said. “The son of Greydon Thorne. Come in, come in.” He opened the door wide and waved them inside. They complied, moving in ahead of the goblin, who said, “My name is Charnas.”

  Aram wheeled on him. “You’re Charnas of Gadgetzan?!”

  “For a good many years, yes,” said the handsome goblin with a wry smile, all signs of his previous crankiness gone.

  “You drew Common Birds of Azeroth?”

  “I did. You sound like a fan.”

  “I am!”

  “Your father liked that book, too.” As he spoke, Charnas led them to the back of the shop and through a low door into a kind of workroom. “I remember the first time he came into my shop, he—”

  “Wait! My father was here? In this shop?”

  “Yes, of course. Many times. I know your father well and consider him a friend. Is he in town?”

  Aram lowered his head. Charnas seemed to understand instantly. He pointed to a couple of stools and took a seat on a chair in front of a high desk covered with half-finished sketches. Aram and Makasa sat.

  Charnas said, “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

  Aram nodded.

  “That’s a blasted shame. For a human, he was quite enlightened. In fact, calling Greydon Thorne enlightened is practically the definition of understatement.” Charnas sighed. “He will be missed.”

  “He is missed,” Aram said, looking at Makasa, who nodded slowly once.

  Charnas nodded, too. They were all silent for a time. Then the goblin said, “He talked about you, you know.” He glanced over at Makasa. “And if you’re Makasa Flintwill, he talked about you, too.”

  “When?” Makasa said.

  Charnas scratched his cheek. “Oh, now, that had to be nearly a year ago. That’s the last time I saw him, I’m afraid. He talked about you then, Makasa. Aram, he’d been talking about for the last five, six years, at least. Course, I knew him long before either of you two young folk were born.”

  “How long have you … how long did you know him?” Aram asked.

  “Ah, now, let’s see. For a good twenty years. Met him the same year I opened this shop, and he was one of my first customers. Came in with his younger brother. Bought a copy of Common Birds. We wound up talking for hours …”

  “Wait, wait, wait!” Aram cried. “My father has a brother?!”

  Aram turned to face Makasa, but this was clearly news to her, too.

  “Indeed,” said Charnas. “Or at least he did. A fine, strapping young lad. Even taller than Greydon. Silverlaine Thorne, I think his name was. I remember your father was very proud of him. Said there was no better man in all of Azeroth. I only met him that one time. That first time. And he didn’t stay to chat like your father did. No, Greydon and I talked on and on, all through the night. But your uncle left after fifteen minutes. To be fair, talking about birds and books isn’t everyone’s idea of fun. Though it is mine, I’ll admit.” Charnas stopped to study his new companions. Once again, the goblin seemed to intuit their thoughts. “Didn’t know you had an uncle, did you?”

  Aram was stunned. He had family on his mother’s side—a grandmother, an aunt, a few cousins, and, of course, his half siblings. But this was the first time he’d ever heard of any family on the Thorne side, unless you counted Makasa, who cleared her throat and asked, “What did you say his name was?”

  “Silverlaine. Yes, it was definitely Silverlaine. I remember now thinking, Silver and Grey. Ha! I even asked if they had a sister named Argent.”

  “Did they?!” Aram said, ready to believe almost anything could be possible now.

  “No, no,” the goblin said. “It was just a poor excuse for a joke, I’m afraid. But if your grandparents had had a daughter, I bet that name would have been high on their list of probables.” Charnas stopped talking, no longer certain that his audience was listening.

  There was another good minute of silence before the boy spoke again.

  “I have an uncle … ,” Aram whispered, his voice full of wonder. He turned to Makasa. “We have an Uncle Silverlaine.”

  “First I’ve heard of it. Is he dead?” she asked.

  They both turned to look at Charnas, who shrugged helplessly. “Never heard that he was, but I must admit your father hadn’t mentioned him in our more recent visits. You know there was that six- or seven-year gap in our acquaintance, when he was living in, um …”

  “Lakeshire,” Aram said.

  “That’s right. In the east. Anyway, I think I must have asked about Silverlaine the first time I saw Greydon after that break. I think your father said he hadn’t seen him recently. But he never said he was dead.”

  “So he might be alive?”

  “Might be. Probably is. Who knows? It’s easy enough to lose track of people if the effort’s not made. I remember saying that to Greydon last year. Funny thing is, we weren’t talking about his brother; we were talking about mine. I was saying that I hadn’t laid eyes on Morbix in a decade, though once we’d been closer than two fleas on a dog’s hair. Come to think of it, that got him talking about you, Aram. He missed you.”

  “He did?”

  “Ah, yes. He felt bad about leaving you and your mother. ‘Why’d you leave, then?’ I asked. He shook off that question. ‘Why don’t you go back and see them?’ I asked next. He said maybe he would. He said by now you’d probably be old enough to be a part of …”

  “A part of what?” Aram asked breathlessly, pressing a hand to his shirt and the compass beneath it.

  “You know, I think I asked that, too. He had drifted off, and when I called him back, he said something like, ‘A part of my life.’ And I think, as far as that went, he was speaking the truth. But I got the sense he wasn’t going nearly far enough. We talked a lot, but there was plenty he kept from me. We both knew that.”

  Makasa said, “That must have been when he made the decision. I remember the last time Wavestrider was in Gadgetzan. We made for the Eastern Kingdoms right after that. Trade stops along the way, but we were practically flying toward Stormwind Harbor—though I didn’t realize why at the time.”

  Aram felt the need to pick his jaw up off the floor. He stared at Makasa. Then he turned to stare at Charnas. Finally, he said, “Thank you” to the goblin. “You sent him my way.”

  “Ah, now, I don’t want credit for that. If your father went to see you, he went of his own volition.”

  Aram nodded absently. His gaze drifted over Charnas’s shoulder to the sketchwork on the goblin’s desk.

  Charnas noticed and said, “You know, I was hired as the official illustrator for all MEGA events. But you messed me up, boy.”

  “Me?”

  “That’s right. When it came time to sketch you, some murloc pushed you into the water.”

  “He was saving me.”

  “Yeah. Them ogres were after you. That messed me up, too. Once you won, I figured I’d get the sketch in the winner’s circle. But you never showed. I sketched little Hotfix instead.”

  Charnas turned in his chair—that is, the entire seat of the chair turned with him, though the legs of the thing never moved. As it turned, the chair jacked Charnas up a foot, putting him at a perfect level to draw at his desk. Finally, a shiny, mirrored shell cranked up out of the chair’s back, focusing bright light upon his workspace. This contraption amazed Aram, but so much was amazing that night, he was hardly surprised that this distinguished old goblin had a miracle chair in his possession. If the chair had started flying, he probably would have said, “Of course.” (For the record, the chair did not f
ly.) Charnas turned back, displaying a finished illustration of Hotfix on Gazlowe’s shoulders, holding up a trophy that was nearly as big as the goblin boy himself. It was masterfully done. Precise and perfect.

  Charnas said, “I don’t suppose you’d sit for me now?”

  Aram said, “I will if you’ll sit for me.”

  “You draw?”

  Aram was already pulling out his sketchbook and his miserable little coal pencil. The goblin frowned at the latter. “That all you got to draw with?” he asked.

  Aram nodded.

  Charnas leaned over and handed him three brand-new coal pencils. “Take these,” he said, while he took Aram’s offered sketchbook and slowly—excruciatingly slowly—flipped through its pages.

  Finally, Charnas said, “Boy. You’re good. Good enough that I find myself a bit jealous that you’ve got this skill at your tender years.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “You’re really good, too,” Aram enthused. “I mean, you’re amazing! I knew that the first time I saw Common Birds of Azeroth on my father’s shelf.”

  “I’m glad he kept it. But you want to see something really amazing?” Charnas asked, nodding his head toward another door.

  Aram glanced down to see if the compass was acting up, briefly wondering if Charnas had a crystal shard, if maybe his father had left a shard with the distinguished goblin for safekeeping. But the compass was calm enough for now. Next, Aram glanced at Makasa. He had thought she’d be impatient to go. Impatient like Silverlaine Thorne. But Charnas’s knowledge of Greydon seemed to be keeping her engaged.

  Charnas hopped off his chair with his candle, and the other two followed him through the door.

  Inside the next room was some kind of machine. “It’s a press,” Charnas said.

  “Like for pressing grapes … or apples?”

  “It’s a printing press. It presses something more precious than fruit, my boy. It presses ideas, words, images—all onto paper. It presses books.” Charnas cranked a handle, and pieces of parchment whipped off the press. Charnas nodded at them, and Aram picked one up. It was a copy of the picture of Hotfix and Gazlowe. Not a second, different sketch. It was the exact same sketch! Aram picked up another sheet and another. They were all duplicates of the same sketch!

  “How?” he breathed.

  Charnas laughed. Then he showed him how the printing press worked. Top to bottom. It was magic to Aram, but it was a magic he quickly began to understand. The plates for the artwork. The rows of type for text. The wheel of ink. The crank. By the end of the lesson, it all made sense. But that hardly made it less magical.

  Aram looked through a pile of previously printed copies. There was one picture of a saltspray gull that was instantly near and dear to his heart. He told Charnas, “When we were lost at sea, I saw these gulls and knew we were close to shore from reading your book.”

  “You were lost at sea?!” Charnas seemed to have missed the point of Aram’s story. At least, at first. But he asked the boy if he wanted to keep the copy.

  Aram grinned broadly and thanked him. Then he hesitated. “Can I fold it?”

  The goblin shrugged. “It’s just a copy. You can light it on fire if you like. Though perhaps not until after you’ve left, so I don’t know.”

  Aram folded it carefully and tucked it between two leaves of his sketchbook, saying, “I am not lighting it on fire. This is just the safest place for it.”

  Each sat for the other. While Charnas drew, he said, “I saw from your sketchbook that you’ve started to draw a few things from memory.”

  “You can tell that? I guess it’s obvious. I’m not very good unless my subject’s right in front of me.”

  “Now, hold on,” Charnas said. “I never said that. In fact, I’d suggest you try it more often. It’s good training, if nothing else. And a little embellishment from your imagination isn’t going to hurt, either. Try it. Or rather, try it some more.”

  Aram smiled as he applied one of his new pencils to his book. “If you say so, I will.”

  When both of them were done, Charnas handed over his sketch of Aram, saying, “For me, this is just the first step. I do a bit of light sketching and finish the thing in my own time.” For light sketching, Charnas’s portrait of Aram was as precise and perfect as the rest of his work. It made Aram shy to show the goblin his own effort. But Charnas insisted and seemed quite pleased with the result. “You make me look very distinguished,” he said. “To be fair, I am still the better draftsman. But to be even fairer, you’ve got more life to your work. It’s vibrant. It puts your characters in the moment. It’s partly the rough, unfinished quality, I know. But I’m telling you, boy, you have real talent. Real talent.”

  Aram was practically floating off his stool when Makasa said, “It’ll be light soon. I’m sorry, but we need to go.”

  Charnas had given Aram a copy of Common Birds of Azeroth, which the boy held against his chest, pressed against the compass: one treasure against another. As he and Makasa raced back to their boardinghouse in the predawn light, the latter was keeping an eye out for anyone keeping his or her eyes out for them. But Aram’s mind was swirling around other concerns. He said, “I wish we had a way to contact my uncle Silverlaine. I bet he knows all about the shards. I bet he could help us.”

  Makasa said, “I don’t bet, but I agree another Thorne would be useful.”

  They approached Winifred’s door, and Winifred opened it before they’d even slowed down. “Come in,” she said. “We have guests.” Makasa reached for her sword. Winifred slapped her hand. “Good guests,” she said.

  She ushered them back up to their room. Gazlowe was there, and with him, a tall and beautiful night elf with silver hair, ice-blue skin, gorgeous antlers, and glowing golden eyes. She said, “Aramar Thorne, I presume.” Her voice had layers. It was the only way he could describe it. It seemed to reach his ears on one level—and deeper into his soul on another.

  Aram nodded breathlessly, struck by her eerie beauty and her outward resemblance to his deeply missed friend Thalyss.

  “I am Faeyrine Springsong, a druid tender of the Cenarion Circle.”

  “Uh huh.” He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, trying to get used to that voice and trying not to look and sound quite as stupid as he knew he currently must.

  He looked around. Hackle and Murky both stared up at the kaldorei with wide eyes, big smiles, and moony expressions. Drella grinned at Aram, looking quite self-satisfied.

  He swallowed hard and summoned up the wherewithal to speak. “I … I’m sorry if we kept you waiting. We didn’t expect you so soon. But I’m glad you did wait. I wouldn’t want Drella to leave without the chance to say good-bye.”

  Drella laughed and said, “Leave? Where would I go? And with whom? Her?” She laughed again.

  Springsong smiled indulgently. “I am afraid there has been a misunderstanding. I would have been prepared to take the Seed of Thalyss Greyoak. I would have been happy to take on that burden. But I cannot take Taryndrella. It is too late.”

  “But … we got here as soon as we could.”

  The night elf sighed. “I am afraid I am not making myself clear. When the acorn blossomed into Taryndrella, she imprinted—bonded—on the first person she saw.”

  Drella skipped over to Aram and grabbed his arm. “That is you, silly. I told you that you would not miss me. And that I would not miss you. And so we will not miss each other. Because I cannot leave you.”

  Aram stared at her. “Wait, you knew this all along?”

  “Of course. I know most things. I am very knowledgeable. Especially considering it is only spring.”

  “You keep saying that, but it’s nearly autumn!” He couldn’t tell if he was angry with her for keeping the secret or secretly thrilled she wasn’t being taken away from him.

  “She means,” Faeyrine said, “that she is in the springtime of her life cycle. She is young. Very young.”

  “A
nd very pretty,” Drella said, turning around in a full circle for all to see and admire.

  Aram started to laugh.

  “This is still a serious matter,” the druid said. “The daughter of Cenarius requires training with her bondmate to reach her full potential. I am not her bondmate, so I cannot train her, and you cannot train her because, well … frankly, you are an ignorant human boy.”

  Aram laughed again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it. But he found he was a bit overwhelmed—mentally—by the quantity of surprises and revelations he had encountered over the last few hours, and the laughter seemed to vent out of him, like steam from a speedboat’s pressure valve.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I do not mean to insult you. None of this is your fault. Really, Thalyss should have warned you not to let the Seed get wet.”

  A sheepish Aram looked around the room. Neither Makasa nor Hackle nor Murky would meet his gaze. He said, “Uh huh. So what do we do now?”

  “There is only one druid who can undo your bond with Taryndrella. Undo your bond and rebond her to him to facilitate her advancement. You must take this dryad to the druid master Thal’darah.”

  “Okay.” Aram sighed. “Is he here in Gadgetzan?”

  “No,” said the night elf, hesitating.

  “Dire Maul?” Aram said with another laugh. At this point, nothing would surprise him.

  “Well, you are getting warmer. He is in the druid enclave in the Stonetalon Mountains.”

  “Which is where, exactly?”

  Makasa groaned darkly. “Far away. In northwest Kalimdor.”

  Now, Aramar groaned.

  “Specifically,” Faeyrine said, “he can be found at Thal’darah Overlook.”

  “Well, sure. I myself am usually found at Aramar Overlook.”

  “This is no joke, child,” said the tender.

  At this point, Aram wasn’t so sure. His brain was reeling.

  Gazlowe piped up, “Well, it seems you gotta decision to make, boy.” He fanned out four bright-green tickets. “Because, at your request, I paid good money for four passages to Stormwind Harbor aboard the Crustacean. Ship leaves about this time tomorrow mornin’. Now, I’m willin’ to buy you a fifth passage—”