“Varian?”
Before she could say more, both noticed a figure standing quietly in the shadows to their side. When he realized that they saw him, he finally stepped forward. It was Jarod, his wounds recently healed by the Sisters of Elune. However, despite now being in excellent condition again, the expression on his face was akin to a man who had just learned that he was to die.
“High Priestess, forgive me . . . if you can.”
“I will not forgive you for calling me high priestess, Jarod Shadowsong . . . I am Tyrande to you. As for what I think you are apologizing for, do not.” Her own expression saddened. “I am more at fault here than anyone. Poor Maiev! I should have seen how the madness was slowly consuming her! I am only grateful that you and my husband were able to prevent further catastrophe!”
“But she escaped.”
“And no one holds that against you, Jarod,” Malfurion interjected. “Especially us.”
He stood straighter. “Nevertheless, I swear to both of you that I will find her. She must be brought to justice and it must be by me.”
“Just be careful that you do not begin to follow the same path of obsession your sister did,” Malfurion cautioned.
“I understand what you say. I will be careful in that regard, but I will not shirk from my duty.”
The high priestess acquiesced. “No one can deny you that right, and you have proven your abilities, Jarod . . . which brings me to my first point. Not all of the Watchers were surely aware of Maiev’s plot, and from among those proven innocent I intend to have a new leader appointed. However, the Watchers will play a different role than what we need from you, Jarod.”
“Me? I do not understand.”
“Once, you ably commanded warriors—and even demigods—in battle for us. With my husband’s agreement, I would have you lead a new security force, one designed to deal with troubles . . . such as Maiev.”
“I am honored . . . and will gratefully accept.”
“Shalasyr would be very proud of you, Jarod,” the high priestess added.
He tried to reply, but could not find his voice. Shalasyr’s face filled his thoughts, and, for a moment, Jarod forgot that Tyrande and Malfurion stood before him.
“I . . . like to think so,” he finally answered. “I can only hope so. She was so much more full of life than me. She should have been the one to live on.”
“The choice is not ours. How we honor those who have passed on with the way we continue our lives is.”
“You sound like Shalasyr.”
The high priestess put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “In regards to Maiev, Shandris will assist you in choosing from among the Sentinels some possible candidates for your new force.”
“I thank all three of you.”
“We will talk more after this.”
“I will not let you down.” Jarod bowed, then quickly stepped away.
As Tyrande and Malfurion headed toward the summit, Malfurion leaned close and whispered, “Sending him to Shandris? What are you doing?”
“Thinking of the future . . . ,” she replied with a thoughtful smile, “and when the time is more appropriate for them.”
He held back any further comment as they entered among the representatives. Malfurion noted the swiftness with which the last emissaries sat and knew that it could only mean that Varian Wrynn had arrived.
Sure enough, Tyrande surreptitiously touched his hand. He glanced her way and in doing so found Varian striding to his place among the others as if he were not the one who had succeeded in bringing them together again. The king of Stormwind sat down, then looked to Malfurion.
The archdruid took his cue. Stepping forth, he raised his staff. Silence filled the gathering.
“We thank you for coming here and again being our guests,” he told them as Tyrande stood next to him. “With the events in Ashenvale, time has grown more precious, and so, if there is no objection, there is one among you who would speak and who, I believe, should be heard.” With one hand, he indicated Varian. “I present to all of you, King Varian Wrynn of Stormwind. . . .”
The other rulers and representatives began to applaud, but Varian waved them to silence. He studied them all, then shook his head.
“You shouldn’t be applauding me. Not a man who is supposed to rule by reason but did so by rage instead.”
His self-condemnation brought concerned murmuring from his audience. Malfurion looked to Tyrande, who smiled in reassurance.
“An unreasoning, unfocused rage that brought calamity on me and all I held dear and served only to divide the Alliance”—Varian’s expression forbade anyone to deny what he said—“and for the latter, I apologize.”
It was no small thing for Varian to apologize for anything, and no one there thought him any weaker for it. The story of his actions in Ashenvale was already becoming legend despite his desiring otherwise.
“The Varian Wrynn who reigned with such rage is dead!” he declared. “But in dying, he learned that it wasn’t the rage that was at fault, only he! The fury, the anger, must have purpose! It must be the righteous anger of one defending his family, his home, and his friends! It must be the fury that keeps all he loves safe from those who would rip them from him. . . .”
“Hear, hear!” rumbled an enthusiastic Thargas Anvilmar. The other dwarves glanced in his direction, but out of what seemed more satisfaction with his response than annoyance.
“And now is the time to focus that fury!” the lord of Stormwind continued without pause. “Now is when we need the worgen most, not only for their own fury and fire, but to help guide all of us to safely and rightly unleash this side of us! This is our only way to defeat the Horde and, I will say it, perhaps even bring down the terrible black dragon Deathwing himself!”
Malfurion finally understood where Varian was heading and nodded. Tyrande leaned close and murmured, “You see? We had faith it would work out and it did.”
“You had faith. I am still learning.”
At that moment, the king of Stormwind slammed his fist down. “The Horde has tried once to take Ashenvale! They’ll try again! If we let them do so without a fight, we’ve already lost! They see Azeroth as a new world and, because of their relentless energy, they see themselves as the only ones appropriate to tame it! But we will match that energy and more, and we will fight the Horde and all other foes at every turn until the Alliance and Azeroth can finally claim that peace prevails!”
This statement brought more murmuring, this time angry. Yet, beneath that anger was a growing agreement, a joining of purpose among the factions. Archmage Tervosh nodded to Drukan, who bobbed his head in return. Gelbin and the gnomes muttered together, their gazes continuing to return to Varian with obvious admiration—a rare display by gnomes for someone who was a warrior, not an inventor. Everywhere, Varian’s words struck home, for the moment bringing together even all three dwarven clans.
Encouraged by their reactions, Varian thrust on. “Anger. Fury. You feel it now. This is what we need, if we’re to match the energy of the Horde! This . . . and something more. . . .”
Varian signaled to someone unseen near the entrance through which the representatives had again marched. A horn blared . . . and the anthem of Gilneas played.
Led again by Genn Greymane and fully transformed to their astonishing lupine shapes, the worgen reentered. They spread out as they reached the center, displaying their might for all to see.
Fist on his chest in a salute, the worgen leader stood directly before Varian. He gazed up at his counterpart and waited.
Varian did not look back but instead addressed the audience as a whole again. “When last we were here, the archdruid sought a vote on full membership of Gilneas and the worgen by acclamation! I call on you today to recast your vote! What say the rest of you?”
“Aye!” shouted Kurdran.