Jeff Grubb: The Last Guardian

“That would be the bushwah Alonda teaches,” muttered Medivh, but motioned for Khadgar to continue.

“Trolls are savage, larger than humans. Very tall and wiry, with elongated features. Um…” He thought for a moment. “Tribal organization. Almost completely removed from civilized lands, almost extinct in Lordaeron.”

“Goblins?”

“Much smaller, more the size of dwarves. Just as inventive, but in a destructive fashion. Fearless. I have read that as a race they are insane.”

“Only the smart ones,” said Medivh. “You know about demons?”

“Of course, sir,” said Khadgar quickly. “I mean from the legends, sir. And I know the proper abjurations and protections. All mages of Dalaran are taught so from our first day of training.”

“But you’ve never summoned one,” said Medivh. “Or been present when someone else did so.”

Khadgar blinked, wondering if this was a trick question. “No sir. I wouldn’t even think of it.”

“I do not doubt that you wouldn’t,” said the Magus, and there was the faintest edge in his voice. “Think of it, that is. Do you know what a Guardian is?”

“A Guardian?” Khadgar suddenly felt the conversation take yet another left-hand turn. “A watchman? A guard? Perhaps another race? Is it a type of monster? Perhaps a protector against monsters?”

Medivh smiled, now, and shook his head. “Don’t worry. You’re not supposed to know. It’s part of the trick.” Then he looked up and said, “So. What do you know about me ?”

Khadgar shot a glance toward Moroes the Castellan, and suddenly realized that the servant has vanished, fading back into the shadows. The young man stammered for a moment. “The mages of the Kirin Tor hold you in high regard,” he managed at last, diplomatically.

“Obviously,” said Medivh brusquely.

“You are a powerful independent mage, supposedly an advisor to King Llane of Azeroth.”

“We go back,” said Medivh, nodding at the youth.

“Beyond that…” Khadgar hesitated, wondering if the mage truly could read his mind.

“Yes?”

“Nothing specific to justify the high esteem…” said Khadgar.

“And fear,” put in Medivh.

“And envy ,” finished Khadgar, feeling suddenly put upon by the questions, unsure about how to answer. He quickly added, “Nothing specific to explain directly the high respect the Kirin Tor holds you in.”

“It’s supposed to be that way,” snapped Medivh peevishly, rubbing his hands over the brazier. “It’s supposed to be that way.” Khadgar could not believe how the master mage could possibly be cold. He himself felt nervous sweat drip down his back.

At length, Medivh looked up, and the brewing storm was in his eyes again. “But what do you know about me ?”

“Nothing, sir,” said Khadgar.

“Nothing?” Medivh’s voice raised and seemed to reverberate across the observatory. “Nothing? You came all this way for nothing? You didn’t even bother to check? Perhaps I was just an excuse for your masters to get you out of their hair, hoping you’d die en route. It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried that.”

“There wasn’t that much to check. You haven’t done that much,” responded Khadgar hotly, then took a deep breath, realizing whom he was speaking with, and what he was saying. “I mean, not much that I could find out, I mean…”

He expected an outburst from the older mage, but Medivh just chuckled. “And what did you find out?” he asked.

Khadgar sighed, and said, “You come from a spellcaster heritage. Your father was a mage of Azeroth, one Nielas Aran. You mother was Aegwynn, which may be a title as opposed to a name, one that goes back at least eight hundred years. You grew up in Azeroth and know King Llane and Lord Lothar from your childhood. Beyond that…” Khadgar let his voice trail off. “Nothing.”

Medivh looked into the brazier and nodded, “Well, that is something. More than most people can find out.”

“And your name means ‘Keeper of Secrets’,” Khadgar added. “In High Elven. I found that out as well.”

“All too true,” said Medivh, looking suddenly tired. He stared into the brazier for a while. “Aegwynn is not a title,” he said at length. “It is merely my mother’s name.”

“Then there were several Aegwynns, probably a family name,” suggested Khadgar.

“Only one,” said Medivh, somberly.

Khadgar gave a nervous laugh. “But that would make her…”

“Over seven hundred fifty years old when I was born,” said Medivh, with a surprising snort. “She is much older than that. I was a late child in her life. Which may be one reason the Kirin Tor is interested in what I keep in my library. Which is why they sent you to find out.”

“Sir,” said Khadgar, as sternly as he could manage. “To be honest, every mage save the highest in the Kirin Tor wants me to find out something from you. I will accommodate them as best as I am able, but if there is material that you want to keep restricted or hidden, I will fully understand….”

“If I thought that, you would not have gotten through the forest to reach here,” said Medivh, suddenly serious. “I need someone to sort and organize the library, for starters, then we work on the alchemical laboratories. Yes, you’ll do nicely. You see, I know the meaning of your name just as you know mine. Moroes!”

“Here, sir,” said the servant, suddenly manifesting out of the shadows. Despite himself, Khadgar jumped.

“Take the lad down to his quarters and make sure he eats something. It’s been a long day for him.”

“Of course, sir,” said Moroes.

“One question, Master,” said Khadgar, catching himself. “I mean, Lord Magus, sir.”

“Call me Medivh for now. I also answer to Keeper of Secrets and a few other names, not all of them known.”

“What do you mean when you say you know my name?” asked Khadgar.

Medivh smiled, and the rooms suddenly seemed warm and cozy again. “You don’t speak dwarven,” he observed.

Khadgar shook his head.

“My name means ‘Keeper of Secrets’ in High Elven. Your name means ‘Trust’ in the old dwarven language. So I will hold you to your name, young Khadgar. Young Trust.”

Moroes saw the young man to his quarters halfway down the tower, explaining in that ghostly, definitive voice as he shuffled down the stairs. Meals in Medivh’s Tower were simple fare—porridge and sausages for breakfast, a cold lunch, and a large, hearty dinner, usually a stew or a roast served with vegetables. Cook would retire after the evening meals, but there were always leftovers in the cold room. Medivh kept hours that could be charitably described as “erratic” and Moroes and Cook had long since learned how to accommodate him with a minimal amount of hardship on their parts.

Moroes informed young Khadgar that, as an assistant instead of a servant, he would not have that luxury. He would be expected to be available to help the master mage whenever he deemed necessary.

“I’d expect that, as an apprentice,” said Khadgar.

Moroes turned in midstep (they were walking along an upper gallery overlooking what seemed to be a reception hall or ballroom). “Not an apprentice yet, Lad,” wheezed Moroes. “Not by half.”

“But Medivh said…”

“You could sort out the library,” said Moroes. “Assistant work, not apprentice’s. Others have been assistants. None became apprentices.”

Khadgar’s brow furrowed, and he felt the warmth of a blush on his face. He had not expected there to be a level before apprentice in the mage’s hierarchy. “How long before…”

“Couldn’t say, really,” gasped the servant. “None have ever made it that far.”