Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War (44 page)

“Queen” of a kingdom now fallen,

Marching to war’s martial drums.

Be ye warned—the tides of war

At last shall break upon the shore.

It fit. After Rhonin came Lady Jaina Proudmoore, whose gold hair had turned silver, and whose sapphire eyes had, for a time, gleamed white like a diamond. She had indeed been humbled and bitter, and still, in her own way, had a martial stance. She looked up at Khadgar, stunned.

“But—to choose me just based on this—”

“Not just on this. You’ve always been strong, my lady. In your power, and in your character,” said Aethas Sunreaver unexpectedly. “Even when tested and tried. And when you faced both an unimaginable horror and an inconceivable temptation—and were perhaps yourself tainted by the effects of the mana bomb—you still chose a path that was fair and just, rather than vengeful and dark. It is, you must admit, unlikely that anything else will ever tempt you so again. And I do not think there stands among us anyone who, were he or she in your place, could have done better. Indeed… we might not have done even half so well.”

“You misunderstand,” she said. “I needed help to not become… something terrible. I could not have done it without Kalecgos.”

“Well then,” said Khadgar, turning to the blue dragon, “we’d best make sure he stays close to your side. You have already shown us your mind with regard to the Focusing Iris and the care you believe we would take of it. Would you like to become a member of the Kirin Tor yourself, Kalecgos? It sounds as if Archmage Proudmoore could benefit from your presence. Provided, of course, she accepts our offer.”

And just that quickly, the Kirin Tor had a second dragon among its membership, and a still-reeling Jaina Proudmoore as its leader.

•   •   •

As soon as the investiture had been completed, the new archmage and leader of the Kirin Tor had returned to Theramore. Varian had been true to his word, sending a ship from Northwatch to respectfully gather the fallen bodies and even the purple sand. Outside the city limits there was now a mass grave, shocking and solemn in its size. It had been difficult for Jaina, but not as hard as she had feared; she had said her farewells earlier, standing with Kalecgos.

Now she presided over another ceremony she wished with all her heart did not have to occur. It was a lovely sunset in Dalaran, the sky full of color yet transitioning to darkness, a poignant echo to the sorrowful nature of the ritual.

Today, they were saying farewell to Rhonin.

His children were there, one on each side of their mother, identical twin boys with their father’s flame-red hair and their mother’s eyes and slender build. Jaina had learned that they recently celebrated their birthday. She was glad that at least Rhonin had lived long enough to share that with them. Giramar, the elder by a few moments, seemed a bit more stoic than his brother, Galadin, whose lower lip quivered, though both pairs of half-elven eyes glittered with unshed tears. While both wore ornate robes for such a formal occasion, they did not match; Giramar’s robe was indigo with silver trim, while Galadin had chosen dark green and gold.

Their mother wore not her familiar armor but a gown. Some were surprised to see that the garb was not black, nor even very conservative. Vereesa Windrunner was a proud and beautiful woman, and her marriage to the hot-tempered but good-natured archmage had been full of passion and devotion. It was his vibrant life she now chose to celebrate, not the ending of it, and so she was clad in a flowing red dress more appropriate to a ballroom than a funeral. Her eyes were dry; Vereesa had already done her mourning. Jaina’s heart both ached for her and swelled with admiration. Rhonin’s sons, though lacking a father, had a mother who would raise them well.

So many had gathered at the Violet Citadel. Jaina suspected that nearly every member of the Kirin Tor who could be present had come. And why should they not? Rhonin deserved it.

“Not all that long ago,” Jaina said, “the Kirin Tor took a bold step in selecting Rhonin to be its leader. He was unorthodox and outspoken—impetuous and stubborn. He had a tremendous sense of humor and great love of friends and family.” She smiled a little at the twins, who sniffled slightly but who both shakily returned the gesture. Addressing the other members of the Council of Six, she said, “He took Dalaran in a new direction and led the Kirin Tor
through a war with the very Aspect who had been chosen to guide and monitor magic. He died as he had lived—protecting and helping others.”

Her own voice threatened to give out and she paused, collecting herself. “As his final act, he forced me through a portal—saving my life, even as he sacrificed his. He believed that I would be the future of the Kirin Tor. And because you agreed with him, here I stand. I can only succeed him; I can never replace him.”

She looked out over the sea of purple robes, her heart hurting a little more as she saw the Sparkshines. “The winds of change blow fiercely; Azeroth is on the brink of war. The Kirin Tor can be the calm eye of the hurricane, if we choose to be. We can speak reason, when the rest of the world is going mad. We can remember that we have skills and knowledge, but so do others. I have at last come home, to Dalaran, though my path here has been a strange and winding one. Long have I been away, and I am glad to come back, bringing all I have learned, through love and through pain. And while I deeply regret some of my recent behavior, I do not regret who I have become because of it. I will lead you as best I may. It is time to bring the floating city down to the earth. I will do so with guidance, because I will ask your advice. I will do so with honor, because I will hold myself to the standard set by Rhonin. I will do these things—but I will continue to believe, as I know many here do, that this world cannot be safe with Garrosh Hellscream as the leader of the Horde. And how all these duties and beliefs will reconcile, I know not. But I have faith that they will.” She thought of the prophecy and smiled a little. “Someone very wise seemed to think they would.”

She lifted her arms to the sky. “There were not even ashes to scatter, my friend. But your spirit lives on. In the heart of your courageous wife, in the eyes of your beautiful sons, and in the wisdom of the Kirin Tor.”

Jaina began to move her fingers in a weaving motion. Beside her, the other members of the Council of Six and Kalecgos did likewise, as did all the magi assembled. Jaina thought of a conversation she
had had with Kalec, so long ago it seemed now, and again smiled slightly as a small, pale lavender ball of arcane energy formed in her hand.

“There is a rhythm, a cycle. There is—a pattern.” She drew her fingers through the globe of arcane magic. It fragmented and reformed, a whirl of signs and symbols and numbers. “All things change, whether from the inside out or the outside in. That is what magic is. And we are magic too.”

She lifted her palm and sent the small orb floating upward. It was joined by dozens of its fellows, and then hundreds, as even those denizens of Dalaran who were unable to find space at the ceremony were still able to join in this gesture of farewell. The lights continued to rise, like fireflies of lavender magic against the deepening twilight, and despite everything—despite the tragedy of Theramore and the disaster she had almost been responsible for, despite the sorrow of losing Rhonin—Jaina felt her own heart lift with them.

All things change,
she thought.
I, Thrall, Garrosh, Varian… Azeroth.

A warm hand clasped hers, and she smiled up at Kalecgos. She was more than ready for the changes that awaited her.

•   •   •

Tink. Tink. Tink. Hisssssss…

A dwarf stood naked to the waist, firelight glinting off his sweaty torso, as he worked at the Great Forge of Ironforge. The forge had always burned, but it had seldom been utilized as it was now. There was no daytime or nighttime underground, and there was no cessation of the work to be done. War was in the wind, and the Alliance had to be prepared. The dwarf set aside the completed weapon, then placed his hands on his lower back as he stretched, wincing as he heard things pop and creak. He reached for a waterskin, wiped his red beard, and continued.

In Stormwind, they were building new ships. With each one the designers refined the task of construction, more and more, turning out crafts faster and faster. And Light knew they would be needed.
While Garrosh had blinked, he could not be counted on to do so a second time. The Horde fleet was still intact, although it had retreated; the Alliance could not say the same thing. Varian stood near the harbor for a long moment, watching the activity, then returned to the keep.

He had a war to plan.

•   •   •

Garrosh paced in Grommash Hold. The orders were already being posted:

A
TTENTION ALL ABLE-BODIED MEMBERS OF THE
H
ORDE!
W
ARCHIEF
G
ARROSH
H
ELLSCREAM HAS ISSUED A
CALL TO ARMS
FOR ALL CITIZENS!
M
ALE AND FEMALE ADULTS!
Y
OU WILL TRAIN TO FIGHT THE
A
LLIANCE IN A
WAR
IN WHICH WE SHALL BE
TRIUMPHANT
!
C
HILDREN AND OTHERS WHO CANNOT BEAR ARMS—YOU WILL ASSIST IN CRAFTING WEAPONS AND TENDING TO THE NEEDS OF THE
WARRIORS
!
A
NYONE FOUND SHIRKING HIS OR HER DUTY WILL BE
ARRESTED
FOR
TREASON
BY THE
K
OR’KRON.
NO EXCEPTIONS.
FOR THE HORDE
!

The activity that had been afoot in Orgrimmar over the last several months had increased a thousandfold. Fires burned at all hours of the day and night, and the Kor’kron were rounding up conscripts.

Garrosh Hellscream stood alone in Grommash Hold. He stared down at a map of the Eastern Kingdoms spread on one of the tables, illuminated by the gleam of candlelight. He played idly with a dagger, thumbing its tip. His eyes flickered over the letters:

STORMWIND

Then he lifted the blade high over his head and brought it down nearly to the hilt in the middle of the
M.

“I will watch your city burn around you, Varian Wrynn,” he muttered. He grinned around his tusks. “After all… there can only be one victor in this war.”

Special thanks must go to Ed Schlesinger, James Waugh, Micky Neilson, and Russell Brower for their patience and support during a very difficult time. Thanks, guys.

Thanks must also go to the Puckett family—Rob, Bev, Chris, and Ryan. All authors should have such a place to go for a writing retreat.