The Shattering Read online

  “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.

  SEVEN

  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.

  “That’s very … restrained of you,” Jaina commented.

  “My actions should depend on what I know, not what I suspect. If it turns out that Thrall is behind this atrocity, rest assured I will march on Orgrimmar and have his head. I don’t care if I’m authorized to do that or not, I will.”

  “If he is, I’ll be marching beside you,” Jaina said. She was certain Thrall would be as shocked and horrified by the attack as Varian and Jaina had been. Even if he was not Varian’s friend, he would always be an honorable foe. He would never have authorized a violation of the treaty, let alone so gruesome an attack.

  “I wanted to talk about Anduin,” she said, changing the subject.

  Varian nodded. “Anduin is a born diplomat. He understood the necessity to go to war in Northrend, but he yearned—still yearns—for peace. And I seem to be unable to cease yearning for war. Things were good when I came back, but …”

  “Well, he is a teenager,” Jaina said lightly.

  “He took Bolvar’s death hard. Very hard.”

  At the name, Jaina shifted uncomfortably.

  “I realized how close they had become while I was gone. Bolvar was like a father to Anduin.”

  “Does … he know?” Jaina asked quietly.

  Varian shook his head. “And I hope he never does.” When the Lich King was finally slain, dreadful news came with the victory—the revelation that there must always be a Lich King, or else the Scourge would run rampant across the world. Someone needed to don the helm, become the next Lich King, or else everything they had all fought for would be for nothing.

  It was Bolvar—his life saved by the red dragons’ flames but his body hideously deformed, seeming a living ember shaped vaguely like a man—who had insisted on undertaking the dreadful task. And it was Bolvar who now wore the Lich King’s crown, sitting atop the roof of the world, forever destined to be the jailor of the undead. Even now, Jaina’s blue eyes filled with quick tears at the thought.

  “Anduin has had a difficult time of it,” Jaina said, her voice thick. She cleared it and resumed. “But Bolvar was not his father. You are, and I know he’s glad to have you back. But—”

  “But he wants his father back, not Lo’Gosh. Completely understandable. But Jaina … sometimes I’m not sure where one ends and the other begins. I … do not like having the boy around, living with me, while I try to determine this.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing. And I have an idea. …”

  * * *

  Jaina slipped her hood over her head as she exited the cathedral. It was still raining, and in fact had picked up. It did not distress her unduly; living in Theramore, she was well accustomed to such damp weather.

  Having teleported to Stormwind, she had no palfrey, so she strode quickly through the wet streets toward Stormwind Keep. It was not a long walk, but her feet found a few puddles, and when she did arrive, she was quite thoroughly soaked and shivering.

  The guards knew her and nodded politely as she entered. Servants stepped up to her quickly, offering to take her cloak and get her something hot to drink. She waved aside the offers, smiling kindly, and thanked them for their attentiveness. As she was a well-known visitor, they did not question where she wished to go in the keep when she asked directions.

  Jaina made her way past the formal rooms and the throne room into the private areas of the castle. She reached her destination, smoothed her soggy hair, and knocked on the door to Anduin’s quarters.

  There was no immediate response. She tried again, this time saying quietly, “Anduin? It’s me, Jaina.”

  She heard the quiet tread of feet approaching the door, and then it opened a crack. Solemn blue eyes peered up at her and then flickered past her.

  “It’s just me,” she assured him. He nodded his fair head and then stepped back to admit her.

  Stormwind Keep was lavish enough, she supposed, though it did not hold a candle to Lordaeron’s once-magnificent palace. She remembered what Prince Arthas’s chambers had been like as she took in Anduin’s rather sparse room. He had been prince all his life, and king for a time, during Varian’s absence, and yet this room was simple and spare. The bed was small, better suited to the child he had been rather than the youth he was. He’d need a larger one soon, she thought; he was growing
like a weed. The bed frame lacked ornate hangings, the walls paintings, save for one—a portrait of Anduin and his mother, Queen Tiffin, when the boy was still an infant. Jaina guessed she had died not long after that portrait had been painted, slain by a rock thrown during a Defias riot. It was this incident that she had referred to earlier with Varian, in an attempt to get him to understand the position Thrall was in. Tiffin’s son had never known her.

  There was a simple nightstand with a pitcher of water and a basin next to the bed on one side. An unlit brazier stood a few feet away, to take the chill off the room in winter. A door opened presumably to another room where Anduin’s clothing and other regalia were stored, as Jaina saw nothing here, not even a wardrobe. In the center of the room there was a single chair next to a small table upon which sat books, parchment, ink, and a quill. Politely Anduin eased the chair out for her, reaching to take off her cloak and hang it up, then stood next to the chair, his arms folded. He was obviously still upset from his earlier conversation with his father.

  “You’re drenched,” he said flatly. “Let me order you some hot tea.”

  “Thank you. That would be most welcome.” She gave him a smile.

  He returned it, but it was forced and did not reach his eyes. He tugged on a braided rope beside the door.

  “I swear, you’ll be as big as your father the next time I see you,” Jaina teased, hoping to ease him out of his mood. She settled into the chair.

  He grimaced slightly. “Which version of my father?” His voice was evenly pitched, carefully modulated as befit a prince, but the words had a bite to them that Jaina, who knew him so well, winced at.

  “Your father is chagrined that you witnessed that,” she said gently.

  “I’m certain he is,” Anduin said in that same voice. “But there are many things I have witnessed at my age.”

  He stood straight and tall, his hands clasped behind his back. Was he betrothed yet? She realized she didn’t know. She hoped not. Anduin was right. He had seen a great deal in his short life, and she had rather hoped that he would yet have some time to be a boy, at least.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” she said, waving a slightly annoyed hand at him. “You’re unsettling me, standing there like you have a polearm for a spine. Go hop on the bed and talk with me. You know I’m not much for ceremony.”

  Like ice cracking under the first warm rays of a spring sun, a slight smile curved Anduin’s lips. She winked at him. The smile became a full-fledged grin, a slightly sheepish one, but a grin nonetheless.

  There was a soft knock on the door. A gray-haired servant stood in the doorway.

  “What can I do for you, Your Highness?”

  “Some peacebloom tea. Two cups. Oh …” He turned to Jaina. “Are you cold? I can have Wyll light the brazier for us.”

  Jaina quirked an eyebrow, lifted a hand, and fluttered it in the direction of the brazier. At once the kindling in it caught.

  “Not necessary, but thank you.”

  He laughed at the display. “I forgot. Just the tea, then. Oh, and some bread and honey. And some cheese, Dalaran sharp. And a couple of apples.” Jaina was touched. Anduin had remembered apples and cheese were Jaina’s favorite snack. “Thank you.”

  Jaina hid her smile. Definitely a growing boy. Once Wyll had left, Anduin obeyed her earlier request, settling himself comfortably on the bed, regarding her with those bright blue eyes that saw more than adults suspected.

  “There, that’s better. I’ve not come to lecture you or to apologize for your father,” Jaina continued. “I’ve come to give you an opportunity for a little fun, if you like.”

  He raised a golden eyebrow at that. “Oh? Fun?” He pronounced the word with exaggerated awkwardness. “What, pray tell, is that?”

  “Something you need more of. Your father is upset that you had to see that. He and I talked for a bit, and we both decided that you might like to have the chance to get away from things from time to time.”

  He eyed her curiously. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

  “How would you like to come visit me at Theramore?” Anduin had been to Theramore once, during a terrible storm, to attend peace talks that had been violently disrupted. She hoped to change his association of the place to a more positive one.

  But Anduin apparently had the resiliency of youth, for instead of looking unhappy, he brightened. “Visit the frontier again? I’d like that very much! I didn’t get to see very much of it at all. Is there any dragon fighting going on?”

  “Hardly any at all,” Jaina said with a mock sigh. “But I’m sure there is some trouble a thirteen-year-old boy can get into.”

  “Thirteen and a half, almost” Anduin admonished her in all seriousness.

  “I stand corrected.”

  “But … it’s a very long journey.”

  “Not for magi.”

  “Well, no, of course not, I didn’t mean for you, Aunt Jaina, I meant for me.”

  She smiled at him. “I’ve got a little something that might make traveling a bit easier.” She fished in the pouch clipped to her belt and came out with a small oval crystal covered with soft blue runes. “Here. Catch!”

  Jaina tossed it to Anduin, who caught it easily. “It’s pretty,” he said, examining it and tracing the runes with his fingers.

  “Pretty, and rather rare. Hold it lightly for now. Don’t close your fingers over it. Recognize the runes?”

  He peered at it. “It has your name and the word … ‘Home,’” he said.

  “That’s right. I see you’ve been keeping up with your studies. I had this created just for you. Even before … today … I had thought that you might enjoy coming to visit your old Auntie Jaina.”

  He scowled at her, brushing a lock of blond hair off his face. “You’re not old,” he said.

  “And you’ve been keeping up with your diplomacy, too,” she said, grinning. “But yes. It’s called a hearthstone.”

  “But the rune means ‘home.’”

  “Yes, it does, but ‘homestone’ sounds so ugly. ‘Hearthstone’ is more musical.”

  He chuckled, turning the hearthstone over in his hand, and said in a slightly supercilious tone, “Trust a girl to worry about such things.”

  “Kingdoms have risen and fallen over less,” Jaina said.

  “True enough,” he allowed. “So, how does this hearthstone work?”

  “Close your hand tightly over it, and concentrate.”

  Anduin obeyed. Jaina rose and went to him, placing her hand over his. A faint blue light limned her hand, then his.

  “This will bind the stone to you,” Jaina said quietly. He nodded his understanding. “Focus. Take the stone into yourself. Make it yours.”

  She felt the shift, from her to him, and smiled softly to herself as she let go. “There. It’s yours now.”

  Anduin looked at it again, grinning. He was clearly fascinated. “It’s purely magical, right? It’s not a gnomish construct?”

  Jaina nodded. “And I’m afraid it will only take you to Theramore. From there, we can port you back home.”

  “Wouldn’t want to put the dwarves and their gryphons out of business I suppose,” Anduin said with that odd streak of pragmatism that surfaced now and then.

  “Be mindful of when you use it,” she said, rising. “It will literally take you right to my hearth. Midafternoon is a very good time.”

  He continued to regard the stone, smiling, and Jaina’s heart lifted. This was definitely the right thing to do. She held out her arms to him. Anduin slipped off the bed and hugged her. He was growing up, she thought to herself, her arms around shoulders that were broader than she remembered, his head resting on her shoulder. This boy had known nothing but challenge, hardship, and loss, and yet he could laugh, could embrace his “auntie,” could be excited at the prospect of visiting the frontier.

  Light, let him stay a boy a little longer. Let him know at least something of peace before he has to take on adult responsibilities … again.

>   “You might regret this, Aunt Jaina,” he said, pulling away and regarding her seriously.

  Her heart lurched at his tone of voice. “Why do you say that, Anduin?”

  “Because I’m probably going to be visiting you all the time.”

  Relief swept through her. “That hardship I think I can handle.” Jaina Proudmoore, ruler of Theramore and a powerful sorceress, laughed like a girl and mussed the prince of Stormwind’s bright golden hair.

  EIGHT

  For a change, the weather was dry and the skies were partially clear as the pair of orcs rode their wolves through Dustwallow Marsh. The orcs were male, one older, one younger. Both looked as though they had been wandering for weeks in the swamp with their old, stained clothes. They wore oversized cloaks wrapped around their frames, a wise precaution in a place usually so rainy. Their wolves, though, were surprisingly sleek coated and healthy looking to belong to such obviously down-on-their-luck masters, although they, too, were now muddy from many sessions of plodding through the muck and mire.

  The trek ended in a swim out to one of the little islands off the coast, in a place called Tidefury Cove. The riders dismounted and swam side by side with their wolves. When the orcs emerged on dry land, they moved a safe distance away from the vigorous shaking that ensued as the wolves clambered ashore.

  The younger orc took out a spyglass and lifted it to his face. “Right on time,” he said.

  A dinghy was approaching. In it was a single, slender figure, wearing a cloak that concealed its form as the orcs’ cloaks had. But pale hands that were small and uncallused revealed that the lone occupant was female—and human.

  The younger orc waded into the water as the human woman’s vessel approached. Easily he grabbed the bow and pulled the boat firmly onto the shore, extending a hand to help her out. Without hesitation, she grasped the huge, rough hand, her own barely curling around two fingers, and permitted herself to be assisted.