Before the Storm Page 13

  “Of course!” Faol said. “I’m proud to say that we’ve all stepped up to the challenge.” He looked up and beckoned. “Calia, my dear, won’t you come join us?”

  As Calia approached them, Faol continued, “She wants so much to help. I’ve appointed her our liaison to the Alliance races, whereas I’ve been familiarizing myself with all kinds of new parts of Azeroth by visiting Horde members. It’s been most enlightening!”

  Calia now stood beside Anduin, looking from one to the other. “It’s good to see you again, Anduin,” she said.

  “Our young friend has just returned from Teldrassil,” said Faol. “He says the night elves are already hard at work, and I informed him that we’ve not been shirking our duties, either.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Anduin said. “Actually, I came here hoping to speak with both of you on another topic as well, if we have time.”

  “Ha!” said Faol, delighted, as Calia slipped gracefully into the seat beside Anduin. “Saa’ra will be so jealous; usually everyone comes to see it. As for time, we have nothing but it in this place. It has done the Conclave good not to stay cloistered here but to be out and about in the world again. Now, then. You’ve visited Ironforge and Teldrassil, and it sounds like both have already taken immediate steps.”

  For the next several minutes, Calia and Faol gave Anduin a rundown of where they had traveled and where they had sent others to travel. “We try to take into account whom we’re talking to,” Calia said. “For instance, if we are traveling to the Echo Isles, we send one of our trolls. To Tranquillien, a blood elf.

  “Some have already heard,” Calia said, “and I regret to tell you that some are still more interested in mining the Azerite than in helping Azeroth.”

  Anduin nodded. “Not unexpected, though it’s extremely unfortunate.” He sighed. “It does sound like we’ve done what we can. We just have to protect the Azerite as much as possible and attempt to ensure the Horde doesn’t acquire much of it.”

  Even as he said the words, Anduin knew the idea was nothing but wishful thinking. For some reason, the goblins had figured things out first. They had descended on Silithus en masse and set up mines and ways to process the material before Shaw could even report back to Anduin. That battle might be lost already, and the thought pained him.

  But there might be one way to fight back against the Horde without fighting at all. Anduin had hoped to have Baine quietly helping from the other side, but that was not to be. If this idea was to work, it would be up to Anduin.

  He folded his hands in front of him and looked from Calia to Faol. “I wanted to discuss the Forsaken,” he said. “And I apologize in advance if I sound ignorant or insulting.”

  Faol waved his words away. “No need at all to apologize. Asking questions is how we learn, and I happen to have some answers.”

  Despite the archbishop’s assurance, Anduin was convinced he’d sound rude. He was beginning to think that discretion was the better part of valor and that he’d be best served by excusing himself now.

  “I had seen Forsaken before now,” he said. “And I was aware that they—you—were not mindless, raving Scourge. I also never thought you were inherently evil.”

  “But you thought us capable of doing evil things,” Faol said. “Don’t worry about that. That’s nothing more than being observant. I’ll be the first to admit the Forsaken have done terrible things. But so have humans. Even the tauren have a skeleton or two in their closet—metaphorically speaking, of course.”

  Anduin grinned, pleased that Faol understood him, and continued. “I found them…less relatable than the other Horde races, even though many used to be human. Perhaps because they used to be human. The Alliance turned them away. People that in life they knew. Maybe even had loved.”

  “Fear is a powerful emotion,” Calia said quietly. Something in the tone of her voice, in the way she held her body, brought home to Anduin that her astounding journey of survival had to have been harrowing, perhaps beyond his ability to understand. She sat with her hands in her lap, tightly clasped, and he saw that they trembled.

  “Calia,” he said before he could stop himself, “how did you possibly survive?”

  She lifted her sea-blue eyes to his. All over again he was reminded that she was Arthas’s sister, familiar to him though he had never met her. Her smile was sad.

  “By fate and by the Light’s mercy,” she said. “One day I will tell you. But it is still too…too close. Not just my journey, but…I lost people I loved, you see.”

  Anduin nodded. “Of course. Your father…and brother.” It was a painful, ugly story. Arthas, corrupted by the sword Frostmourne and pulled step by step from the path of the Light by the whispers of the Lich King, had not simply turned the citizens of Lordaeron into monsters. He had used a public welcoming ceremony as a chance to murder his father as Terenas sat upon his throne. Anduin suddenly, sickly realized that it was possible—no, probable, a near certainty—that Calia Menethil had witnessed that murder. Again he marveled that she had been able to escape.

  “Not just them,” Calia said. “Others I loved as well.” The king’s eyes widened. Did she have a family of her own?

  “I understand. I’m sorry if I caused you any distress.” He bit his lip, wondering if he should continue. She seemed to sense his dilemma and straightened a little, giving him a wan smile.

  “Go ahead. Ask me what you will. I can’t promise I’ll answer, but I will if I can.”

  “You had to have had a terrifying experience with the undead,” he said quietly. “How is it that you are so close with the archbishop?”

  Calia relaxed and smiled at her old friend. “He helped save me,” she said. “I remembered him, you see. And in the midst of all that horror, when I was constantly fleeing so many I loved whose minds and wills had been stolen from them…to see the face of someone who was still who he had been—”

  She shook her head, in awe of the moment even now, it would seem. “It was as if hope itself was a sword that stabbed clean through me. Except instead of wounding, it offered me the chance to move through my shock and pain to a place of healing. So you see, for me, the Forsaken weren’t monsters. They were friends. It was the Scourge, the shambling, stumbling things that wore my friends’ faces—they had become monsters.”

  Faol appeared genuinely moved by her words, and Anduin wondered if he’d ever heard them before. The archbishop took her hand, patting her healthy human flesh gently with his withered, almost mummified fingers.

  “Dear child,” he said. His voice was thick, as if with unshed tears. Could Forsaken weep? Anduin realized that he had no idea. There was so much about them that he didn’t know. “Dear, dear child. The joy was mine at finding you alive.”

  Anduin was glad he had come. It had been, beyond a doubt, the right decision. “There’s something I’d like to do,” he said, “and I’d like the two of you to help me.”

  “Of course, if we can,” Faol replied.

  “A terrible war has come to an end. One that has harmed both Horde and Alliance. Tens of thousands of lives were lost, including those of Vol’jin and my father. Now we hear that our own world might be another casualty, with a precious substance that I cannot in good conscience allow to fall into hostile hands. The goblins certainly know about it, and Sylvanas is probably already plotting how to use it against us. But that’s not happened yet. We have an opportunity here to come together—truly come together—and work on a large scale the way the Earthen Ring and the Cenarion Circle do. The way this temple does.”

  They were both listening. They did not scoff at his passion for peace as Greymane did or regard him with skeptical compassion as Valeera did. Encouraged, Anduin continued.

  “Already, either Sylvanas or other factions have murdered innocent people who have done nothing but try to learn about the world’s wound. I have an idea on how we can stop that. But
I can’t implement it directly. Not yet.”

  He paused. What he was about to say should have grown easier with time, but it had not. “Many believe Sylvanas deliberately betrayed my father and the Alliance at the Broken Shore. No one on our side is going to advocate extending an offer of peace without getting something in return.”

  Faol looked at him searchingly. “Do you believe she betrayed King Varian?” he asked calmly.

  Anduin thought about Baine’s report of the incident. “I don’t know what to believe,” he said finally. “But I do know how my advisers—and most of the Alliance—feel about her. She’s the enemy. But she’s not devoid of the ability to care about one thing, if nothing else.”

  Calia looked a bit confused, but Faol’s eyes were bright with understanding. “I think I see where you’re going with this, my boy.”

  “She cares about the Forsaken, people she views as her children. And the Alliance cares about their fallen loved ones.”

  Faol’s glowing eyes widened, but it was Calia who spoke first. “You’re saying that the Alliance was devastated after Lordaeron because so many of their loved ones were killed—or turned into the Scourge. It was personal loss.” She paused. “Like mine.”

  Anduin nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly. “And they’ve come to believe that the Forsaken are undead monsters. To most of my people, they’re no better than the Scourge. But you know better. You found hope and help from a Forsaken who had been a friend in life and was still a friend in death.”

  But Faol was shaking his head. “You and Calia are remarkable individuals, Anduin,” he said. “I’m not sure your average human would be able to make the leaps the two of you have.”

  “That’s because they haven’t had the chance to,” Anduin insisted. “Calia was rescued by someone she knew and trusted, someone who didn’t let her down. At Garrosh Hellscream’s trial, the Vision of Time showed me another courageous Forsaken—Frandis Farley. There’s a Fredrik Farley who’s the innkeeper in Goldshire. They could be relatives. I wonder if Fredrik would like to know that Frandis died resisting a cruel and unfair leader. I’d like to think he would.”

  He leaned forward, speaking from his heart. “There have to be so many stories, Faol. So many. Lordaeron and Stormwind were more than political allies; they were friends. People traveled easily and freely throughout the kingdoms. There have to be relatives who mourn their loved ones as dead when in reality they’re still—”

  The king paused, realizing what he was about to say. Faol smiled sadly.

  “Alive?” The archbishop shook his head. “It’s probably a mercy they think them dead. Too many can’t shake their prejudice to even try to see us as we really are.”

  “What if they did try?” Anduin leaned forward in his seat. “What if some of them were open to the idea? To meet their loved ones who’ve been…changed, yes, but still who they were? Isn’t that better than their being truly dead?”

  “Not for a great majority, it isn’t.”

  “We don’t need a majority to begin. Look at Calia. Look at me. We just need some. We need a spark of understanding, of acceptance. That’s all. Just a single spark.”

  His voice trembled as he said it, and he felt the Light wash through him with its sweet, warm blessing. Anduin knew he was speaking a great truth. One that would require effort and nurturing, but one that could indeed catch fire and sweep through the world.

  And when it did, nothing would be the same.

  “I think he’s right,” Calia said. Her voice was stronger than it had been since the conversation had begun. There was color in her cheeks, enthusiasm in her face. She was lit from within, as he was, by the breathtakingly daring act of hope.

  Calia turned to her friend. “I was lost, Alonsus. Emotionally and physically and mentally. You brought me back from a very dark place. What other wonders could that again work? For both Forsaken and humanity?”

  “I have seen much darkness,” Faol said, and for once he was not warm and quietly mirthful. He was serious, and the lights in his eyes glowed a different shade as he spoke. “Much, much darkness. There is evil in this world, my young friends, and sometimes it does not require corruption from an outside source to thrive. Sometimes it is born in the hearts of the least likely seeming people. A tiny seed of resentment or fear finds fertile soil and blooms into something terrible.”

  “But isn’t the reverse also true?” Anduin pressed. “Can’t a tiny seed of hope or kindness find fertile soil as well?”

  “Of course it can, but you are not talking about a tiny seed,” Faol said. “First, the only Forsaken you know of who would support such a thing are myself and a few here in the Conclave. There may not be many others who would. And if there are, you then must work with the leader of the Horde—the Banshee Queen. She may not want her people thinking fondly of their time as living beings. And finally, are there any humans other than Calia who would even wish to meet their, er, still-existing relatives or friends?”

  At Anduin’s crestfallen expression, the Forsaken archbishop softened. “I’m sorry to discourage you. But a ruler—even a priestly one—must know all the obstacles in his path. You want what is right, Anduin Llane Wrynn. And it is my fervent hope that this idea of yours will come to fruition. But perhaps that hour is not now.”

  Anduin didn’t quite slump, but he wanted to. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “You may be right. But it’s a chance to reunite families. To get us all working together so that we’re not focused on trying to kill each other. It’s a chance to stop the harm to Azeroth. This is important on so many levels!”

  “I didn’t say I disagreed with that.” Faol fell silent for a moment, thinking. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll talk with the rest of the Forsaken priests and get their opinions. We can begin to lay the groundwork for this.”

  The young king brightened somewhat. “Yes. That’s probably the best way to proceed for now. But lulls in aggression between Alliance and Horde seem to be rare. I had hoped to make the most of—”

  “Your Majesty?” Anduin turned to see High Priestess Laurena. Her normally friendly visage held an expression of concern, and her voice was somber.

  Anduin went cold inside. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Wyll. I think you’d better come back. Immediately.”

  Genn was there to meet Anduin and Laurena as they stepped through the portal. The look in the older man’s eyes was like a cold hand around Anduin’s heart.

  “Your Majesty,” he began.

  “Is he…?”

  “No, no. Not yet. I’m no healer, but I think it won’t be long now.”

  Anduin shook his head. No. There was still time. The Light was with him. “I won’t accept that,” he said, almost biting off the words as he raced toward the servants’ wing.

  “Anduin,” Genn called after him. But the young king wouldn’t listen. Aerin. Bolvar. His father. He’d lost too many he’d cared about. He wasn’t going to lose Wyll. Not today.

  As was proper for someone with so high a standing in the household, Wyll had a fairly large room. It was impeccably tidy, like the man himself. There was a washstand with a spotless basin, mirror, and shaving supplies along with a wardrobe, a clothing trunk, and a comfortable chair for reading. A mug of tea and a small bowl of now-cold cooked grains sat on a table next to it.

  The only reason the bed wasn’t perfectly made was that Wyll was in it. Anduin’s heart lurched painfully. Wyll would never say how old he was, but Anduin knew that he’d tended the young Varian Wrynn and he’d hinted that he might even have served Llane Wrynn, Anduin’s grandfather, when he, too, was young. But in Anduin’s mind, Wyll was ageless.

  He had been old ever since the king could remember, but he’d always had the energy to keep up with his young charge. Now, as Anduin regarded the figure lying in the bed, he felt as though all of Wyll’s years had descended upon hi
m at once. His normally ruddy face was pale, and his high cheekbones that had always made him look distinguished now only emphasized the sunken cheeks. He remembered noticing that Wyll had been losing weight even before they had traveled to Ironforge. He had thought nothing of it then. But it was as if the weight had simply melted off his tall frame. He looked diminished, smaller. Frail. Anduin felt a sudden, shameful flush of guilt.

  “Wyll,” he said, and his voice cracked.

  The old man’s eyelids, paper-thin and blue-veined, fluttered open. “Ah,” he said, his voice reedy. “Your Majesty. Please forgive me if I don’t rise. I told them not to disturb you.”

  Anduin grabbed the chair and pulled it over to Wyll’s bedside, reaching for the gnarled hand. “Nonsense,” he said. “I’m glad they did. You’ll be fine in just a moment. Wyll, you’ve been there for me for as long as I can remember. Anticipating my wants and needs as if by magic. You’ve taken care of me all my life. Now let me take care of you.” He took a deep breath and asked for the Light. At once his hand grew warm.

  But to his shock, Wyll made a soft noise of protest and drew his hand back. “Please…no. That won’t be necessary.”

  Anduin stared at him. “Wyll…I can heal you. The Light—”

  “Is a lovely and beautiful thing. And it loves you, my boy. Just as your father did. Just as I do. But I think it’s time I was on my way.”

  Anduin’s stomach clenched. He knew he couldn’t restore the old man’s youth. Although he did not think that such was beyond the Light’s power, if such a thing were possible, it was not granted to priests or others who used the Light to heal. But Anduin could cure whatever sickness was sucking the life out of his old friend. He could remove aches and pains and stiffness. Wyll had, albeit with reluctance, permitted him to do similar things in the past. Why was he refusing aid now, when it counted more than ever before?