The Shattering: Prelude to Cataclysm (9 page)

The two halves were eventually reunited, but imperfectly. Sometimes it seemed that Lo’Gosh had the upper hand in the tall, powerfully built body. More than ever, King Varian Wrynn, dark brown hair pulled back in a topknot and a wicked scar slicing across his once-handsome face, dominated a room.

Anduin was a sharp contrast to his father. He was pale, fair-haired, and slender, and slightly taller than the last time Jaina had seen him. While nowhere near his father’s imposing size—and Jaina guessed he would take after his willowy mother and never be quite the large man that Varian was—he was a youth now and not a child. He exchanged smiles and nods with Brother Sarno and young Thomas as he and his father moved to take their seats. Perhaps feeling her gaze, he frowned slightly, looked around—and met her eyes. He was schooled enough in the formalities that princes
should abide by that he didn’t crack a grin, but his eyes brightened and he gave her a slight nod.

All eyes turned from the king and his son to Archbishop Benedictus, who had entered and was moving slowly to the altar. Of average height and solid, stocky build, the man looked more like a farmer than a holy man. He never seemed to quite fit his splendid robes of gold and white, looking slightly ill at ease. But once he began to speak, his voice, calm and clear, carrying throughout the cathedral, it was obvious that the Light had chosen him.

“Dear friends of the Light, you are all welcome here, in this beautiful cathedral that turns none away who come with open hearts and humble spirits. This place has seen many occasions of joy, and many of sorrow. Today we assemble to honor the fallen, to remember them, and mourn them, and respect their sacrifices for our Alliance and for Azeroth.”

Jaina looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. This was one reason she had not wanted to be in a highly visible part of the cathedral. Her romance with Arthas Menethil had not been forgotten—not when he was prince, certainly not when he was the Lich King, and not now that he had been defeated. It was because of him that this sad ceremony was even necessary. A few heads turned her way, recognizing her, and giving her sympathetic glances.

Not a day went by that Jaina did not think of him, wondering if there was anything she could have done, anything she could have said, to have turned the once-bright paladin from his dark path. Her feelings had been turned against her during the War Against the Nightmare, trapping her in a dream in which she had indeed prevented him from becoming the Lich King … by becoming the Lich Queen herself in his stead. …

She shivered, forcing thoughts of that horrible dream away, and turned her attention back to the archbishop. “… the frozen lands far to the north,” Benedictus was saying. “They faced a terrible foe with an army that no one ever truly thought we would be able to defeat. And yet, thanks to the blessing of the Light and the simple courage of these men and women—humans, dwarves, night elves,
gnomes, draenei; yes, and even the members of the Horde as well—we are safe in our homeland again. The numbers are staggering, and more reports come in every day. To give you an idea of the estimated losses, each worshipper here today has been given a candle. Each candle represents not one, not ten … but
one hundred
Alliance lives lost in the Northrend campaign.”

Jaina felt the breath go out of her and she stared at the unlit candle, clasped in a hand that suddenly started shaking. She looked around … there had to be at least two hundred people in the cathedral, and she knew that others were gathering outside, wanting to participate in the remembrance ceremony even though the cathedral was filled to capacity. Twenty, thirty—perhaps forty or fifty thousand people … dead. She closed her eyes for a moment and turned back to the archbishop, painfully aware that the gnome couple next to her was staring at her and whispering something.

When she heard raised voices and startled gasps from the back of the cathedral, it was almost a relief. She turned and saw two weather-beaten Sentinels talking animatedly with the two priestesses. Even as she rose and tried to exit quietly, she saw Varian already on the move.

The human priestess, apparently against the wishes of the dwarf, who looked put out, was steering the two Sentinels into a room on the left-hand side. Jaina hastened to join them. Even as she walked through the entrance to the room, Varian joined her. There was no time for greetings, but the two exchanged acknowledging glances.

Varian turned to the paladins who had also moved to join them. “Lord Grayson,” he said to the tall man with black hair and an eye patch, “get these soldiers some food and drink.”

“Aye, sir,” the paladin said, hastening off to do so himself. Such was the attitude of paladins; any service, however humble, that helped another was of the Light.

“Please, sit,” Varian said.

The taller of the two night elves, a purple-skinned woman with white hair, shook her head. “Thank you, Your Majesty, but this is no
pleasure errand. We come with dire news and stand ready to report back as soon as possible.”

Varian nodded, tensing slightly. “Then deliver your news.”

She nodded. “I am Sentinel Valarya Riverrun. This is Sentinel Ayli Leafwhisper. We come with reports of attacks by the Horde in Ashenvale. The treaty has been violated.”

Jaina and Varian exchanged glances. “We knew when we signed the agreement that there would be a few holdouts, on both sides,” Jaina said hesitantly. “The borders have long been a source of—”

“I would not be here if this were a
skirmish,
Lady Jaina Proudmoore,” Valarya said icily. “We were not born yesterday. We know to expect the occasional row. This was not such a thing. This was a
slaughter.
A slaughter, when the Horde claims to be peaceable!”

Jaina and Varian listened, Jaina with ever-widening eyes and Varian slowly clenching his fists, as the gory tale unfolded. A dozen Sentinels had been ambushed as they guarded a convoy of harvested herbs and mineral carts making their way through the green forests of Ashenvale. None had survived. Their deaths were only discovered when the convoy was two days late in arriving at its destination. The carts and all they had contained were gone.

Valarya paused and took a deep breath, as if calming herself. Her sister Sentinel stepped beside her and squeezed her shoulder. Varian was frowning, but Jaina pressed on.

“It is indeed a violation of the agreement,” Jaina said, “and as such needs to be brought to Thrall’s attention. But even so—I’m afraid I still don’t see what makes you call this a slaughter rather than an unfortunately not uncommon incident.”

Ayli winced and turned away. Jaina looked from one to the other. These were warriors, who had likely been fighting for longer than Jaina had been alive. What had rattled them so?

“Let me put it this way, Lady Proudmoore,” Valarya said through clenched teeth. “We weren’t able to recover the bodies.”

Jaina swallowed. “Why not?”

“Because they had been methodically chopped
into several pieces,” Valarya said, “and those pieces were taken away by carrion eaters. This was, of course,
after
they had been skinned. We’re not sure if they were alive for that or not.”

Jaina’s hand flew to her mouth. Bile rose in her throat. This was beyond obscene, beyond an atrocity. …

“The skins were hung like linens from a nearby tree. And on that tree, written in elven blood, were Horde symbols.”

“Thrall!”
bellowed Varian. He whirled on Jaina, glaring at her. “He authorized this! And you prevented me from killing him when I had the chance!”

“Varian,” Jaina said, fighting not to be sick, “I’ve fought beside him. I’ve helped negotiate treaties with him—treaties he has always honored. There is
nothing
about this that sounds like
anything
he would do. We have no proof whatsoever that he authorized this incursion, and—”

“No proof? Jaina, they were orcs! He’s an orc, and he’s supposed to lead the damned Horde!”

Her stomach was calm now, and she knew that she was in the right. “The Defias are humans,” Jaina said, very quietly. “Should you be held responsible for their actions?”

Varian jerked as if she had struck him. For a moment she thought she had reached him. The Defias were a deeply personal enemy and had taken a great deal from Varian. Then his brows drew together in a scowl that was made terrifying by the brutal scar across his face. He did not look like himself now.

He looked like Lo’Gosh.

“You dare recall that to me,” he growled softly.

“I do. Someone has to recall you to yourself.” She did not meet the anger of Lo’Gosh, the part of Varian that was cold and swift and violent, with anger of her own. She met it with the practicality that had saved her—and others—time and time again.

“You lead the kingdom of Stormwind—the most powerful in the Alliance. Thrall leads the Horde. You can make laws, and rules, and treaties, and so can he. And he is no more capable of controlling the actions of every single one of his citizens than you are. No one is.”

Lo’Gosh scowled. “What if you are wrong, Jaina? And what if I’m right? You’ve been known to be a poor judge of character in the past.”

Now it was Jaina’s turn to freeze, stunned, at the words. He was hurling Arthas back at her. That was how Lo’Gosh played, how he had won in gladiatorial combat—dirty, using every tool at his disposal in order to win at all costs. Her nightmare rushed back at her, and she pushed it away. She took a deep breath and composed herself.

“Many of us knew Arthas well, Varian. Including you. You lived with him for years. You didn’t see the monster he would become. Neither did his father, nor Uther.”

“No, I didn’t. But I’m not making the same mistake again, and you are. Tell me, Jaina, if you had seen what Arthas would become … would you have tried to stop him? Would you have had the guts to kill your lover, or would you have stood by, peace at all costs, a mewling little pacifist who—”

“Father!”

The word, uttered in a boyish tenor voice, cracked like a whip. Varian whirled.

Anduin stood in the doorway. His blue eyes were wide and his face was drained of color. But there was more than an expression of shock on his face. There was bitter disappointment. Before Jaina’s eyes, Varian changed. Gone was the coldly raging anger of Lo’Gosh. His posture shifted. He was Varian again.

“Anduin—” Varian’s voice, steady, but tinged with worry and a hint of regret.

“Save it,” Anduin said, disgusted. “You stay in here and—do whatever it was you were doing. I’ll go back out to provide the sort of royal face that lets our people know
someone
cares about what they’ve lost. Even if he is a mewling little pacifist.”

He turned on his heel and stalked toward the door. He gripped the doorframe for a moment. Jaina watched as his back straightened and he brushed at his hair, composing himself, putting on the face of calmness as he might put on his crown. He had had to grow
up so quickly. The two Sentinels glanced at one another briefly. Varian stood for a moment, staring where his son had been. He sighed deeply.

“Jaina, why don’t you return as well?” At her look of uncertainty, he smiled a little. “Don’t worry. The Sentinels and I will talk reasonably about what’s to be done.”

Jaina nodded. “Afterward, though—a moment of your time?”

“Of course.” He turned back to the two elven females. “Now, you were saying. When did the attacks occur?”

The conversation continued in low voices. Varian was listening to all that was said, but he would not rush to anger again. Jaina turned and slipped quietly from the room. She did not, however, seek out the same pew at which she had been sitting. Instead, she hung toward the back of the cathedral, standing quietly in the shadows, watching and listening and doing what she did best … thinking.

An hour later, the service was over. She’d not really wanted to continue to attend. But as the ceremony continued, she realized that she needed to be here for at least two people. One of them was herself. Halfway through the sermon, she found herself with her head bowed, tears slipping down her cheeks as she mourned those who had given all to stand against evil; mourned the young, earnest man Arthas Menethil had once been. And through the tears, she found a sense of peace she had not known until that moment.

As for the other …

She returned to the small room where Varian had received the Sentinels. The elves were gone, but the king of Stormwind was still there. He sat at a small table, his head in his hands. He looked up at her approach, even though she had been quiet, and gave her a weary smile.

“I am sorry I so lost control earlier.”

“You should be.”

He nodded, acknowledging the truth of her comment. “I am. What I said was inappropriate and untrue.”

She softened a little. “Apology accepted. And I’m not the only person who deserves one.”

He grimaced at that, but nodded. “I would rather he not have seen that, but what’s done is done.”

She slipped into the chair opposite him, ready to listen. “Tell me what happened.”

He did. He had agreed to send several alchemists to Ashenvale to assist the night elves in looking over the site of the slaughter and examining the blood and clothing. An emissary, unarmed and no doubt sweating bullets, would be sent to Thrall to conduct an inquiry.