Before the Storm Read online

  “Before we get started on the interviews, there’s someone I think we should meet,” he told Calia. “He’ll be here this afternoon.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “Someone who, I hope, will give us a feel for how the others might respond. Let’s call it testing the waters.”

  * * *

  —

  Fredrik Farley was used to providing food, beverages, and entertainment for a crowded inn. He also was used to subsequently breaking up the brawls that often resulted from the combination. He’d cleaned up blood a time or two and had had to expel a few too-rowdy individuals from the Lion’s Pride Inn, but mostly he simply made people happy. His patrons, be they locals or those just passing through, came to sing songs, tell tales, or sit by the fire with a mug of ale. Sometimes they poured their hearts out to him or his wife, Verina, as they offered a sympathetic ear.

  What Fredrik Farley was not used to was appearing before the king of Stormwind.

  His first reaction when presented with the summons was terror. He and his wife took pains to run an aboveboard inn at the Lion’s Pride. It had been in the Farley family for years and had offered brews to thirsty visitors since King Llane’s time. Had someone lodged a complaint because of a recent scuffle? Accused them of watering the beer?

  “Young King Anduin has a kind reputation,” Verina had said, trying to bolster them both. “I can’t imagine him throwing you in the stocks or closing our public house. Maybe he wants to talk to you about a private party.”

  Fredrik loved Verina, had since they were both in their early twenties. And now he loved her more than ever. “I think if King Anduin Wrynn wanted to host a party, he’s got a lovely keep to do it in,” he said, kissing her forehead lightly. “But who knows, right?”

  The letter the courier presented to him referenced “a personal matter” and asked for him to come “at his earliest convenience.” That, of course, meant reaching for his coat and hat after the quick conversation with his wife and accompanying the courier back to Stormwind Keep.

  He was escorted to the Petitioner’s Chamber. It was a large, austere room. Lit by lamps and candles, it included an area with a thick, richly embroidered rug and a few benches as well as a small table with four chairs in the center. A nobleman with an elegantly trimmed beard and two long, graying braids of hair greeted him, introducing himself as Count Remington Ridgewell. Fredrik was invited to take a seat.

  “No, thank you, my lord—er—Count,” he stammered. How did one address a count, anyway? “I prefer to stand if it please you,” he said.

  “It matters not at all to me,” the count said. He stepped back a few paces and clasped his hands behind his back, waiting.

  Fredrik removed his cap and held it, now and then nervously running a hand over his bald pate. He expected to be kept waiting for a while. Kings, he supposed, had quite a lot of things they needed to do in a day. He looked about the great chamber. So big! I could fit the entirety of the Lion’s Pride in here with room to spare, he mused.

  “Am I addressing the innkeeper Fredrik Farley?” came a pleasant, youthful-sounding voice.

  Fredrik turned, expecting to see a squire, and instead found himself face to face with King Anduin Wrynn. But the ruler of Stormwind was not alone. An older woman stood beside the king, dressed in a flowing white robe. And slightly behind him was a muscular older man with white hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and piercing blue eyes.

  “Your Majesty!” Fredrik said, his voice climbing with surprise. “Your pardon—I wasn’t—”

  He’s so young, Fredrik thought. My Anna is older than he is. I hadn’t realized that…

  The startlingly young king smiled easily and indicated a chair. “Please, do sit. Thank you for coming.”

  Fredrik edged toward the chair and sank down, still holding his hat. The king sat down across from him, and the priestess and the older man who had accompanied him did likewise. King Anduin folded his hands and regarded Fredrik steadily but kindly. The older man crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat. In contrast to the king and the priestess, he looked almost angry. Fredrik thought him familiar-looking but couldn’t place him.

  “I’m sorry for the mystery of all this, but it’s a bit of a delicate matter, and I wanted to speak with you myself.”

  Fredrik knew his eyes were as big as eggs at that point, but he was utterly unable to do anything about it. He gulped. Anduin waved to the attendant nobleman. “Wine for Mr. Farley, please, Count Ridgewell. Or would you prefer a beer?”

  The king of Stormwind is asking me if I want wine or beer, Fredrik thought. The world had gone mad.

  “W-whatever you’re having, Your Majesty.”

  “A bottle of Peaked Dalaran Red,” he said, and the count nodded and left. The king returned his gaze to Fredrik. “You’re an innkeeper. I’m sure you’ll be familiar with my selection.”

  Fredrik was indeed familiar with the vintage, but it wasn’t something there was much call for in the Lion’s Pride, as the price was exorbitant. “I’m offering you a glass now because we’re going to toast a very brave man,” the king continued. “And then I’m going to ask you if you yourself would, if it were possible, be inclined to do a very brave thing.”

  Fredrik nodded. “Of course, sir. It’s as you wish.”

  The priestess placed a gentle hand on his arm. “I know it’s hard not to be nervous, but I promise you, you’re free to leave at any time. His Majesty’s request is just that, not an order.”

  Fredrik felt some of the trepidation abate, and his heart, which had been pounding fiercely ever since the courier had arrived at the inn, finally started to slow down despite the older man’s glower.

  “Thank you, Priestess.”

  Anduin continued. “It’s my understanding you lost your brother to the plague. I want you to know that I am truly sorry for your loss.”

  This wasn’t at all what Fredrik had been expecting. He felt like he’d been gut punched. But the young king’s blue eyes remained friendly and sympathetic, and Fredrik found himself speaking freely.

  “Aye,” Fredrik said. “We was close as boys. Frandis always liked to play with swords. He was good at it—ever so much better’n me. Got a job guarding supply caravans from ruffians. He would go from here to Ironforge or wherever the caravans went. That day, they went to Lordaeron.”

  The boy—no, Fredrik, the king!—looked down for a minute. “And you thought Frandis died, didn’t you?”

  Sudden hope seized the innkeeper. “He’s not—is he alive?”

  The king shook his blond head sadly. “No. But he eventually became a Forsaken. And it was as a Forsaken that he became a hero. He was killed because he defied a tyrant—the warchief of the Horde, Garrosh Hellscream. He died because he wouldn’t follow orders he knew were wrong and cruel.”

  Count Ridgewell returned, bearing a tray with four glasses and the promised wine. The king nodded his thanks and filled the glasses. Fredrik reached for his, careful not to hold the fragile blown glass too tightly. It was not the heavy mugs he was accustomed to at his tavern, that was for certain.

  Frandis—his brother—had been a Forsaken. Abruptly Fredrik started to tremble, and the wine sloshed around in the beautiful goblet. He took a gulp to steady his nerves, then kicked himself for not savoring the rare vintage.

  “A hero,” Fredrik said, repeating King Anduin’s words. “That don’t sound like a Forsaken,” he added cautiously, wondering if this was some kind of game.

  “Not like what we think of as Forsaken, no,” the woman said. Beside her, the gray-haired man was looking increasingly irritated.

  “But does it sound like Frandis?” the king asked.

  Tears shimmered in Fredrik’s eyes. “It do,” he said. “He were a good man, Your Majesty.”

  “I know,” the king said. “And he was a good man even after he died. There are other Forsaken
who also retain themselves even after…their transition. Not all of them, certainly. But some.”

  “It…don’t seem possible,” Fredrik murmured.

  “Let me ask you a question,” the king said. “Let’s suppose, by some chance, Frandis was still with us. As a Forsaken. Knowing that he was still largely himself, still the good man who was your brother, would you have liked to meet with him?”

  Fredrik dropped his gaze to his lap. He saw that his large, strong hands had been clutching and twisting his hat until it had completely lost its shape.

  What a question! Would he want that?

  “Bear in mind as you answer, this may be your brother—but he would also be a Forsaken.” For the first time, the older man had spoken. His voice was deep and had almost a growl to it. “He wouldn’t be alive. He might be rotting. Bones would likely be jutting through his skin. He would have done terrible things as a member of the Scourge. And he would serve the Banshee Queen. Would you still be interested in meeting your ‘brother’?”

  King Anduin did not look pleased with the older man’s words, but he did not silence him, either. Fredrik felt cold, reeling from the graphic picture that had been painted. It would be terrifying to come face to face with—

  With what? Or, more important, with who? With a monster? Or with his brother?

  Fredrik would have to find that out for himself, wouldn’t he?

  The innkeeper swallowed hard and looked squarely first at the boyish face of his king, then at the gentle one of the priestess, then, less willingly, at the almost angry older man.

  His answer was for his king.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” he stated. “I’d have wanted to see him. And if he was as you say he was—someone who tried to stop something evil—then he’d still be my brother.”

  The king and the priestess exchanged pleased glances, and the king refilled Fredrik’s glass while the older man shook his head and sighed in frustration.

  Over the next few days, Anduin and Calia took the list of human names Sylvanas had given them and dispatched letters to all those mentioned. Anduin himself wrote them rather than having a scribe do so. He made it clear that participation in the Gathering, as he and Calia found themselves calling it, was completely voluntary.

  No harm will come to you or your family if you refuse, he said in the missive. This is not an order but rather an invitation, a chance to see your loved ones again, although they are different from the ones you recall.

  The couriers delivering the letters had been instructed not to leave without a reply. Some of those on the list were literate and wrote their own responses; others dictated them to the courier. Anduin looked at the pile of responses and sighed. “Counting today’s batch, there are more refusals than acceptances,” he said.

  Calia smiled sadly but kindly. “That shouldn’t surprise you,” she replied.

  “No. It doesn’t.” And that’s why it’s painful, he thought but did not say.

  “But there were some who accepted right away,” she reminded him. “And every member of the council submitted five names, anticipating that some might not want to be involved.”

  “True.” It was good for him to remember that. Their task was still just beginning; all the people who did respond positively would have to be interviewed to ensure that their desire to reunite with family or friends stemmed from love and concern rather than vengeance. Others of his advisers had offered to aid Calia and Anduin in the process, but the young king had refused them. It was a bitter thing, but he didn’t trust them to be unbiased. He’d seen how unhappy Genn had been with Fredrik Farley. People needed to understand what they might encounter, but they didn’t need to be bullied into refusing.

  Anduin had been informed that negative sentiment was not limited to his advisers. Guards and Shaw’s people had reported that there was muttering in some of the taverns and on the streets. The guards had been instructed to interrupt such conversations if they verged on sedition or grew violent. So far, nothing untoward had happened; the hatred expressed, the guards reported, was toward Sylvanas and the Horde for what they had done to their loved ones. Some still believed that death was better than becoming “monsters.”

  Communication between himself and the Banshee Queen continued to go surprisingly well. They had hammered out a set of rules that each agreed to adhere to and that had even passed muster among his advisers for safety purposes. Everyone was, if not exactly happy, approving of the spot selected, the numbers chosen, and the steps that would be followed from the arrival of each faction’s forces to the time and manner of their departure.

  At one point, Genn had confronted Anduin and asked him point blank: “How can you work so easily with the creature who betrayed your father? There’s more blood on her hands than there is water in the ocean!”

  “It’s not easy,” Anduin had replied. “And she does have blood on her hands. We all do. No, Genn. I can’t change the past. But if this goes well, then I can change the future: one person, one mind, one heart at a time. And maybe that will be enough so that a fresh outbreak of war fueled by Azerite won’t wipe out every one of us.”

  The days passed. Anduin and Calia continued to meet with those whose names were on the provided list. Some were like Fredrik: individuals who struggled with the concept of a Forsaken as a “person” but yearned for connection. Others, though they might have expressed a willingness to meet with their Forsaken kin in the letter, were deemed unsuitable. Calia was a keen observer, and Anduin trusted the old injuries he had received from the Divine Bell to guide his decisions. And sometimes, sadly, it was quite obvious that the “reunion” would have resulted in violence.

  There was an undercurrent of hostility, an unvoiced desire to punish the Forsaken simply for the act of having died and been reborn. Others, usually with more than sufficient reason, were openly angry at Sylvanas. They were given coin and refreshment for their time and dismissed.

  “Hate,” Anduin said once to Calia, “always surprises me. It shouldn’t. But it does.”

  She nodded her golden head sadly. “As priests, we cannot harden our hearts and still do what the Light would have us do. Vulnerability is our strength and our weakness both. But I would have it no other way.”

  The candles had burned low in the chamber on the final day as the last person settled into the chair. Her name was Philia Fintallas, and the person who had asked for her was her father, Parqual.

  Philia looked to be about fifteen years old, if that. She had large, expressive eyes and a small button nose. With the vibrancy of her demeanor, she seemed as far removed from a Forsaken as the summer from the winter.

  “My father was a historian in Lordaeron, and I was born there,” she said. “But we had family here—aunts, uncles, cousins—and I had come back for a visit. I was supposed to have gone home the day after—” She broke off, and tears welled in her eyes. Anduin fished out a handkerchief and handed it to her. She accepted it with a trembling smile of thanks and sipped at the water Calia had poured for her.

  “After Arthas came,” Anduin finished for her. He sneaked a glance at Calia. He couldn’t count the number of times her brother’s name had been mentioned during these meetings with survivors. And every one had cursed him heartily. On some level, it had to wound that man’s sister. Anduin never identified Calia by name, and she never reacted to the vile things that were said about the slain Lich King. He admired her strength, particularly given what she had said about not hardening her heart.

  Philia nodded miserably, then took a deep breath and continued. “We never heard anything from Mama or Papa, so we assumed they were dead. Hoped they were dead, given all we had heard about the Scourge. Oh, isn’t that horrible now that I know—I have to tell you that my uncle didn’t want me to come when I got your letter, Your Majesty. But I had to. If by some miracle it’s still him, I have to see him. I have to see my papa!”

&nbs
p; Her voice caught as the tears she had tried so hard to contain spilled down her cheeks.

  Calia had unfailingly been kind and comforting to all she and Anduin had spoken with, but this girl’s obvious love clearly struck her powerfully. She rose and went to Philia, holding her tightly, letting her sob against her shoulder. Anduin thought he glimpsed tears in the priestess’s eyes as the two women clung to each other, and a thought struck him. It was a delicate subject but one he needed to broach with Calia once their task here was completed.

  “It’s true, I promise you,” he said to Philia. “I haven’t met your father, but I have encountered many Forsaken who remember who they were and who would be very happy to be reunited with those who have thought them dead or destroyed beyond recognition.”

  Calia stood back a step from the girl, placing her hands on her shoulders. “Philia? Look at me.”

  The girl did so, gulping, her eyes red and swollen. “I have heard of your father from someone who knows him as he is now. He speaks very highly of him and tells me he is still kind and intelligent. I believe it will be a joyful reunion for you both.”

  “Thank you! Thank you so much! When will this happen?”

  “We will send a courier with instructions,” Anduin promised her. “Hopefully, not too long.”

  When the girl left, beaming with joy, Calia gave Anduin a smile even though her face was still flushed from the empathetic tears she had shed.

  “I hope you see now what good you do, Anduin Wrynn.”

  He gave her a lopsided grin. “I hope it will be good,” he said. “I’ll relax when it’s all over. I couldn’t have done this without you, Calia. You have a gift for reading people.”

  “That was something I learned from an early age as a royal child, as I’m sure you did. Working so closely with so many fellow priests has only helped to hone that skill and temper it with compassion.”

  There was a pause. Calia herself had just provided him a segue into the conversation he wished to have with her, but even so, Anduin steeled himself.