Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War (37 page)

“I pray that you fight with courage, and decency, and honor! I pray that your weapons be guided by the justness of what you do. I urge you to remember, as you go into the heat of battle, to refuse to allow hate entrance into your heart. Keep it a sanctuary, a temple to the memory of those so tragically slain. Remember at each moment you are fighting for justice, not genocide. Victory, not vengeance. And I know, I know with all my being, that if you go into battle with these things so firmly in your heart that no anger, no pain, can shake them, we will triumph. Blessings on you, soldiers of the Alliance!”

Varian felt the Light brush him almost like a physical thing. It seemed to caress him, to enter his heart, as Anduin had said. He felt calmer, stronger, more peaceful.

He watched his boy speak with the pure passion of his soul, watched how swiftly and sweetly the Light came to bless him. Saw how the people loved him.

Oh, my son, you are already the best of all of us. What a king you will make.

A horn sounded. It was time to embark. Everywhere were families
making their farewells—older couples with grown children, fresh-faced youths saying good-bye to sweethearts. Then the milling throngs moved slowly toward the vessels. Handkerchiefs waved; kisses were blown.

Varian waited and smiled a little as Anduin, flanked by his two paladin friends, moved toward the flagship.

“You spoke well, Son,” Varian said.

“I’m glad you think so,” Anduin replied. “I spoke only what was in my heart.”

Varian placed a hand on the youth’s shoulder. “What was in your heart was perfect. I was and am very proud of you, Anduin.”

An impish grin lit up the prince’s face. “You don’t think I’m a mewling pacifist anymore?”

“Ah, that’s not fair,” Varian said. “And no, I don’t. I’m glad you realized the necessity of what we have to do.”

Anduin sobered. “I do,” he said. “I wish it were otherwise, but it’s not possible. I’m—I’m just glad you’re not like Jaina is. I’ve prayed for her, too.”

Of course he had. “Anduin—this war we both think we have to fight—you know I might not come back.”

He nodded. “I know, Father.”

“And if I don’t—you are more than ready to take my place. I’m proud of you. I know you’ll rule well and justly. Stormwind could not be in better hands.”

Anduin’s eyes grew shiny. “Father—I—thank you. I would do my very best to be a good king. But… I’d just as soon not be for a very long time.”

“Me too,” said Varian. He pulled the boy into a tight, awkward embrace, pressed his forehead down to Anduin’s, then turned and lightly ran down to the ships. He merged with the flood of sailors and headed to the flagship.

And to war.

K
alec flew with a heavy heart. He was terribly afraid that Kirygosa had been right about Jaina. Dragons did not have the ability to read minds, but Jaina’s attitude when the Focusing Iris came under discussion was more than suspicious. He was almost certain now that she had absconded with the artifact herself and was intending to use it on her enemies as they had used it upon her. Reinforcing this unhappy conclusion was the fact that the Focusing Iris was once again hidden, even more expertly than it had been before. It was a bitter thought. He wanted to believe that the change he saw in this woman for whom he cared so deeply was due to the effect of the arcane energy of the bomb. But even if that was partially true, Kalec knew it could not explain everything.

So it was that he was returning home, to the Nexus, to speak with his flight. And… he realized he wanted to go home.

He noticed as he approached that no one was wheeling protectively about the Nexus, as dragons had done from time immemorial. The sight saddened him further. He decided not to land immediately, but instead to speak with one who might have either balm for his soul or difficult words he would need to hear.

He found Kirygosa at her “pondering place,” where he had been speaking with her when the news of the theft had first reached them. She did not seem surprised as she saw him approach. As before, she had opted for her human form, leaning against the shining
tree, not feeling the cold even though she wore a light, sleeveless blue dress.

He landed on the hovering platform, transforming into his own bipedal form, and took the hand she extended to him as he sat beside her.

They didn’t speak for a long time. Finally Kalec said, “I saw no one patrolling.”

Kirygosa nodded. “Most of them are gone now,” she said. “Each day, someone decides that his or her home is no longer here.”

Kalec closed his eyes in pain. “I feel like I’ve failed, Kiry,” he said softly. “Failed at everything. Failed as a leader, failed to recover the Focusing Iris, failed Jaina… failed to even realize how badly wounded she was by what happened at Theramore.”

Her blue eyes held no hint of pleasure as she looked at him. “She has it, then?”

“I do not know. I can’t really sense it anymore, not distinctly. But… I think she might.”

She knew what the words cost him and squeezed his hand. “For what it is worth, I do not think you were wrong to have loved her. Or to love her still. Your heart is great, but it must also be wise.”

“You know,” he said, attempting to interject levity, “there are those who have said that you and I would be a good match. Prevent me from going after the wrong sorts of females.”

Kiry did laugh at that, resting her head on his shoulder. “I do not deny that you will make a fine mate for someone one day, Kalecgos, but it is not me.”

“And there goes my last hope of being a normal dragon.”

“I am glad every day that you are not,” she said, and his heart felt full with the affection in her eyes. He did love her—but not as a mate. He sighed, and the melancholy resettled upon him. “Oh, Kiry, I have lost my way. I don’t know what to do.”

“I think you know exactly what to do, and you know your path,” she said. “You stand at a crossroads, my dear friend. As do we all. Either the blues need you to lead them well and wisely… or they need to be free to find their own paths, be the leaders of their own lives. Do
we truly have a purpose higher than our duties to ourselves? Perhaps the younger races, too, have the right to be the leaders of their own lives. Make their own choices… and live with the consequences.”

As Garrosh did,
Kalec thought.
As Jaina is preparing to do.

“Changes,” he murmured, recalling what he had once said to Jaina.
There is a rhythm, a cycle to such things. Nothing stays the same, Jaina. Not even dragons, so long-lived and supposedly so wise.

Supposedly.

“Where will you go?” he asked quietly, in those four words telling Kirygosa of his choice.

“I have not explored the world as you have,” she said. “I am told there are oceans that are warm, not filled with ice. Breezes that are sweetly scented, not brisk and chill. I think I should like to see those places. Find a different pondering place.”

There was no more need for words. She rose, as if she had been waiting only to hear him release her. He too got to his feet, and they embraced tightly.

“Farewell for now, dear Kalec,” she said. “If you ever have need of me, search for me in tropical climes.”

“And if you have need of me, go to the most unlikely place you can think of for a dragon to be. I’m sure I’ll be there.”

His chest ached as he watched her change, catch the wind beneath her wings, and soar upward, wheeling for a moment in farewell and then heading south.

A half an hour later, Kalecgos stood alone at the top of the Nexus. His old adversary-turned-friend Teralygos had been the last one to leave. He headed northeast; unlike Kirygosa, the still peace of the cold lands, the traditional home of the blues, was what the elderly dragon craved.

None of the other dragons had been surprised at his decision; none of them seemed to blame him. Change. It had come, and all the struggling and resistance in the world, all the protesting, all the wishing for things to be the way they used to be—it was all futile. Change would come. What would it do to him, the sole citizen of a now-empty kingdom? Where did his path lie?

All things change, Jaina, whether from the inside out or the outside in. Sometimes with only a single shift in a variable,
he had once said to the woman he fell in love with.

And… we are magic, too,
she had replied.

“Yes,” he murmured. “We are.”

And he knew what he had to do.

•   •   •

Jaina had done what she could to disguise herself and had traveled by the usual methods to Ratchet rather than simply teleporting. Once there, she bought a gryphon from a traveler who seemed down on his luck and flew south. She fully realized that she was flying over the path the Horde had taken to march on Northwatch, and she let that bitter knowledge fuel her anger.

When the ruins of Northwatch Hold, now occupied by the Horde, came into view, she had to choke back a lump in her throat. The sight of the red-and-black banners of the Horde soldiers left behind to guard while the rest of the ships formed the blockade turned the pain cold.

She brought the gryphon to the earth and dismounted, taking care to hold the small pouch she always carried close to her. She then gave the gryphon a smart smack on his leonine rump. He flapped upward in irritation, and Jaina nodded. He would soon find his way back to Ratchet and a new rider, who would be very pleased at having him. Jaina had no further need of the beast. She turned to the east and murmured a teleportation spell. A few seconds later, Jaina arrived on Fray Island.

“Eh there, missy,” said a rough voice. The human addressing her had cutoff breeches, an open shirt, and a cutlass. “Come to play with the pirates, have ye?”

She turned her glowing white eyes to him. “I’ve no time for this,” she said. Almost absently, she directed a fireball at the thug. He screamed as his whole body caught fire, stumbled a few feet, and then fell, writhing.

Jaina was unmoved by the sight, turning her attention to the fellow’s comrades as they rushed up, shouting angrily. They were not
Horde—not all of them—but they were cutthroats and murderers and deserved no one to mourn them. Ruthlessly Jaina marched through the encampment, blasting her would-be killers with fire, ice, and arcane energy. She slew humans and trolls, dwarves and an ogre, who looked ridiculous with a tiny hat perched on his bald pate.

She scoured the buildings clean, so that she would have no distractions. Jaina turned toward the north. Her hand slipped down into the pouch and held the Focusing Iris—perfectly miniaturized, thanks to information gleaned from perusal of the tome she had stolen from the Dalaran library—and began to make her plans.

•   •   •

The Earthen Ring was exhausted. The elements seemed angrier today than usual, and while no one spoke the words aloud, Thrall was certain that he was not the only one to wonder if their efforts were starting to have less effect.

It did not make any sense. Progress had been very slow, it was true, but it had been measurable and consistent. The weary shaman retreated back to their encampment, in need of food and rest. Muln Earthfury, as the former leader of the Earthen Ring, seemed to be the most affected.

Aggra watched the tauren, frowning a little. “The silence troubles me,” she said. “We all think the same thing, but no one speaks it. Come, let us talk to Muln.”

Thrall smiled and shook his head. “We think along the same lines, my heart, but always you press for action first.”

She shrugged. “Growing up in Nagrand will teach you to act quickly when you see trouble,” she said, squeezing his hand as they walked.

Muln looked over at the two orcs and sighed. “I already know what you are going to say,” he said. “And I do not know the answer as to why we seem to be backsliding. The elements are so distressed, and have been for so long, it is hard to hear them clearly anymore.”

Thrall said, “Perhaps we should—”

Pain shot through him and he fell to his knees, clutching his skull.

Aggra dropped beside him, hands on his shoulders. “Go’el, what is it?” she cried.

His lips moved, but nothing came out. Aggra’s face faded away. Thrall saw nothing for a moment, and then suddenly, he saw too much.

Water, blue-green and cold and angry, crashed over him. He choked, gasped, struggled to breathe. It lifted him up and then thrust him under, tossed and turned him. It was a great wave, and yet—Thrall saw here and there small, furious eyes, the shape of an arm, a head, the glitter of a manacle. This was more than a simple ocean wave—Thrall was at the mercy of enslaved elementals.

He was not alone. There were dozens, hundreds, of orcs caught up in the wave as well, all struggling to survive. Debris, too, was a danger in addition to the water itself. A hand made of seawater pushed Thrall downward, and he saw below him—

The roofs of Orgrimmar! How was that possible? But he could see the gate, the debris of the iron scaffolding that he had heard Garrosh had erected.

Help us,
voices whispered.

Thrall couldn’t breathe. He felt water filling his lungs.