TWENTY-THREE

Have you ever gone on a vision quest, Go’el?” Geyah asked one night as they shared a simple meal of clefthoof stew and bread. Thrall ate hungrily; the day had been long and intensely wearying, emotionally and physically. He had spent the day not communing with or aiding the elementals of this land, but destroying them.

Thrall understood that very few elemental spirits were balanced and in harmony with themselves and the other elements. Some were in true alignment with their natures, chaotic though those natures might be. Others were sometimes sick and corrupted. Often, a gentle but firm hand could bring them back into line. But sometimes the entities were too damaged. One such had been the little spark in Orgrimmar, who would not listen to reason, or even to begging.

The shaman could not be selfish. They must always show honor and respect for the elementals, to ask humbly for their aid and be grateful when it was offered. But they also had a responsibility to protect the world from harm, and if that harm came from an uncontrollable elemental, their duty was clear.

And Outland was apparently overrun with them.

Aggra had leaped into the fray with the surety of one who had done this dozens, perhaps hundreds of times. She took no joy in the task, but neither did she hesitate to defend herself or him, her charge, even if she would rather he was not so. It was a bitter fight, Thrall thought, a shaman using the power of a healthy elemental to slay its tainted … brethren? Peers? He was not sure of the word, only that it made his heart ache to watch it. In the back of his mind was the nagging question: Is this the future of Azeroth’s elementals? And is there nothing I can do to prevent it?

He turned to Geyah, to answer her question. “When I was young, and under Drek’Thar’s tutelage, I met the elements,” Thrall said. “I fasted and did not drink for a full day. Drek’Thar took me to a certain area, and I waited until the elements approached me. I asked each of them a question, as part of my test, and pledged myself to their service. It was … very powerful.”

Aggra and Geyah exchanged glances. “That is well,” said Geyah, “though not a traditional rite of passage. Drek’Thar did the best he could under challenging circumstances. He was one of only a handful left, and when you came to him, the Frostwolves were too busy simply trying to survive, and so he could not prepare a traditional vision quest for you. You have done well on your own, Go’el, astonishingly well, but perhaps now that you have come back to your homeland to learn, it is time for you to have a proper ritual quest.”

Aggra was nodding. She looked solemn and did not regard him with her usual barely concealed disdain. In fact, quite the opposite—she seemed almost to have acquired a new respect for him, if her body language was any indication.

“I will do what I must,” Thrall said. “Do you think it is because I have not had this particular rite that I am not learning what I have come here to learn?”

“The vision quest is about self-knowledge,” Aggra said. “Perhaps you need that before you are ready to accept other knowledge.”

It was hard not to take umbrage at her slightest word. “More than most I am self-made,” he said stiffly. “I think I have learned a great deal about myself already.”

“And yet the mighty Slave cannot find what he seeks,” said Aggra, tensing slightly.

“Peace, the two of you,” Geyah said mildly, though she was frowning. “The worlds are in enough chaos without two shaman sniping at one another. Aggra, you speak your mind, and that is well, but perhaps holding your tongue from time to time might be a good exercise for you. And, Go’el, surely you admit that anyone, even the warchief of the Horde, would benefit from knowing himself better.”

Thrall frowned slightly. “My apologies, Grandmother. Aggra. I am frustrated because the situation is dire, and I as of yet can do nothing to help. It serves no one to take my irritation out on you.”

Aggra nodded. She looked annoyed, but somehow Thrall sensed that—for once—it was not with him. She seemed annoyed with herself.

The young shaman confounded him, he had to admit. He did not know what to make of her. Thrall was not unaccustomed to dealing with intelligent, strong women. He had known two—Taretha Foxton and Jaina Proudmoore. But they were both human, and he was coming to realize that their strength came from a place that was very different from where orc females drew their strength. He had heard stories of his mother, Draka, who had been born sickly but through her own will and determination had become as strong physically as she was mentally and emotionally. “A warrior made,” he had once heard Geyah say of Draka with admiration. “It is easy to be a good warrior when the ancestors gift you with speed and strength and a strong heart. It is not so easy when you must wrest these things from a world that does not want to give them to you, as Draka did.”

Now she spoke to Thrall, though it was upon Aggra that her gaze was fixed. “Your mother’s spirit is within you, Thrall. Like her, everything you are, you have made of yourself. What you gave your people was not an easy thing—you had to fight for it. You are your mother’s son as well as your father’s, Go’el, son of Durotan—and Draka.”

“I came here to do whatever was necessary to learn how to help my world,” Thrall said. “But I would be about this vision quest as quickly as possible.”

“You will stay as long as it takes, and you know it,” Aggra said.

Growling slightly to himself, Thrall said nothing, because he did know it.

Anduin knew well that he was not “an honored guest.” He was, in fact, a hostage, and the single most valuable one Moira had.

The envelope, written in a flowing hand, was on the table of the main room when Anduin came back after an hour spent with Rohan four days after Moira and her Dark Iron dwarves had swept into the city. He gritted his teeth as he saw that the red wax was sealed with the royal seal of Ironforge. He opened it while Drukan, the “special guard” assigned to Anduin to “make sure he was well taken care of, as he was such an honored guest,” looked on sullenly.

The Pleasure of your Company is requested at Twilight this Evening. Formal Attire is required and Promptness is appreciated.

Anduin resisted the urge to crumple the letter and throw it away. Instead, he smiled politely at Drukan.

“Please tell Her Majesty that I shall be happy to attend. I’m sure she’ll want to hear from me as soon as possible.” At least, he thought, this would send off the watchdog for a few moments. He waited until Drukan determined he couldn’t get out of the errand. The dwarf scowled and stomped off.

Anduin realized he actually found Drukan’s lack of pretense, interest, and concern refreshing. At least Drukan wasn’t lying about his feelings.

Anduin bathed and dressed. Moira may have thought she was pulling the strings on a puppet by demanding his attendance, but by insisting on formal attire, she was giving Anduin permission to wear his crown and other regalia that marked him as her equal. Anduin was well aware of the power such subtleties could convey. Wyll helped him dress, adjusted his crown with about a dozen delicate, infinitesimal tweaks, and then produced a mirror.

Anduin blinked a little. He always hated it when adults said he had “grown so much since the last time I saw you,” but he was forced to see the evidence now with his own eyes. He hadn’t paid much attention to what he looked like in the mirror recently, but now he could see that there was a new somberness to his eyes, a set to his jaw. He’d not had anything resembling a sheltered childhood, but he just hadn’t expected the stress of the last few days to be so … visible.

“Everything all right, Your Highness?” Wyll inquired.

“Yes, Wyll. Everything is fine.”

The elderly servant leaned forward. “I am certain your father is working diligently to find a way to secure your release,” he said, pitching his voice very soft.

Anduin merely nodded. “Well,” he sighed, “time for dinner.”

Anduin was led past the High Seat and discovered that there were only two place settings at a surprisingly small table. Apparently it was to be an intimate gathering.

In other words, he was going to be interrogated.

He assumed Moira would take the head of the table, so he stood politely beside his chair awaiting her arrival.

He waited. And waited. The minutes crept past, and he realized that this, too, was all part of the game that was being played. He understood it better than she thought. He was young and he knew it, and he knew that people underestimated him precisely for that reason. He could use that to his benefit.

And, being young, he could stand for a long time without discomfort.

At last a door was flung open. A Dark Iron dwarf clad in the livery of Ironforge stepped forward, puffed out his chest, and announced in a voice that would carry in a crowd of hundreds, “Rise to greet Her Majesty, Queen Moira of Ironforge!”

Anduin gave the dwarf a half smile and spread his hands slightly to indicate that he was already standing. The prince bowed as Moira entered, still maintaining the proper depth of the bow to an equal. When he straightened, smiling politely, he saw a flicker of annoyance cross Moira’s usually set-in-stone expression of false cordiality.

“Ah, Anduin. You are right on time,” Moira said as she swept into the room. A servant pulled out her chair for her, and she settled in, then nodded to Anduin that he might do likewise.

“I believe punctuality to be a great virtue,” he said. He did not need to mention that she had kept him waiting. They both knew it.

“I trust you have been having a pleasant and enlightening time conversing with my other subjects,” she said, permitting the servant to place the napkin in her lap.

Other subjects? Was she implying that Anduin was—no, she wasn’t, but she wanted him to think she was. Anduin smiled pleasantly, nodding thanks to the servant who poured him a glass of water. Another was pouring blood-red wine for Moira. Beer, apparently, was not high on the list of the queen’s favorite beverages.

“By that, of course, you mean the Dark Iron dwarves, not just the dwarves of Ironforge,” he said pleasantly. “I’ve not had much conversation with Drukan. Kind of a quiet fellow.”

Moira lifted a delicate hand to her mouth, hiding a smile. “Oh, dear, why yes, that is very true. Most of them aren’t talkers, you know. Which is one reason I am so terribly glad that you are here, my dear friend.”

Anduin smiled politely and dipped his spoon into the soup.

“I am very much looking forward to the long conversations we are certain to have as the weeks and months unfold.”

He forced himself not to choke on the soup, swallowing hard. “While I am sure they would be fascinating,” and that at least was not a lie, “I think that my father will need me back before then. I fear you must get as much stimulating conversation as you can with me now.”

A flicker in the depths of Moira’s eyes, then the brittle smile. “Oh, I daresay your father will indulge me. Tell me of him. I understand he’s had quite the ordeal.”

Anduin was very certain indeed that Moira knew everything there was to know. She did not strike him as someone who would have waited this long to find out what she wanted to learn. Nonetheless, through the soup course and the salad, he told her what was general knowledge of his father’s adventures.

“That must have been quite hard on you, Anduin.”

He didn’t think she really cared, but a thought occurred to him. He decided to run with it.

“It was,” he said, utterly honest. “It’s been even harder to know that he doesn’t approve of the direction in which I wish to take my life. Rumor has it that’s something you would understand.”

For the first time since he saw her, she looked at him with a completely unguarded expression, the spoon partway to her mouth, her eyes wide in astonishment. She looked—vulnerable, flustered, and hastened to recover.

“Why, whatever do you mean?” She uttered a false laugh.

“I hear that Magni wasn’t the best father in the world, even though he might have wanted to be—just like mine,” Anduin said. “That he never quite forgave you for not being the son he wanted.”

Her eyes went hard, but they were oddly shiny, as if with unshed tears. When she spoke, it was as if Anduin’s words had broken a dam. “My father was indeed quite disappointed in my flaw of being born female. He could never believe that I might not want to stay here while constantly being reminded that I’d failed him simply by being born. He decided that the only way I could possibly fall in love with a Dark Iron dwarf was if my husband had enchanted me. Well, he did, Anduin. He enchanted me with the concept of respect. Of having people listen to me when I spoke. Of believing that I could rule, even as a female, and rule well. The Dark Irons welcomed me when my own father dismissed me.”

She laughed without humor. “That’s the only magic Dagran Thaurissan and the Dark Irons used on me. My father thought them only to be despised, only good enough to fight and kill. Well, they are dwarves, just like any other clan of dwarves—heirs to the earthen. The other dwarves could stand to be reminded of that, and that’s what I intend to do.”

“You are the rightful heir,” Anduin agreed. “Magni should have recognized and raised you as such from the day you were born. I’m sorry you only found welcome among the Dark Irons, and you’re right—they’re dwarves, too. But you aren’t going to promote harmony by forcing the people of Ironforge to think like you do. Open up the city. Let people see who the Dark Irons really are, as you have. They can have—”

“They can have what I say they can have!” snapped Moira, her voice strident. “And they will do what I say they will do! I have the right of law on my side, and Dagran—the boy that Magni so wished I had been—will rule when I am gone. His father and I …”

She paused, and the artificial good cheer suddenly replaced the honest anger. “Do you know,” she said, “that is really the first time this thought has occurred to me.”

Discouraged at her reversion to her previous demeanor, Anduin asked, “And what thought might that be?”

“Why, that I am an empress, not just a queen.”

A chill ran down Anduin’s spine.

“Goodness! This changes everything! I have two peoples to rule over. As will my little one, once he comes of age. Such opportunities to be had to build bridges, to bring peace. Do you not agree?”

“Peace is always a noble goal,” he said, his heart sinking. He’d had her, just for a moment, had gotten her speaking honestly. But the moment had passed.

“Indeed. My, my. Sometimes I think I am just a silly little girl still.”

No, you don’t, and neither do I. “I can sympathize. Sometimes I think I’m just a thirteen-year-old boy,” he said.

Moira tittered again. “Ah, your humor delights me, Anduin. While I am certain your father misses you, I am quite, quite sure that I cannot bear to part with you just yet.”

He gave her a smile that he sincerely hoped did not look quite as fake as it actually was.

Several hours later, finally alone in his quarters, Anduin closed the door and leaned against it heavily.

Moira wasn’t mad, or under any spell. He wished she were. She’d been wronged, he had to admit, but instead of turning that into a strength, she’d let her resentment eat away at her. She was calculating, in control, and intent upon bequeathing an empire to her son. Some of what she said made sense. Peace was a good thing. But so was liberty.

He had to get out of here. Had to let someone know what was going on. He took a deep breath, ran his hand through his hair, and then began to throw things into a small pack he’d brought for day trips with … Light, how he missed Aerin, even now. But he was also glad that she wasn’t here to see what Ironforge had become.

He wouldn’t need much—a change of clothing or two, some money. He had brought a few special things from Stormwind, but now he realized that he could live without them in the face of the urgent need to get away as soon as possible. But there was one thing that meant too much, that was too precious, to part with.

He’d kept it under the bed since Magni’s death, wrapped in the same cloth as it had been when the dwarven king had presented it to him. He hoped word had not reached Moira about the gift. Somehow he suspected the idea wouldn’t sit well with her.

He took a moment to unwrap it and touch the beautiful mace. Fearbreaker. He could use its comfort now. Anduin permitted his hand to close about the weapon for a moment, then he rewrapped it and placed it carefully in the pack.

It was time. He had decided not to tell Wyll. The less the elderly servant knew, the easier they would be on him. Anduin took a deep breath, reached his hand in his pocket, and closed his hand about the hearthstone Jaina had given him. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, Anduin filled his mind with images of Theramore, of Jaina’s cozy little fireplace—

—and materialized there.

Jaina stared at him. “Anduin, what are you doing here?”

The prince of Stormwind didn’t have a thought to spare for her. All he could do was gape at the enormous, angry-looking tauren clad in armor and feathers who stood directly in front of him.