Wolfheart

5 Bitter Reunions

True to her promise, the high priestess arranged matters for Jarod Shadowsong. Shalasyr lay at rest in the temple in an area reserved for such sad tableaux, her body now garbed in the raiment of the Sisterhood. She had been placed on a marble platform with the sign of the goddess—the crescent moon—etched multiple times into each side. The light of Elune shone down upon her, and her face bore an expression of peace. Those who had known her came to give their respects, each going down on one knee, then murmuring a prayer for her spirit to the Mother Moon.

The temple never closed its doors to the faithful, although most of those coming to honor Shalasyr came during the evening. However, time meant nothing to Jarod, who ever leaned over his beloved, either praying to Elune or silently speaking to his mate. The travel cloak lay bunched up to the side, but otherwise he was clad in the same forest-green and brown garments in which he had arrived. His beard and hair were slightly unkempt; such mundane matters were of no interest to him at this time.

Generally, there were two priestesses in attendance for such occasions, but at the former captain’s request Tyrande had removed them. Although grateful for all that had been done for his mate, Jarod desired privacy when no other mourners were present.

Head resting upon his folded hands, he spoke again to Shalasyr, this time reminding her of when they had built their first dwelling together. It had been a simple one, designed to give them shelter while they made plans for something more permanent. The mistakes they had made in its creation had done more to bind them together.

Jarod looked up, well-honed instincts alerting him to the presence of another. He glanced over his shoulder at the entrance.

“My respects for your loss,” Shandris quietly said. “The Mother Moon guides her spirit now.”

The general of the Sentinels moved as smoothly as a nightsaber and, to Jarod, seemed much unchanged physically from when they had last met. She carried her helmet in the crook of her arm, which allowed him to study close her face. As usual, Shandris’s true emotions remained hidden, save for a brief flash of what he read as either anger or uncertainty.

Shandris had been adopted by Tyrande, but they looked enough alike in the face to have passed for true mother and child. However, the high priestess had a softness to her expression that Jarod had seldom seen on Shandris. The general was also clad very true to her nature, her sleek, violet armor covering most of her form. The armor had been designed as much for swift movement as protection; even the shoulderguards were set so that Shandris could raise a bow or sword at a moment’s notice without any hindrance. The helmet—which only covered the upper half of the face—had also been forged with those two thoughts in mind. It could be easily set atop or pulled off of the head without ever catching on the long, tapering ears of a night elf or, in Shandris’s case, tangling with her long, dark blue hair.

“Thank you.” As she strode toward him, Jarod straightened to better face her. Her somber expression matched well his own.

“I recall her,” the general continued, looking at the still figure. “She had much merit.”

“She had life. She breathed life. The world brightened wherever she went.”

Shandris turned more toward the body, in the process her expression becoming hidden from Jarod’s view. “You truly loved her.”

“Of course.”

“Then I envy her.”

He gaped. “Shandris—”

The female night elf looked back at him. Her eyes were moist, but the tears were clearly not entirely for the deceased. “I am sorry. I have been rude. You know that you have my deepest sympathies. To lose her so suddenly after so long . . . it is not right.”

“Shandris . . .”

“I must go,” she muttered, looking even more uncomfortable than Jarod felt.

He tried to gently take her arm, but Shandris evaded his touch without seeming to try. She could not keep him from following her, though, and thus the two walked in silence out of the chamber.

Jarod looked around, saw that no one was near, then quietly said, “I have owed you an apology for a long time—”

“You owe me no such thing. Nothing ever truly happened between us.”

He looked back at the chamber, his face radiating guilt. Then: “I do not deny I was enchanted by your attention, especially once you had grown up, but we were heading in opposite directions in life. Those years right after the war were hard on all of us. All I wanted was to try to forget the carnage and the deaths. I never wanted to be a leader . . . a hero. . . . ” Jarod said the last word with much self-derision. “I felt out of place, something you did not. You had purpose. You had your duty to the temple and the high priestess.”

“She has—”

Jarod held up a hand for silence, and, clearly to his surprise, Shandris obeyed. “That you would be devoted to Tyrande not only for saving your life but for becoming the mother you lost is hardly something with which I would find fault. Yet she . . . and through her, our people . . . have been and always will be your foremost focus.”

Shandris opened her mouth, then shut it. There was no denial in her eyes. Instead, she leaned up and suddenly kissed him on the cheek. There was not even the mildest attempt at seduction; this was a token of sympathy for his plight.

“I am here if you need to talk,” the general said.

With that, she turned and departed. Shandris did not look back, and Jarod did not say farewell. He only watched as she headed in the direction that he knew the high priestess’s sanctum lay.

The former officer started back, only to notice another armored figure far off in the opposite direction.

“Mother Moon!” Jarod whispered, thinking that he recognized the other despite the helmet. He waved to her.

Yet, unlike Shandris, the newcomer, once noticed, did not approach. Rather, she turned to leave.

“Maiev!” If she heard him, she did not respond. He stood there for a moment, completely perplexed, then rushed after his sister.

She had gone around a corner before he had managed half the distance. Certain that he would lose her and not sure when they would meet next, Jarod ran. He cut around the corner, only to see his quarry vanish out of the temple.

Following suit, Jarod exited onto the long bridge leading to the gardens. By that time, Maiev—if it was her—was already across the bridge and well into the area. He rushed through the gardens after her; then, beyond them, he twisted east as the ever half-glimpsed figure of his sister moved swiftly through the city and beyond the boundaries of Darnassus into the forest.

Jarod was not far behind, but still too far for his tastes. As he entered among the trees, he wondered if this would all prove a futile chase. Still, he was determined to follow.

Jarod darted among the first trees, trying to estimate the right path. He caught one glimpse of what he thought was an arm just noticeable between the tree trunks to his right and immediately veered toward it. Although he had no knowledge of this forest, Jarod allowed his natural instincts to guide him. He made swift judgments about the most accessible routes and where, from what he could make out of the landscape ahead, Maiev would likely head.

Although he could not see her, he was certain that he was at last closing on her. A sudden rush of intense satisfaction at this vied with his guilt for having left Shalasyr’s side. He was not going to let Maiev get the best of—

A muzzle full of long, sharp teeth confronted him.

The image that filled Jarod’s view over the next few seconds was one of nightmare. He saw something lupine . . . yet roughly humanoid in shape. It was at least as tall as he was, but nearly twice as wide and far more muscled. Long, deadly claws flashed by his face but did not touch him. The eyes—

The eyes were those of no beast.

A powerful fist thrust against Jarod’s chest, shoving the air from his lungs. The night elf bent over as he struggled for breath. In the back of his mind he waited for the killing strike, by either claw or bite.

But the strike did not come, and when Jarod managed to lift his head enough to see before him, it was to discover that he was again alone. The only hint that anything had stood before him was the already slowing shift of branches.

Jarod darted after the unseen creature. He ducked around another tree—

—and then nearly ran into his sister, Maiev, who suddenly stood right in front of him. She had removed her helmet, revealing deep scars across her face that startled Jarod as much as her sudden presence in front of him.

“Never go chasing someone alone in unfamiliar territory. I thought that was one of the first things I taught you.”

Jarod looked down to see the point of her umbra crescent touching his chest. He had noted the weapon at her side when he first spotted her, but had never expected to have it wielded against him.

Chuckling at his discomfort, Maiev withdrew the weapon. In one smooth movement she hooked it at her side again.

“I thought that, of all people, I could trust in my sister.”

“Perhaps more than a scorned love,” she returned. “That was General Shandris Feathermoon I saw retreating in defeat in the temple, was it not?”

“Maiev . . .”

“She was quite in a shambles when you vanished so long ago—”

“Enough, Maiev!” His joy at reuniting with his sister quickly became tempered by her comments about Shandris. Still, he tried to regain his initial enthusiasm. After all, it had been so long. . . . “It is so good to see you again! I wondered if we might meet when I returned here. I had hoped so.”

“Why?”

Her question put him off balance. “You are my sister! My only flesh and blood! We have not seen each other in millennia!”

“And whose fault is that?” she snapped without warning.

“Maiev—” Suddenly, Jarod faced a person whose expression was filled with anger, with bitterness. This was not the reunion for which he had hoped.

Maiev shook her head at his obvious naïveté. “Did you think I would forget even after all this time? You shamed us! You were one of the leaders of our people! I was quite proud of you then. My little brother, commander of the night elf host! I watched you grow during the war, taking over after the death of that aristocratic imbecile, Stareye, and proving to everyone that the name Shadowsong should be respected by all!”

“You do not understand—”

“You never will, it seems. You apparently never understood duty and loyalty—”

She hesitated when she noticed something on his face. Only then did Jarod feel the moistness running down his left cheek and the stinging near his eye. He touched his hand to the moisture, then looked at his fingers.

Blood. Jarod could not recall when it had happened, but assumed that it must have been during his encounter with the mysterious creature. Yet, he did not remember the beast scratching him there.

“That got dangerously close to your eye,” his sister commented, with a surprising hint of softness in her tone. She put a finger to the stinging area. “Did you fall or slip on the path? I remember you being better skilled on the hunt than that.”

It only occurred then to Jarod that he had not yet had a chance to tell her about the startling confrontation. “Maiev! There was something here in the forest with us! Something I have never seen before anywhere. I ran into it just before I caught up with you! It could still be nearby—”

Her mockery died away, and Maiev the warrior took over. “Did it do that to you? What did it look like?”

“No . . . the scratch I must have gotten from a tree branch after I collided with the creature. It did not attack me!” Jarod collected his thoughts. “I did not get a good look. It happened so quickly. Something lupine . . . I think! All I saw were claws, teeth, and a shape not unlike our own, but wider. . . .”

“Oh.” Maiev no longer looked interested. “One of them. There is nothing to fear there. They do not dare get on the high priestess’s or Archdruid Malfurion’s bad side.”

He could not believe that what he had seen could be so easily dismissed. “‘Them’? There are more like that? Roaming around Darnassus’s boundaries?”

“Forget it, Brother. It fled, did it not? That tells you all you need to know. They are cowardly skulkers with no bite! The worgen are undesirables who could not even save their own home.”

“What are—” But before Jarod could finish, Maiev had begun to move on. She did not head directly toward Darnassus, but rather took a path that would make her skirt the east side of the capital. Jarod had to rush to keep up.

“Do as I say and forget them,” she repeated. “Besides, it is certainly not your duty to police the capital. You gave up any sense of duty millennia ago.”

The barb hit true. Jarod grimaced but sought to defend himself. “Maiev, I gave our people centuries of dedication to duty, of devotion to—”

“Centuries of dedication?” she laughed in his face. “That is nothing! Jarod, I have remained true to my duties as a protector of the night elf race from the moment I became a priestess of Elune, and afterward as a Watcher, until even now! I volunteered to oversee the imprisonment of Illidan Stormrage, even though that meant my fate was locked for millennia with his! I pursued him when other misfortunes enabled his escape! I survived torture as his prisoner and finally had the chance to do what should have been done in the very beginning . . . slay the archdruid’s accursed twin!”

“Maiev!”

She waved off the hand he reached to her. “Spare me any sympathy! I chose duty where you did not. Sometimes that has meant that I have made decisions that to others were not always evident as the right ones until much later, but I regret none of them.”

“I understand. You have ever been determined to do what was best for all, regardless of how it made you look at times. I have always admired that steadfastness in you.”

The muscles in his sister’s face grew a little less taut. A hint of weariness touched her gaze. “I do what I must do.”

This time he would not brook her blocking his hand. He put a hand on her shoulder and wished that the armor would not prevent him from gently squeezing Maiev there. “I have missed you. Of all those I left behind, I missed you the most.”

“The general would not enjoy hearing that.”

“Do not joke with me about that. Not now.”

She patted him on the arm. “My mistake. You have had a terrible loss. I recall Shalasyr. Well skilled in the martial arts training of the Sisterhood. She would have made a good Watcher.”

He grew uncomfortable. “I need to return. I am sorry, Maiev. Later—”

“Yes. Later we will talk more. Be off with you. My condolences.”

Jarod hesitated, then turned. However, a nagging guilt at leaving matters so unfinished made him almost immediately look back.

Maiev was gone.

The former guard officer nearly called out, then hesitated. Brow furrowed, he eyed where his sister had stood, then resumed his journey back to Darnassus and his Shalasyr.

In another part of the forest near Darnassus, others had gathered. They were clad much more elegantly than other night elves and bore about them an inherent air of superiority. Their sleek robes were flamboyant and brilliantly colored.

Although clearly night elves, these were the Highborne, the highest caste of old night elf nobility. However, due to their continued use of arcane magic, they had been shunned by their brethren following the War of the Ancients. Once, there had been many more of them, but some had fallen serving their arrogant and evil queen, Azshara, while others had been later transformed in other manners, turned into the reptilian, sea-dwelling fiends called naga.

Refugees from Eldre’Thalas—better known to most in this age by the more apt title Dire Maul—these night elf magi and their fellow survivors remained shunned by many of those in Darnassus. Though the Highborne even now maintained an air of absolute independence, in truth they found themselves in need of others. However, that by no means meant any lacking in arrogance or in their desire to continue their study of the arcane, no matter what the cost.

There were twenty at this gathering, twenty of the strongest. Var’dyn Skyseeker was leader of the twenty and had aspirations to be much more: the eventual successor to the Highborne’s speaker, Archmage Mordent Evenshade. Var’dyn now guided the spell that the twenty cast, a test of their power. The swirling energies gathered within the circle the casters formed. The faces of each male and female in the group glowed from not only the radiance but also his or her deep enthrallment.

Var’dyn gestured, and the energies came together in one powerful yet compact sphere. He gestured again, and tendrils reached out in the four directions of the compass.

We are now ready, he told the others through the link that their spellwork created.

As one, the Highborne drew a sign in the air. The tendrils grew stronger, and more erupted from the sphere. The sphere itself pulsated rapidly—

A horrific wind tore through the region. Highborne cried out in surprise as they were buffeted. The circle broke, but Var’dyn kept the link solid. They had come this far with their efforts; he was not about to let them all fail.

Then, what at first some mistook for thunder roiled through the area. Var’dyn looked up, but there were no clouds. He stared at the treetops, which shook violently . . . more violently than the wind demanded. It was they, in fact, that were the source of the deafening roar.

“Keep to your efforts!” Var’dyn snapped at some of his companions, the clearly unnatural actions of the forest finally unnerving them enough to cause risk to the spell. He led the way, concentrating harder and trying to draw the others back into the effort.

A tremendous wrenching drowned out the roar. One of the nearest trees bent down. Its limbs now acted like so many tentacles from some kraken. They reached for those Highborne below them.

More wrenching arose from beyond the boundaries of the gathering. Everywhere, the closest trees stretched their branches toward the spellcasters.

The link weakened beyond Var’dyn’s will to keep it intact. The gathered energies faded, and the tendrils dissipated. The sphere shrank—and then melted away with a pitiful hiss.

As it vanished, many of the exhausted Highborne slumped to the ground. Var’dyn remained standing, although it was secretly an effort to do so. Gritting his teeth, he searched the forest for the cause of the disaster.

“I made matters very clear regarding the practice of your arcane arts!” boomed a voice from every direction. “This goes against everything upon which the archmage and I agreed!”

One of the other spellcasters thrust a finger toward Var’dyn’s left. There, the branches and underbrush gave way of their own accord to open a path to a lone figure wielding only a staff.

“Archdruid . . .” Var’dyn did not bow to Malfurion Stormrage, though he did nod his head in respect. “I have petitioned over and over about some mild changes in our agreement, but received no suitable answer. We need more leeway in our efforts; our powers will stagnate if we cannot utilize them in a sufficient manner—”

Malfurion strode up to Var’dyn, then raised the staff slightly. Var’dyn wisely quieted. “Your petition is still under consideration by both Mordent and me—as you have been informed more than once—and there has been no answer on it for reasons you have already been told! The reputation of the Highborne will always be stained by their past. As the archmage’s thero’shan, you should understand that. You Highborne chose to stay in Eldre’Thalas, defending and hiding in your special city as the war bloodily played out elsewhere.”

“We fought for our home!”

“You stood by while the queen’s counselor, Xavius, oversaw the creation of the portal that let the Legion into our world; you stood silent when Queen Azshara chose the demons over her own people; and you continue your practice of arcane magic, even though it is the same magic that drew the Legion to us. Even the millennia have not stripped the people’s memories of those final days. It was difficult enough even to gain your kind the right to come to Darnassus. . . .”

“We came here thanks to your promises, Archdruid! We came here with the assurance that we were to be a part of night elf society again, yet also with the understanding that we will maintain our own identity too! However, as you yourself so eagerly point out, we are still ostracized! We must be able to openly practice our arts; otherwise, that alone proves your promises and those of the high priestess amount to nothing!”

The archdruid stepped closer, only pausing when he and Var’dyn were within reach of one another. Malfurion’s gold eyes gleamed sharply. Some of the Highborne’s arrogance faltered.

“There is every intention of the Highborne becoming a part of our society again, but such things cannot and will not happen overnight,” Malfurion quietly but sternly replied. “This is a process that will have to play out over time . . . perhaps years. Patience is a virtue we must all nurture, Var’dyn. If we can, we will succeed. Mordent understands that.”

Var’dyn did not look convinced, but nodded. Malfurion turned to the rest of the assembled Highborne. “Go back to the others and tell them what I said. And tell them that the high priestess Tyrande and I keep our promises.”

The other spellcasters wasted no time in beginning their retreat. Even the Highborne greatly respected the power of the legendary archdruid.

Only Var’dyn remained behind. “I mean no disrespect, Archdruid. I am simply seeking the best for my own.”

“Mordent and I are aware of what you seek.” With that, Malfurion returned to the forest, not once looking back or speaking to Var’dyn.

The mage eyed the archdruid’s receding form, not stirring until Malfurion was long gone. A scowl spread across Var’dyn’s handsome face.

“We will be patient . . . to a point,” he muttered. “Only to a point.”

Still scowling, the Highborne followed after his companions. Caught up in his fury, he ignored his surroundings. To his kind, trees were just trees, the forest merely a gathering of trees. The undergrowth through which he pushed was only overgrown weeds that, if not for his hosts, he would have razed instantly in order to clear a proper path. The Highborne lived for their arcane arts; they were used to having the environment bow to them, not the other way around, as it was with those who had built Darnassus. Like many Highborne, Var’dyn respected only power. The archdruid and the high priestess were powerful; thus, Var’dyn bowed to them. The rest of Darnassus, however . . .

The mage’s foot shoved against something that momentarily caused him to stumble. Well used to the disorganized manner of the forest, Var’dyn kicked at the object without looking, then continued on through the underbrush. He had led his band out to this location due to its supposed remoteness, but otherwise had only contempt for it. He looked forward to returning to the relatively civilized settlement the Highborne had set up.

And so the hand that Var’dyn had kicked, the hand of the dead Highborne who had been but recently one of his band, lay, with its owner, for the time undiscovered.