Christie Golden - War Crimes

Baine’s ears flattened. “Be mindful of your own words, Sylvanas,” Vol’jin said. “You don’t know when you gonna have to eat them.”

“Fortunately, I do not have to be mindful of what I say when all of Azeroth is watching, or else I might become as much a boot-licking Alliance sympathizer as—”

Baine did nothing so obvious as roar and seize her throat. He merely stopped in his tracks, gripped her upper arms, and squeezed. He was so gentle and precise in his movements and speech when off the battlefield that she had forgotten he was a warrior—and one of the finest the Horde could boast. He could, she realized belatedly, snap her arms like brittle twigs.

“I am not an Alliance sympathizer,” he said in a deep, calm voice. “Nor do I lick boots.”

“Let her go, Baine,” said Vol’jin, and Baine obeyed. “Sylvanas—Baine be doing his job, the job that I, his warchief, asked him to take on. He does it with honor. There be nothing wrong with that. Don’t you go acting like there is.”

“I do not object to him doing his job well,” said Sylvanas, recovering her composure. “I object to him doing it so well he might actually win!”

Baine chuckled ruefully. “You do not intend to, but you flatter me. I believe there is little danger of that,” he said. “I have made those spectators who are hungry for slaughter pause and think for a moment, nothing more. And that is all to the good. One should never make the decision to take another life lightly—not in battle, not in the mak’gora, not in a courtroom. Now, if you both will please excuse me, there is some work I must do in preparation for the next witness.”

He bowed to both of them, letting his body drop more deeply to Vol’jin than to Sylvanas, and departed. Kairoz was waiting for him, and Sylvanas realized he had watched the whole thing. Sylvanas wished she could claw the smirk off the dragon’s handsome face. Why wasn’t he suggesting more damning things to show?

Vol’jin shook his head and sighed.

“When you gonna be getting wiser instead of just smarter, Sylvanas?” he said, not unkindly.

“When the Horde itself grows wise enough to realize not to dish out mercy to those who have done nothing to deserve it,” she replied. “Garrosh might have been a good choice for leader of the Horde for a short while, but once Thrall announced he was going for good, something else should have been done.”

A smile played around the warchief’s long tusks. “Like making a Dark Lady a dark warchief?”

Sylvanas shook her head. “Power in that capacity does not interest me. I would have thought you knew that, Vol’jin.” It was the best kind of lie—one that had some truth to it. She was, indeed, not interested in wielding power in so blatant and crude a fashion.

He shrugged. “Who knows what you want, Sylvanas. Sometimes I don’t even think you do.” He jabbed a sharp-clawed finger at her. “Leave Baine be. He not gonna rob you of your kill. You just need to let it come in its own time.”

He walked off, calling to one of the vendors for a quick bite to eat. Sylvanas watched him go, considering.

Her anger had not abated. It never did. Anger was to her now what breathing had been when her heart still beat. But it had changed, from hot and impulsive to thoughtful and controlled.

Vol’jin and Baine were not thinking clearly. They were too caught up in how their own people functioned, in what Horde members would want to see, and how they would perceive things. Even if they did take into account the Light-loving members of the Alliance, the verdict would never be in question.

But the jury was not made up of members of the Alliance and Horde. It was made up of beings who were completely impartial—and completely detached from the more visceral, transitory, intense emotions of the other races of Azeroth. Perhaps that detachment would stretch to being aloof from concepts such as “mercy” and “second chances,” in which case she need not worry. Or perhaps it would distance them too much from white-hot vengeance and the unending ache of the deaths of people one had once loved.

Clarity came to her, calming and arrow-sharp. She could not take the risk that the celestials, “august” as they might be, would make the wrong decision.

Sylvanas would not let her “kill” come “in its own time,” as Vol’jin had urged. She would take matters into her own hands, as she had done many times before. But how, precisely? It was possible she could accomplish it alone, but unlikely. Whom, then, could she trust? Not Baine, of course. Not Vol’jin. Perhaps Theron—he had seemed willing to talk. And Gallywix doubtless had a price.

There was still some time left before court resumed. She always thought better in her own realm, in the Undercity, beneath lowering skies and surrounded by the Forsaken, who entrusted themselves to her guidance. She would let them, let her home, inspire her.

She approached the mage assigned to the court, Yu Fei, and requested a portal. Just as Yu Fei had finished murmuring the words of the spell and an image of the Undercity appeared before her, another pandaren, whom she did not know, raced up.

“Lady Sylvanas,” he said, “my apologies, but I was instructed to give this to you!” He pressed a scroll and a small package wrapped in blue cloth into her hands. Stepping back quickly, he bowed. Even as Sylvanas opened her mouth to inquire who had sent said scroll, the air shimmered around her and she manifested in her quarters.

They were spare, as befitted one who did not linger overlong in them. Sylvanas Windrunner no longer needed sleep as such, though she did come here from time to time simply to be alone and to think. She had few belongings: a bed hung with heavy, dark drapes; a desk with candles and writing materials; a chair; and a single shelf lined with a half-dozen books. Select weapons were displayed on the wall within easy reach. She needed very little else in her present existence, and she did not keep much from her past one.

Curious as to who might be sending her a missive and a package, and cautious about opening them, Sylvanas inspected the scroll thoroughly. She sensed no magic from it, nor did she notice any telltale signs that would alert her to poison. The scroll was sealed with red wax, but there was no identifying mark. Turning her attention to the package, Sylvanas noted that the blue cloth was an item commonly sold in all major cities. She shook it gently, and something clinked inside. Sinking down on the soft bed, she then removed her gloves, cracking the seal with a fingernail.

The handwriting was elegant, the lines few:

Once we were on the same side.

Perhaps we can be again.

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes speculatively, trying to think who this mystery person might be. The handwriting wasn’t immediately recognizable, but it was somehow familiar. She had a rather lengthy list of people who had turned against her, or whom she had defied. Amused, she unwrapped the parcel and opened the small wooden box.

Her chest contracted, and she dropped the package as if it had bitten her.

The banshee stared at its contents, then rose and unsteadily made her way to her desk. Her fingers shook as she unlocked a drawer. Here, untouched for years, was all that remained of her past. There were only a few items: decades-old letters, arrowheads from significant kills, some other odds and ends, the detritus of a life.

And a small box.

Part of her urged her to throw the new gift inside this drawer, turn the key, and forget again. No good could come of this. And yet . . .

Holding the box, she returned to the bed. With unwonted gentleness, Sylvanas lifted the lid and gazed at what was inside. An adventurer had found this, several years ago, lying among the ruins of the spire where she had fallen. It had been returned to her. The memories it unleashed had nearly broken her then, and threatened to do so now.