Sylvanas arched a brow, and began to calculate how long it would take to kill Vereesa.
“I wanted to tell you that we are not alone,” said Vereesa. “There are others who think exactly as we do, and who would either actively help us or not stand in our way if we attempted to . . . to murder Garrosh.”
“People complain and grumble, Sister, but few are willing to act. These allies you speak of will evaporate if they get a whiff of any danger to their persons or their reputations.”
Vereesa shook her head earnestly. “No. They will not. I even have Lady Jaina’s approval.”
Sylvanas frowned. “Now I know you lie, Sister. Jaina Proudmoore may no longer be the dewy-eyed peace lover she was before, but she cannot possibly advocate an assassination. She might hope for Garrosh’s death, but she would never act upon it.”
“You are wrong. She wants him to die. Before sentence is pronounced. Save us all the trouble of a trial, she said. There are others too. Sky Admiral Catherine Rogers, for one. She hates the Horde, Garrosh most of all.”
“I recall she is from Southshore,” Sylvanas said. “I doubt she will want to work with the Banshee Queen of the Forsaken.”
“She does not have to know. No one has to know. Just us.”
Sylvanas fell silent, thinking. “We could wait to see if the celestials do the job for us first.”
“No. If they do decide on mercy”—and Vereesa spat the word—“we will not get another chance. We have to act while the trial is going on. While both of our sides have access to him.”
At that, Sylvanas laughed aloud. “Access? Have you seen how heavily he is guarded, Sister? Even the most accomplished assassin will not be able to penetrate that cell.”
Vereesa smiled. It was still the face Sylvanas remembered, still the same lips that had parted in shrieks of laughter when Vereesa was a child. But the expression gave Sylvanas a glimpse into a cruelty she would never have expected her sister to display.
“No,” Vereesa agreed. “Not an assassin. But even prisoners must eat, must they not?”
Poison. No wonder Vereesa’s thoughts had turned to her sister.
“And you wish a poison no one can detect—a poison that has not been created yet.”
Vereesa nodded.
“Perfect,” said Sylvanas. “I am ashamed that it had not occurred to me, actually.”
“We will need to get someone to infiltrate the kitchens, or tamper with the food at its source,” Vereesa continued. “Or else convince someone who is already trusted with preparing his meals. We—”
“A moment, before you careen off plotting and scheming, entertaining though that might be,” said Sylvanas. “I have not said that I will participate.”
“What? You just said it was perfect!”
“Oh, it is. But I have suffered beneath the hand of a tyrant before,” Sylvanas said. “And defied he who made me. Arthas raised me to torment me, but he is gone and I am here. I defied Garrosh as well, and I will see him dead.” She spread her hands, indicating her body, as strong and, in its own way, as beautiful as when she drew breath, but blue-gray and cold to the touch. “And—I am Forsaken. You can understand my reasoning. What is yours, little one?”
“I cannot believe you are asking me this!”
“I am, and I pray you, answer.” Her voice was cold. “What did Garrosh do to make you decide upon this course?”
“What did he not do? He unleashed a horror upon Theramore that cannot ever be excused! And they died . . . terribly. It is sheer luck I was not among their number.”
Sylvanas shook her head. Her locks had been pale blond in life, but appeared to be silver, and now they looked almost as white as her sister’s. They were the moons, Alleria had teased, calling them Lady Moon and Little Moon, while she and Lirath—the eldest and the youngest—were the suns of the family, with their bright golden tresses. Alleria . . .
“That is not the reason.”
“The orcs have ever been our enemies. Garrosh is the worst they have spawned that yet lives. Their history is littered with monsters and demonic barbarism. They took our baby brother from us, Sylvanas! And you know Alleria would have fought anyone for the honor of dispatching Garrosh herself. She would want us to do this.”
Sylvanas pursed her lips. “While I agree with all you say, that is not the reason either.”
Vereesa swallowed hard. “You do want to wound me. You want to see me suffer.”
“I want to judge for myself the depth of your pain. It is not the same thing.”
Vereesa was Alliance. She had married a human, had borne children with him. That had been her home, and she had a place there. What she said she now wanted went against the laws that the Alliance claimed to uphold—though, certainly, there were rogues and murderers and thieves enough among their number.
For a moment, Sylvanas thought her sister would refuse. The Windrunners had ever been strong willed. Vereesa’s slender body was as taut as her bowstring, almost quivering with tension. Sylvanas waited with the patience of the dead—another gift Arthas had unwittingly bestowed upon her—for the fury she sensed boiling inside her sister to erupt.
It did not happen.
Instead of fire, Sylvanas saw water—tears filling Vereesa’s eyes and spilling down her face. Vereesa did not even bother to wipe them away as she spoke.
“He took my Rhonin.”
That was all. That was everything.
Sylvanas stepped forward and embraced her sister, and Vereesa clung to her like the drowning woman she was.
15
“Warchief,” said Tyrande, inclining her head.
It was still odd, thought Go’el, to hear someone else being addressed so. Not wrong—he had not a moment’s regret in his decision, and ancestors knew that Vol’jin was worthy of the title—but . . . odd. He wondered if he would ever truly grow used to it.
Vol’jin’s eyes were bright and held a hint of mischief as he replied, “High Priestess.”
“You have been a leader of your people for many years, and before you, your father led.”
“That be truth.”
“Now, after Garrosh Hellscream’s tyrannical reign—”
“With respect, I protest,” said Baine, although it did not sound as though his heart was in it.
“After Garrosh Hellscream was defeated,” Tyrande amended smoothly, as if there had been no interruption, “Go’el appointed you warchief. You now lead not just the Darkspear trolls, but all the various races of the Horde—even though you are not an orc.”
“With respect, I protest!” shouted Baine, and this time he clearly did. “The witness’s ability to lead the Horde is not a subject for debate in this courtroom!”
“Lord Zhu, I am attempting to prove the witness’s credibility to the jury,” said Tyrande.
“Find another way, Chu’shao,” said Taran Zhu calmly.
“As you wish. Warchief Vol’jin, your people suffered greatly under Garrosh. So did you, personally. Can you please tell the court about this?”
“With pleasure,” Vol’jin said, his voice deepening with banked outrage. “The trolls were the first of Azeroth’s people to join the Horde when the orcs arrived in this world. We been loyal friends to the orcs, to Go’el. Go’el asked me to be an advisor to Garrosh, and I did everything in my power to be that. But Garrosh did not remember what good friends the trolls be to him.”
“What specifically did he do?”
“He forbade my people to live where they chose in Orgrimmar. He forced them into a special area. He put the Echo Isles under martial law.”
“Hardly the actions of a leader whose charge is to represent all the various races that compose the Horde,” mused Tyrande.
“That be true.”
“You exchanged words with him over your concerns, did you not?”
“More than once, yes.”
“And he admitted to you that he had done this? Put your people in slums?”