Through bloodshot eyes, Eadrik stared at the night elf.
“A-Archdruid!” The human sneezed. “Praise be! I thought some monstrous creature had me!”
“Merely a precaution. When others are spying on me, I like to know who they are.”
Genn’s man looked aghast. “Spying on you? Hardly that! I was just on a hunt. I flushed out the prey, but lost it around here. I thought I heard it in that direction”—he pointed where Malfurion had come from—“and a moment later the entire land seemed to fall upon me!”
Malfurion gestured, and the rest of the barrier vanished. He need not have made any motion, but felt it was good to further remind Eadrik of just whom he faced and why it might be wise to speak truthfully. Of course, Malfurion intended no true harm to the human, but keeping Eadrik off balance might provide the night elf with some information.
“You are far from the encampment, Eadrik. It must have been quite the hunt to bring you this far. Now . . . would you like to explain again?”
The Gilnean looked away. Malfurion could all but read him. Eadrik feared betraying his lord in even the slightest manner.
“Your loyalty is commendable, but if you do not tell me now, I must demand the truth from Genn. With the summit imminent, any question I have concerning Gilneas’s application to rejoin the Alliance might tilt matters in a direction neither he nor I would prefer.”
The human swallowed, then finally nodded. “It’s nothing, Archdruid! I wasn’t meaning to watch you at all! It’s just that you happened to be here—happened to be here with one of them. . . .”
“One of . . . the Highborne? You have been watching the Highborne?”
Swallowing again, Eadrik continued: “My lord knows some of their history from you and others. He distrusts whatever influence they might have.”
It was something Malfurion had heard before. Those previous to state this belief had all been night elves, though.
“No slight was meant to you,” the human quickly added. “My lord has the greatest respect for your abilities and word.”
“Then he may take my word that the Highborne are of no concern to Gilneas. That should keep him from sending you or anyone else on unnecessary excursions.”
Eadrik bowed his head. “Yes, Archdruid.”
Malfurion took on a kinder tone. “I know that you are all on edge due to the summit. It will go well.”
“We understand.”
“Please give Genn my best.”
The human gave a short bow, then scurried into the forest. Malfurion frowned and turned toward Darnassus. He believed that Eadrik had told the truth when he had said that Genn Greymane distrusted the Highborne. The archdruid also believed that Gilneas had not had anything to do with the one mage’s disappearance.
But what Malfurion Stormrage also believed was that this incident somehow was tied to the summit . . . and possibly the desired failure of it.
9
A FINAL FAREWELL
The funeral for Shalasyr was a short, relatively modest affair despite Tyrande’s desire to see Jarod’s bride honored appropriately. That had been due to Jarod’s choice: he had felt that Shalasyr would have not wanted much pomp and circumstance. She had preferred simplicity, and he believed that included her final rites. Of course, there was also the nagging guilt that perhaps Jarod had insisted on the shorter ceremony simply so as to lessen his agony a bit.
Attendance was limited to those who had known her best. The high priestess stood behind the funeral bier upon which the body of Shalasyr had been placed. The light of Elune shone down through the temple ceiling, focusing on both Jarod’s beloved and Tyrande.
“Darkness covered us in the beginning,” she uttered, “and we could not see. We cried for guidance and the moon shone down bright upon us. Her soft light not only illuminated the night for us but also gave comfort. Her light touched us from within, enabling us to see even when the moon was not visible. . . .”
Whether this was entirely fact was not something debated among the night elves. What the high priestess stated concerned as much the souls of her people as it did actual events. What no one could argue with was that the Mother Moon took special care with her favored children, and they were grateful to her for that.
Jarod knelt at the forefront, his gaze never leaving Shalasyr’s beautiful, almost ethereal face. She could have been a marble statue, so perfect did she seem to him. His mate looked utterly at peace, even appearing to wear the hint of a smile.
“Now,” Tyrande went on, “we ask that the Mother Moon guide our sister Shalasyr on her sacred journey and that her ancestors and loved ones who have gone before her will make her welcome. . . .”
Jarod heard nothing after that. He saw only his life with Shalasyr and all the mistakes that he had made during it. He was grateful that she had put up with him despite all those mistakes when, had she remained behind, she could have been a revered priestess of the Mother Moon.
Tyrande raised her arms, reaching toward the moonlight. Jarod broke out of his reverie for a moment, then lost interest again.
He looked up a moment later as a silver aura suddenly radiated from Shalasyr’s body.
No one else seemed to notice . . . or at least no one reacted. Jarod stared at the soft, comforting glow as it rose over his beloved. It took on the vague shape of a figure and slowly separated from the still form.
“Shalasyr . . . ,” Jarod murmured.
The shape paused and, to his mind, looked in his direction for the space of a single breath. Suddenly he recalled other tender moments in his time with his mate, in some cases moments he had not remembered in centuries. Jarod relived each as if it had happened only yesterday.
Shalasyr’s spirit shrank in upon itself, becoming a tiny, glowing ball. It hovered a moment more, then moved as if drawn by the moonlight.
As the sphere swept into the moonlight, it dissipated . . . and Jarod felt Shalasyr’s presence vanish at the same time.
Jarod let out a gasp, but, fortunately, no one paid him any mind. At some point Tyrande had lowered her arms, and from her expression it appeared that the ceremony was nearly finished.
Indeed, all that remained was for her and Jarod to lead the bier and a procession of mourners out of the temple, through the gardens, and into an area beyond the city. There a small party of druids, led by Malfurion, greeted them.
Tyrande spoke to all. “As Shalasyr’s spirit has departed her mortal vessel, let that vessel now return its strength to the world. . . .”
The druids took up the body. With reverence, they set it into a soft patch of grass and small bushes. Two female druids lovingly adjusted Shalasyr so that she again looked as if she were only dreaming.
“Teldrassil welcomes this child,” Malfurion intoned. “The world welcomes this child back.”
The archdruid raised his staff. A soft wind swept through the area. The treetops gently swayed.
Around Shalasyr’s body, shoots grew, then bloomed into white and golden flowers. At first they simply outlined Jarod’s mate, but then their numbers grew so great that they began to drape over her. More and more flowers blossomed, quickly spilling over her. The effect was a beautiful draping of the female night elf, and Jarod could not help thinking how fitting the sight was.
Her serene face was the last part to be covered by the foliage. The flowers continued to sprout, rising into a tremendous cornucopia of color. A rich, wondrous scent wafted past Jarod’s nose, a scent that reminded him so much of Shalasyr.
Those who had come now paid their respects to him, then left. Soon there remained only a handful of observers, including Malfurion and Tyrande.
“This went as well as it could have,” the archdruid offered.
“There will be more and more of these ceremonies as mortality catches up with us,” Jarod returned, before Tyrande could say so herself. “I am honored that Shalasyr was one of the first. It made her . . . her departure a little easier to take, I admit.” He bowed his head to the high priestess. “I must confess I was esp
ecially touched when you made it seem as if Shalasyr’s spirit had risen up to join the Mother Moon. . . .”
Tyrande looked puzzled. “I planned no such thing. I would have been very afraid of offending you, Jarod.” She gazed deep into his eyes. “You saw that happen?”
“Yes, but—”
“Elune favors you! I would envy your moment, save that I respect that she made it one between you and Shalasyr only.”
“It . . . was not you?”
“No.”
Jarod’s eyes widened, but he quickly recovered. He glanced at the lingering attendees. “I was hoping Maiev would come.”
Tyrande cleared her throat. “You should not take it personally. Your sister has been through much; there was a time when she and I could not face one another—”
The former guard captain frowned. “I know of it, High Priestess. She related part of it to me earlier. The rest I was told by some of those who knew my sister and me when we were young or who were privy to events.”
“But only Malfurion and I, or Maiev herself, could tell you about what truly happened. . . .”
“I—I know that she was Illidan’s jailor and that at some point she was his prisoner . . . and that he tortured her.”
The high priestess looked sad. “I blame myself for so much that happened to Maiev. I should never have left her for so long in charge of Illidan’s imprisonment.”
“I should have realized more than you, my love,” the archdruid countered. “He was my brother. My twin.” To Jarod, he explained, “When Illidan was liberated—after so many millennia—it was as if her entire life had been for nothing. Her greatest purpose had become keeping him imprisoned. Maiev was all but shattered.”
“Yes, that would be how my sister would react. There was never a greater love for her than her duty.”
Tyrande took control of the story once more. “She was determined to hunt him down. It went from duty to obsession. Unfortunately, circumstances were not so simple; events happened that led to disaster for all of us. I tried to stop a threat and nearly lost my life to it. Rather than come to my aid, Maiev chose to pursue Illidan—”
“Just say that she chose to sacrifice you!” Malfurion blurted with revived anger.
“Mal! Remember yourself!” Tyrande’s eyes went from her mate to Jarod.
The archdruid bowed his head to Maiev’s brother. “Forgive me, Jarod. I should not put your sister in such a light, especially at this time. . . .”
“I care only for the truth . . . however terrible it might be.”
“The truth is,” the high priestess muttered with much sympathy, “that she convinced others, including Malfurion, that I was dead—swept away in a raging river—and that his brother was to blame. Nothing mattered but that Illidan be caught and finally made to pay for all his crimes.”
She nearly succeeded, Jarod learned. But when Malfurion had seen the horror in Illidan’s face when he had learned of what had happened to Tyrande, the plan had fallen apart. Through the confession of the mage Kael’thas—who would later become the guiding force behind the creation of the magic-addicted blood elves—they had then learned of Maiev’s falsehood. The archdruid had kept Maiev rooted where she was while he and Illidan had gone on to rescue Tyrande. Afterward, Malfurion, feeling that he owed his twin for that, had been instrumental in seeing to Illidan’s flight and exile into the otherworldly realm called Outland.
What felt like a chill wind coursed over Maiev’s brother, making him briefly shiver. Jarod found it strange that neither the archdruid nor the high priestess noticed the cold. Then he realized the chill had actually come from within, from becoming more aware as to how his sister’s sense of duty had relentlessly driven her on.
“I know what happens next. My sister would not give up even then,” Jarod remarked dourly. “She followed, and the rest of what I learned came to be. The pursuit through Outland, her capture and torture, and finally her part, alongside others, in the slaying of—pardon, Archdruid—of your brother.”
Malfurion shook his head. “You have no reason to apologize. This is all knowledge you should have—if not from us, then from Maiev.”
“For a time, we thought her dead . . . as we had thought you, Jarod.” The high priestess looked down. “Her Watchers had all but perished due to her obsession. When Maiev did return, there were bitter feelings and mistrust. Her mind had been ravaged, yet she endured. Her resilience is one reason we were able to make amends, Jarod. There is much to admire about your sister and much we owe her despite all that happened.” Tyrande put a comforting hand on his arm.
“It is kind of you to say that.” Jarod shifted uncomfortably. “If I may, I would like to spend some time here alone.”
“Of course. We must return, anyway. More of our guests are arriving.”
The former commander nodded. “May all go well with the summit.”
“We can only hope.”
The high priestess and the archdruid each respectfully bowed to Jarod, then left him by the burial site. He watched them depart, aware that he had not been told everything. However, none of that truly mattered now. All he cared about was this final place of rest for his Shalasyr.
Jarod knelt by the flowers. Their scent touched his soul and immediately made him think of tender moments with his mate. He imagined her with him.
And at last, with the visual evidence of Shalasyr laid to rest, and with his mind now forced to think beyond the moment, Jarod Shadowsong looked to the flowers and quietly asked, “So what becomes of me?”
Malfurion did not speak until they were far from Jarod, and even then he kept his voice low. “You were not honest . . . at least, not fully. You did not tell him everything about the conflict between you and Maiev when she reappeared.”
“It was not necessary. Maiev and I understand one another. Her devotion to duty is not something to be taken lightly. She has made amends and that is the end of it.”
“I am glad, but then, why did you not tell him more?”
Tyrande smiled softly. “That right belongs to Maiev.”
Their attention was caught by a young priestess moving toward them. Her expression was anxious.
“High Priestess,” she greeted, bowing. “There are more arrivals below . . . apparently from a submarine.”
“A submarine. That means the gnomes have arrived too. Almost everyone is here, then,” Malfurion said.
Tyrande nodded. “There is no sign of any ship from Stormwind?”
“No, High Priestess.”
“I see.” Tyrande exhaled. “Thank you for the news. We shall go directly to the portal. Have attendants ready for our new guests.”
“Yes, High Priestess.” The other female rushed off to obey.
“He will come,” the archdruid offered. “He has to.”
“That is what Shandris indicated . . . but if Varian Wrynn is coming, he is waiting until the very last moment. We cannot very well hold off the summit until we know with all certainty.”
“No . . . but there will be little point to it if he does not come.”
“Now, Mal . . .”
They did not discuss the point more. Returning to the portal, the night elves waited for the gnomes. As the pause lengthened, Malfurion and his mate looked at each other in curiosity and not a little concern.
“Could one of their devices have gone off down there?” the archdruid finally asked.
“Someone likely would have come through to report it.”
“Assuming anyone could . . .”
The portal abruptly shimmered again. With some relief, they watched for the gnomish leader to step through.
But what took shape within at first looked like nothing with which the archdruid, at least, was familiar. It had two long legs bent back like a bird’s, a stout, round carriage, and what seemed two pairs of arms, the upper ones much smaller than the lower duo. For its size and girth, it also appeared to have a relatively tiny head.
The figure fully formed, and despite all his con
cerns, Malfurion could not help chuckling quietly at the newcomer.
The bald gnome had the large-nosed, round face of his ilk and in some manner resembled a short, fat human, although there was no known link between the two races. This particular gnome, despite being elder in status, seemed as animated as a child. He was not so tall—in fact, standing, he was a foot shorter than Kurdran and certainly barely a third of the latter’s bulk. Malfurion had to make all these assumptions from past visits, for most of the gnome was hidden by what had first appeared to be his body and was instead some fantastical walking device.
The newcomer raised a pair of odd goggles, then peered at the night elves with inquisitive eyes. “High Priestess Tyrande Whisperwind and Archdruid Malfurion Stormrage!” the gnome rattled off at a breathtaking rate of speech. “I am pleased to be here!”
“High Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque, you are most welcome,” Tyrande declared.
Gelbin tugged on his short white beard in thought, then grinned. The machine marched him forward until he was within a yard of his hosts.
The huge right arm of the machine suddenly shot toward Malfurion. Although not frightened, the archdruid chose caution and took a step back. A three-fingered “hand” paused within a couple of inches of his chest.
“Oh, do excuse me! I’ve been trying these experimental arm attachments for the newest mechanostriders! Still fine-tuning the movements! I only meant to have it shake hands!”
Steeling himself, Malfurion reached to the mechanical hand. The gnome shifted a lever and the hand gripped the night elf’s own.
Tyrande let out a slight gasp of concern, but Malfurion simply did as the high tinker suggested, shaking the walker’s hand. The moment that was done, the fingers released their hold on the night elf, and the arm retracted.
With clinical interest, Gelbin Mekkatorque leaned over and asked, “How was the pressure? Any fractures or breaks?”
“No . . . none at all.”
“Ah, finally!” Gelbin sat back in triumph.
Behind the walker, other gnomes stepped through the portal. Unlike their leader, they came in on foot, although all wore objects or gear that clearly were devices of their own manufacture. They peered up at the high tinker, then at the night elves.
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