Wolfheart

10 The Banquet

With all having arrived save Stormwind, it behooved Malfurion to indeed see that the summit began. In order to build the mood to a positive level, he and Tyrande had agreed to host a banquet for all the guests. Accustomed to dealing with diurnal races, the night elves held the dinner banquet at sunset in an open area just beyond the confines of Darnassus. With food and drink of countless varieties set before them and the tranquil forest nearby, the rulers, emissaries, and their staffs gradually relaxed. Even Drukan went out of his way and permitted food not brought by his vessel to be served to the Dark Irons . . . but only after his chosen taster had verified that nothing was poisoned.

Night elf musicians played not only music composed by their own race but also favored works from among the peoples represented by the guests. There was only one common thread between the songs: all of them had been chosen to stir the heart, to suggest promise in the future.

Yet, there were still undertones of trouble brewing. Malfurion had spoken with more than one representative and in the process sought to verify his suspicions concerning the state of each realm. What he had learned at times discouraged him far more than his confident face reflected.

Among the dwarves, food was growing scarce, and old, bitter rivalries threatened to engulf the race. To add to the troubles, many of their underground passages had collapsed during the Cataclysm and still needed to be cleared. Thus far, matters had not come to a head, but they needed only one incident to have that happen.

The human domains also had to rebuild, and some of them were arguing over where current borders existed. Food and shelter were common problems, and Tyrande and Malfurion had already promised what aid the night elves could offer. Sisters of Elune and druids now journeyed through each part of the Alliance, using their abilities to heal both the people and nature.

But, from what Malfurion had heard, it was not enough.

Still, overall, the banquet began to have the effect that he sought. The dwarves did not even argue among themselves, and the gnomes had not set off any disastrous inventions.

Seated by Tyrande, Malfurion looked at the empty places to his right. “Genn indicated he would be arriving soon,” the high priestess informed her husband. “Eadrik just came with the message.”

“I thought I saw Eadrik, but I was not certain. There should be—” He hesitated as he caught sight of a shape nearing the banquet. “Odd. Who is that approaching now? It looks like—a draenei!”

Tyrande squinted—something she was having to do more and more often—in the direction he was staring. “Not just any draenei! That is Velen.”

Others began to notice the extremely tall figure—he stood nearly a foot taller than Malfurion—in the golden robes. His skin was alabaster white and his legs ended in thick cloven hooves. The Prophet had silver hair that reached past the shoulders and was set in ornate braids. He also had a matching beard that hung nearly to his waist.

Velen’s eyes were a brilliant blue and literally glowed. But most arresting of all was the luminous sigil just above his head, a sign of the gift he had been granted from the mystical naaru, energy beings from beyond Azeroth, beyond the otherworldly realm of Outland. They were creatures with an affinity to the Holy Light, of which Velen was now the chief prophet of the draenei. Other draenei wielded the power of the gift, but none so much as the figure before the assembly. In fact, the Light not only emanated from the sigil but at certain times almost seemed to faintly surround the august arrival . . . though it could have also merely been some trick of the eye.

Velen himself radiated timelessness, with only wrinkles around his ancient eyes. However, up close, one could see minute cracks in his alabaster skin, as if he were a statue hewed aeons ago. Malfurion did not know how old the draenei was. Older than any night elf alive, that much was true.

Even Drukan stood as Velen joined the banquet. Almost as one, the guests dipped their heads or bowed in respect. There was something about the draenei that spoke of an inner peace and knowledge that most could only dream of attaining. Small wonder, since Velen was not only leader of his people but a priest as well.

The draenei raised the crystalline head of a long, purple staff in Malfurion’s and Tyrande’s direction. Both the large crystal and the smaller one at the bottom of the staff briefly shimmered brighter. “Hail to you, Archdruid and High Priestess! Forgive this intrusion. . . .”

“The presence of the Prophet is never an intrusion,” Tyrande returned as solemnly, speaking to the others as well as their new guest, “and Velen himself is ever welcome here as a friend to all. We are all grateful for the aid he and the draenei gave us during the recent conflict with the demons of the Burning Legion.”

The priest bowed his head. “It is we the draenei who must thank the Alliance for taking us in, and even more so for standing against the foulness of the Burning Legion! Do not think so little of that! Never had there been a world that could stave off the demons not merely once, but more!”

Tyrande once more acknowledged this for all in attendance, but insisted more personally to the Prophet, “The final victory might not have been ours if not for you and your people, Velen. None here will deny that, either.”

“I am honored that you think so, but know that we will always be indebted to Azeroth. Thus, I come to promise you now that the draenei will do all we can to help the various lands of the Alliance in whatever capacity we may best.”

There was startled rumbling from the attendees, the night elves included. Malfurion leaned forward. “Your people are not returning to Outland? We just assumed . . .”

Velen smiled as if well aware that he would be faced with this very question. “Some have been sent back to revitalize our civilization there, but the rest of us will remain here on Azeroth for so long as we are needed.”

The high priestess looked around at the others. “I think that I speak for all of us when I say that this is a noble gesture for which we can only express again our own gratitude.”

Most of the other representatives of the Alliance murmured their agreement. The Dark Irons were the only ones to look not entirely satisfied with this revelation. Velen looked pleased at this overall acceptance.

“Please, join us, revered one,” Tyrande added, immediately signaling the servers to add a seat next to Malfurion and her. The two made certain that none of the other representatives would be deprived of space for this unexpected addition.

“I would be happy to join all my friends here. A little water is all I need.”

Despite that insistence, Tyrande had some food and wine also brought. Some slight surprise at the announcement aside, the draenei was a welcome guest.

The banquet settled down. The mood lightened. Tyrande exchanged a hopeful look with Malfurion.

From their right, just beyond Velen, Kurdran let out a hearty laugh at something the draenei said, drawing the night elves’ attention. The Prophet looked mildly amused at the effect his words had had on the dwarf. Kurdran turned to tell one of his countrymen something in regard to what he had heard from Velen—and paused to warily eye a party approaching. At the same time, the musicians, evidently also noting the newcomers, paused.

Genn Greymane had arrived at last.

The king of Gilneas was flanked by four of his people, three men and one woman. Eadrik was one of the escort, and he at present listened to something that Genn whispered.

As before, the Gilneans looked like any other humans, though Genn’s escort obviously consisted of seasoned fighters. If not for his confident stride and bearing, Genn might have simply been one more member of the band; he wore little ornamentation marking his regal status. The most evident sign of his rank was the Gilnean crest embossed on his shirt just over the heart, which Genn absently touched as he entered the gathering. The downfall of his kingdom had very much humbled the once-haughty monarch.

If there was anything to distinguish the Gilneans from most other humans, it was a wariness in their gazes as they neared. It was not a look of distrust but rather of defiance. Yet, defiance not against anyone in particular but at the world in general.

As they reached the center of the banquet, Genn raised his hand shoulder high. The other Gilneans stopped. The king took a half a dozen steps more, then halted in front of the night elves.

“My apologies. The delay was unavoidable.” His eyes fixed on Velen. “You must be Prophet Velen. I’ve heard much of you. I wasn’t aware you’d be here. I am Genn Greymane.”

The Prophet bowed his head. “Greetings, King of Gilneas. I am also familiar with you.”

Tyrande and Malfurion rose, the former declaring, “Welcome, Genn Greymane! Please take your place with us!”

“Before I do, I must say something to all here.”

His announcement spurred glances of curiosity and concern among the other leaders and emissaries. Malfurion fought off a frown.

“Please speak, Genn,” the archdruid finally encouraged. “We will be glad to listen.”

Malfurion’s declaration quieted the others, though some, especially the Dark Irons, still watched with wariness and concern.

The king nodded. “I’ll make this short. I made some terrible decisions years ago. I abandoned the Alliance for what I thought was the right course for my people. That proved to be a sorry mistake.” He cleared his throat. “What I’m saying is that I thank you all for giving us this second chance.”

With that, Genn bowed to the other guests, then led his party where they were to be seated. Rather than prolong what had clearly been an awkward moment for the human, Tyrande immediately signaled for the musicians to begin anew. She also made certain that the Gilneans were quickly fed and that the other guests had more drink and food brought to them.

The meal progressed. Personal conversations began to develop and a serious note crept into some aspects of the scene. Kurdran had shifted over to Tervosh to speak about something that caused the archmage to frown but nod. Across from them, Drukan watched with narrowed eyes, then returned to his food. A moment later, though, he rose and, to their surprise, went to speak privately with the high tinker.

“Do you think these conversations are a sign of hope or fragmentation?” Malfurion quietly asked his mate, his serene face belying his concern.

“Each of their lands is trying to recover, as even we are. They are no doubt attempting to see what they might be able to gain from others. In a sense, that might bring them together . . . but only if they do not feel that they have to sacrifice too much in turn.”

“Which means that you think these conversations are both.”

Tyrande touched his hand. “Yes, my love, unfortunately I do.” She smiled slightly. “But at least they are talking, and that is something to work on—”

He noticed her look past him. “What is it?”

“There are two Sentinels seeking our attention.”

The archdruid casually turned in that direction. Seeking their attention was an understatement; clearly only the fact that so many officials from the Alliance were gathered here prevented the pair from racing toward its leaders. The two had purposely kept where the vast majority of the banquet could not see them. Both gripped their weapons, frequently looking over their shoulders at something behind them.

“Stormwind, perhaps?” he asked.

The high priestess rose. “If so, from their stances, it cannot be good news.”

He surveyed their guests, then muttered, “I am coming with you.”

She made no move to stop him. Velen looked up at her as she stepped away, nodding as if to show that if they needed his support—whatever the matter—he would give it.

Some of the other guests watched as they departed, but the night elves pretended not to notice. Moving with measured steps, they finally reached the two Sentinels.

And there they discovered that behind the pair stood at least half a dozen more, along with a very dour Maiev.

Tyrande wasted no time: “Speak.”

But it was Maiev, not the lead Sentinel, who spoke. Stepping forward, she answered, “High Priestess . . . there is a body.”

The archdruid looked grim. “Show us.”

Tyrande gave orders to one of her senior priestesses to take care of the guests. That problem dealt with, she and Malfurion followed the others from the vicinity of the banquet.

Maiev and the Sentinels headed directly for the temple.

“My decision,” the Watcher informed them. “I thought it best.”

“You did right,” the high priestess acknowledged.

In one of the lesser-used inner chambers, they at last came across two Sentinels guarding a night elf–size form covered in cloth.

“Who?” Tyrande finally asked, unwilling to wait even long enough for the makeshift shroud to be drawn away.

Maiev removed her helmet and tucked it under her arm. Jarod’s sister stared directly at Malfurion. “A Highborne. The one, I am told, you were informed went missing.”

One of the Sentinels uncovered the face. As Maiev had said, it was a Highborne. Malfurion knew immediately which one too.

“Thera’brin . . . ,” the archdruid rasped. “Where was he discovered?”

“Not all that far from where I and the other Watchers practice,” Maiev responded with a scowl.

Tyrande looked grave. “He did not die by accident, did he?”

Maiev reached down and pulled the cloth further. The savage gaps just under the Highborne’s chin greeted the shocked duo. “Only if he decided to slit his own throat twice—the second for pleasure, I assume”—she straightened—“and made sure that a missive we found with him remained pinned to his body when he fell.”

She spoke in a clinical tone, as if describing the general shape and appearance of a stone rather than the murder of one of their own. It did not at all surprise either Malfurion or Tyrande to hear her speak so: Maiev was ever precise, ever to the point, when performing her duties.

“What did this note say?” the archdruid demanded, a new chill running through him.

Maiev was prepared. She handed him a ragged piece of parchment stained in great part with the unfortunate Thera’brin’s blood. On it had been scrawled in what also appeared to be the mage’s bodily fluids a message written in a long-disused style of night elf script that stirred memories of the days when Zin-Azshari was still the capital and the evil of Queen Azshara was as yet unknown.

Suffer Not Traitors . . .

“We knew that there would be those who would never forgive them,” Tyrande said.

“But we thought that they would listen to reason, at least up to the point of not going through with such a heinous act.” The archdruid returned his gaze to Maiev. “Found near where you practice?”

“Yes. Either someone thought him a gift or they decided that the Watchers could be blamed.”

Her declaration was not without merit. Maiev and her Watchers were among the many uncomfortable with the thought of the Highborne’s eventual return to the fold.

“This will not remain a secret,” Tyrande said. “And should not.”

Malfurion agreed. “More important, we must find the assassins and deal with them before this grows worse. The timing can be no coincidence! This is not just about the Highborne; this is meant to cause chaos during the summit.”

“You are right, my love. I will ask Shandris—”

Suddenly kneeling before Tyrande, Maiev bent her head and declared, “Let me uncover the culprits! I know the facts better than any! I have investigated the body for all clues and studied the area in which it was found! There is nothing more anyone else could do. Give this matter to me! I swear I will do all in my power to see that those who would seek to foment unrest among our kind will be dealt with!”

Tyrande looked to Malfurion, who nodded. The high priestess gently put a hand on Maiev’s shoulder. The kneeling night elf looked up, gaze intent.

“I can think of few more dedicated to our people and their needs. Take command of this investigation, Maiev, and do it with my blessing.”

Some of the Sentinels did not look entirely pleased with this choice but held their peace.

Maiev looked as if Tyrande had granted her the greatest desire of her life. She rose and saluted the pair. “I will see this through, whatever sacrifice it must take!”

“I insist you take care, Maiev.”

Jarod’s sister grudgingly nodded, but her eyes did not show agreement. Both Tyrande and Malfurion were aware how focused Maiev could be when set upon a mission. In this case they needed that focus, and thus neither said more to discourage the warden from following through as she might need.

“The Highborne will want Thera’brin’s body returned,” Malfurion commented. “I think it best if I lead that effort. They already believe that the rest of us would rather see them wiped from the face of Azeroth; this will hardly improve their disposition.”

“Do as you say.” The high priestess touched his cheek. “But take care around them.”

“You know that I will.”

Maiev bowed her head again. “With your permission, I will begin this hunt immediately.”

Tyrande nodded. Replacing her helmet, Maiev silently departed.

“I will send four Sentinels with you when you go to the Highborne,” Tyrande informed her husband. “They will act as bearers for the body.”

“Let me seek the aid of some of my calling. It might not be wise for the Highborne to be confronted by armed fighters just now.”

She saw the wisdom in his choice. “Are you going to leave immediately?”

“Not just yet. I wish Velen’s opinion on this and some other matters. I had not expected his arrival, but it may be that it was fortuitous. We will need his steady demeanor to keep temperatures from boiling over once all know of the murder. Every distrust among the various factions will suddenly rise to the forefront.”

It was decided that the Sentinels would remain on guard here for as long as needed. Tyrande also summoned another pair of priestesses versed in the preserving arts to do what they could to maintain the freshness of the body.

Aware that they could not let the Highborne wait long before being told of the discovery, the archdruid and the high priestess quickly returned to the banquet. They had feared that their absence might have caused a wariness to settle over the other participants, but, to their relief, everyone still seemed at ease. Part of that likely had to do with Velen, who had departed his seat to speak with the Dark Irons. What matter there was that would bring the draenei and the dwarves together, neither night elf could say, but Velen had somehow managed not only to keep Drukan distracted but also to make him feel cheered.

“The Light truly works in amazing ways,” Malfurion murmured to his wife.

“And Velen is clearly schooled in the art of diplomacy.” Tyrande hesitated as she saw another Sentinel approaching. “More news . . .”

The Sentinel saluted and immediately said, “High Priestess, Stormwind has arrived.”

The news brought both relief and concern to Malfurion and his mate. Tyrande asked, “How long ago?”

“When I left with this news, they had just disembarked. I searched for you here, but could not find you.”

The high priestess eyed her husband. “The attendants on duty at the portal have orders to guide the party to their quarters, but I should go and greet Varian. . . .”

To their other side, Genn Greymane’s voice suddenly rose above the din. He had an audience that consisted of most of Kurdran’s party. Genn, clearly much more relaxed due to not only the acceptance the others had shown but also the dwarven ale he had just finished downing, had begun regaling the others with some of his past battles against the Horde.

“The key was to keep our front united,” the king was saying as Malfurion and Tyrande moved on toward Velen. “Split us apart, and we’d all be crow food! Each man knew that to falter would mean his comrades dying for his mistake, and none would have that! We let out the Gilnean battle cry—”

“Consisting of a pleading for mercy so great the orcs no doubt turned from the lot of you in disgust,” said a mocking voice.

The effect of the words on Genn Greymane was immediate. He leapt up from the table, in his fury sweeping aside the food and drink before him without care to where or upon whom it landed. A dark cast fell upon his features, and for a moment he seemed to swell and even begin to change.

“Who dares spout such a monstrous slur upon me and Gilneas? Who?”

His outraged gaze swiftly pored over each and every person seated there, seeking the culprit. Most simply stared back, as stunned as he at the savage pronouncement. A few looked about anxiously.

And a few, such as Malfurion and Tyrande, looked from Genn Greymane to the direction from where the speaker actually stood. Malfurion took a step toward the commanding figure, but the high priestess stayed him with a hand.

The king of Gilneas caught their movement. He followed their eyes to his accuser.

“You . . .”

“And having swayed the orcs so eloquently, you no doubt did as all brave Gilneans do so well: skulked away and hid until the battle was over. . . .”

Genn clearly desired to lunge for his counterpart’s throat. His hands grasped at the air as if already crushing in the windpipe. Yet, somehow he managed to stay his ground and simply growl.

For his reaction, he received nothing but a look of contempt from the newcomer, who then, with a much more polite manner, turned to the banquet’s hosts and bowed.

“High Priestess Tyrande. Archdruid Malfurion. It’s a pleasure to see you again,” Varian Wrynn calmly remarked.