Christie Golden - War Crimes

Baine turned back to the celestials, who watched him intently. “Tyrande speaks of true justice. I believe that you know what it is. And I believe that we here today will see it done. Thank you.”

Baine had perhaps not won everyone over, but he had said many things that struck home, for Jaina, at least. So much was going through her head and heart as she left for the two-hour respite. Kalec had asked if she wanted to have a meal together, but she gently declined. “I . . . I need to think about things,” she said, and he nodded, his eyes sad even as he smiled.

Jaina bought a bowl of noodles and found an out-of-the way area outside to eat, perched beneath a cherry blossom tree. She was fond of noodles and the view was splendid, but she ignored both as she mechanically placed food in her mouth and chewed.

She did not envy the celestials their task. She thought about what she had heard, and seen, and been forced to say. She thought about Kinndy, her perkiness sharply at odds with the seriousness with which she took things and her steadfast, vital will. She thought about Kalec, and the choice that he was wrestling with. That he loved her, she had no doubt. But his heart—better, stronger, kinder than hers, she understood with a flash of bitterness—could not bear the virulence of her rancor. It wounded him, she realized. He could stay and remain wounded, or leave and be whole.

Some choice , she thought. But Baine was right about one thing. She didn’t want to be like Garrosh. And if their roles were reversed—what would Garrosh choose to do to her?

“Lady Jaina?” It was Jia Ji, one of the court couriers. He bowed low. “Forgive my intrusion on your solitude. I have a message for you.”

He extended a scroll. Frowning, Jaina took it, and paled when she saw the seal. In the red wax was the unmistakable mark of the Horde.

A thousand thoughts tumbled through her head, all horrible, as she broke the wax with shaking fingers, unrolled the scroll, and read:

It took some time for me to learn what happened in Dalaran. You used to be a woman of peace; you be that no more. Garrosh scorches earth, and the dead ain’t the only victims. You got no blame or hate from me, no matter what you feel toward Garrosh—or the Horde.

We all got our ghosts.

She reread it several times, and then slowly smiled. “Do you wish me to convey a response, Lady Jaina?” asked Jia.

“Yes,” she said. “Please tell the warchief that I thank him for his understanding.”

“Of course, my lady.” Jia bowed low and turned to bear her message. Jaina watched him go, the smile still on her face, warming her. From her vantage point, she looked at the milling throng below. Only one among them had blue-black hair. He was talking with Varian and Anduin, and as she watched, he shook hands with both of them and started to walk away, looking downcast.

He’s leaving .

Clutching the missive from Vol’jin, Jaina began to run.

“Kalec!” she shouted, heedless of the heads turning in her direction. “ Kalec! ”

Her feet flew over the path, and she jumped nimbly over a root here, a missing step there. The crowd parted at her approach. She didn’t notice or care. Her gaze was fixed on Kalecgos, and she said a quick prayer to the Light that he wouldn’t get swallowed up by the crowd.

“Kalec!”

His steps slowed, then stopped. He cocked his head as if listening, then turned, his gaze scanning the sea of people. Their eyes met, and his face lit up like the sun. Her heart surged with gladness. She closed the space between them and flung herself into his outstretched arms.

Right there, in front of all eyes, they kissed, joyfully and longingly, and Jaina was fiercely grateful.

Garrosh Hellscream had taken enough.

He would not take this; he would not take her .

“Vereesa!” Mu-Lam Shao greeted her friend warmly. “I did not know if I would see you today, since it is the last day of the trial.”

Vereesa smiled at the pandaren, who was busily chopping ginger, onion, and other items so fast the knife was a blur. “Oh no, I wanted to make sure that I got the recipe for this. It is very popular here, it seems, if even an orc will eat it.”

Mu-Lam chuckled, a warm rumble, her eyes bright. “Some might say, even an elf,” and she winked. “But yes. I would be remiss if I did not make sure you knew how to prepare it. You are always welcome in my kitchen, you know. You will come back to visit?”

She looked up hopefully. Vereesa suddenly, unexpectedly, felt a pang. No, she would not be back. She would not be anywhere she had ever been before. Only the dark places would be hers soon, and the dusty lands of Orgrimmar, and the smoggy shantytowns of the goblins. But that was not entirely true. She could go to Silvermoon, and relive how very different things were there now from when she had lived there, and visit her family’s spire . . .

“Oh, of course,” she lied easily. “I have gotten fond of you, Mu-Lam.” That, at least, was the truth.

Mu-Lam beamed. Then, as if slightly embarrassed, she said more brusquely, “Here . . . make yourself useful. Chop this basil and cut up the sunfruit.”

The sunfruit. There they were, their fragrance tangy and luscious without even being sliced yet. Vereesa moved the knife with extra deliberation, so as not to cut herself accidentally.

There would be eight diners, and Mu-Lam had put out eight small ceramic dishes. Vereesa cut the sunfruit into quarters as Mu-Lam described everything that went into the fish curry, including the curry paste. Vereesa didn’t hear much of it. All she could think about was Garrosh Hellscream, dead, despite Baine Bloodhoof’s final plea. Rhonin was dead . . . now, Garrosh would pay.

“Which one is Garrosh’s?” she asked, hoping her voice sounded casual.

“His tray is the brown bamboo one,” Mu-Lam said, pointing with a spoon. “Give him an extra quarter. It might be the last thing he eats, and I know he likes it so.”

“You are very kind toward a killer.” Vereesa snapped the words before she could censor them. But Mu-Lam knew of Vereesa’s loss, and looked at the high elf with sympathy.

“I will awaken tomorrow to this beautiful land, to wholesome food and loving friends and family, to work that is worthy and makes a difference. Garrosh Hellscream, whatever the August Celestials decide, will never have that. Knowing this, I find it easy to be kind.”

Shame, hot and electric, washed over Vereesa. Anger followed hard on its heels. She merely nodded and took another segment of sunfruit. Mu-Lam wiped her paws and turned away to ladle up the curry.

Now.

Vereesa slipped the vial out of her pouch and unstoppered it. Her hands no longer shook as she placed three drops—one would have been sufficient—on each section. The liquid quickly dissolved in the juices of the mouthwatering fruit. No one could ever tell. Vereesa slid the stopper back into the bottle, pressing firmly to seal it, then washed her hands with soap.

The deed was done.

“Thank you, Vereesa,” Mu-Lam said. “I will miss you, until our next visit.”

Vereesa gave her a wan smile. “Thank you, Mu-Lam. For everything. Until we meet again.”

She turned to leave. Mu-Lam called after her, “And when you come, bring your little ones! They must be beautiful boys!”

Her boys.

The reaction hit Vereesa all at once, and she started to tremble. She kept walking, lifting a hand in farewell, exited the room below the temple that had been transformed into a temporary kitchen, and hurried into the corridor.

She leaned up against the cool stone, breathing hard. Vereesa was no stranger to violence. She had taken lives before. But that had always been in battle, when she had been fighting for something, or someone. This was different. This was deliberate, calculated, carefully planned murder, using the weapon not of a ranger, but of an assassin. It was worse than an arrow in the eye, worse than a knife in the dark.