The Last Guardian

10 The Emissary

With Medivh’s recovery things returned to normal, or as normal as anything was in the presence of the Magus. When the Magus was absent, Khadgar was left with instructions as to honing his magical skill, and when Medivh was in residence in the tower, the younger mage was expected to demonstrate those skills at the drop of hat.

Khadgar adapted well, and felt as if his power was a set of clothes, two sizes too big, that only now was he growing into. He could control fire at will now, summon lightning without a cloud in the sky, and cause small items to dance upon the table at the will of his own mind. He learned other spells as well—those that allowed one to know when and how a man died from a single bone of his remains, how to cause a ground-fog to rise, and how to leave magical messages for others to find. He learned how to restore the age lost to an inanimate object, strengthening an old chair, and its reverse, to pull all the youth from a newly-crafted club, leaving it dusty and brittle. He learned the nature of the protective wards, and was entrusted with keeping them intact. He learned the library of demons, though Medivh would not permit any to be summoned in his tower. This last order Khadgar had no desire to break.

Medivh was gone for brief periods of a day here, a few days there. Always instructions were left behind, but never explanations. Upon his return the Guardian looked more haggard and worn, and would push Khadgar testily to determine the youth’s mastery over his craft, and to detail any news that had arrived in his absence. But there was no further repeat of his comatose rest, and Khadgar assumed that whatever the master was doing, it did not involve demons.

One evening in the library, Khadgar heard noises from the common area and stables below. Shouts, challenges, and responses, in low, illegible tones. By the time he reached a window overlooking that part of the castle, a group of riders were leaving the tower’s walls.

Khadgar frowned. Were these some supplicants turned away by Moroes, or messengers with some other dark tidings for his master? Khadgar descended the tower to find out.

He caught sight of the new arrival only briefly—a flash of a black cloak stepping into a guest room along the lower levels of the tower. Moroes was there, candle in hand, blinders in place, and as Khadgar slipped down the last few steps he could hear the castellan say “…Other visitors, they were less careful. They’re gone now.”

Whatever response the new arrival made was lost, and Moroes pulled the door shut as Khadgar came up.

“A guest?” asked the young man, trying to see if there was any clue of the new arrival behind him. Only a closed door greeted his view.

“Ayep,” replied the castellan.

“Mage or merchant?” asked the young mage.

“Couldn’t say,” said the castellan, already moving down the hall. “Didn’t ask, and the Emissary didn’t say.”

“The Emissary,” repeated Khadgar, thinking of one of the mystery letters from Medivh’s great sleep. “So it’s political, then. For the Magus.”

“Assume so,” said Moroes. “Didn’t ask. Not my place.”

“So it is for the Magus,” said Khadgar.

“Assume so,” said Moroes, with the same sleepy inflection. “We’ll be told when we need to know.” And with that he was gone, leaving Khadgar to stare at the shut door.

For the next day, there was the odd feeling of another presence in the tower, a new planetary body whose very gravity changed the orbits of all the others. This new planet caused Cook to shift to a larger set of pans, and Moroes to move through the halls at more random times than normal. And even Medivh himself would send Khadgar on some errand within the tower, and as the young mage left he would hear the whisper of a heavy cloak on the stonework behind him.

Medivh volunteered nothing, and Khadgar waited to be told. He dropped hints. He waited patiently. Instead he was sent to the library to continue his studies and practice his spells. Khadgar descended the curved stairs for half a rotation, stopped, then slowly climbed back up, only to see the back of a black cloak glide into the Guardian’s laboratory.

Khadgar stomped down the stairs, considering options of who the Emissary was. A spy for Lothar? Some secretive member of the Order? Perhaps one of the members from the Kirin Tor, the one with the spidery handwriting and the venomous theories? Or maybe some other matter entirely? Not knowing was frustrating, and not being trusted by the Magus seemed to make matters worse.

“We’ll be told when we need to know,” Khadgar muttered, stomping into the library. His notes and histories were scattered on the tables, where he left them last. He looked at them, and the schematics of his vision-summoning spell. He had made a few amendments since his last attempt, hoping to temporally refine its results.

Khadgar looked at the notes and smiled. Then he picked up his vials of crushed gemstones, and headed downward—putting additional floors between himself and Medivh’s audience chamber—to one of the abandoned dining halls.

Two levels lower was perfect. An ellipsoid of a room with stone fireplaces at each end, the great table put into service elsewhere, the ancient chairs lined across the wall from the single entrance. The floor was white marble, old and cracked but kept clean by Moroes’s relentless industry and drive.

Khadgar laid out a magic circle of amethyst and rose quartz, still grinning as he laid out the lines. He was confident in his castings now, and did not need his ceremonial conjuration robes for luck. As he laid out the pattern of protection and abjuration, he smiled again. He was already shaping the energy within his mind, calling the required shades and types of magic, conforming them to their requisite shape, holding that fertile energy in abeyance until it was needed.

He stepped within the circle, spoke the words that needed to be spoken, made the motions with his hands in perfect harmony, and unleashed the energy within his mind. He felt the release as something connected within his mind and soul, and he called the magic forth.

“Show me what is happening in Medivh’s quarters,” he said, his mind giving off a nervous tic, hoping that the Guardian’s wards did not apply to his apprentice.

Immediately, he knew the spell had gone wrong. Not in a major fashion, with the magical matrices collapsing upon themselves, but in a slight misfire. Perhaps the wards did work against him, redirecting his vision elsewhere, to another scene.

He knew he was off by several clues. First off, it was now daylight, Second, it was warm. And last, the location was familiar.

He had not been here before, exactly, at least not in this particular spire, but it was clear he was at Stormwind Keep, overlooking the city below. This was one of the taller spires, and the room was similar in general design to that where the two members of the Order had met their end months earlier. Yet here the windows were large and opened onto great white parapets, and a warm scented breeze stirred diaphanous draperies. Multicolored birds perched within golden hoops around the perimeter of the room.

Before Khadgar a small table was set with white porcelain plates edged with gold, the knifes and forks made of the precious metal as well. Crystal bowls held fruits—fresh and unblemished, the morning dew still clinging to the dimples of the strawberries. Khadgar felt his stomach rumble slightly at the sight.

Around the table hovered a thin man unknown to Khadgar, narrow-faced and wide-foreheaded, with a slender moustache and goatee. He was draped in an ornate red quilt that Khadgar realized must be a dressing gown, cinched at the waist with a golden belt. He touched one of the forks, moving it a molecule’s length sideways, then nodded in satisfaction. He looked up at Khadgar and smiled.

“Ah, you are awake,” he said in a voice that almost sounded familiar to Khadgar as well.

For an instant, Khadgar thought that this vision could see him, but no, the man was addressing someone behind him. He turned to see Aegwynn, as youthful and beautiful as she had been on the snowfield. (Was it earlier than that date? Later? He could not tell from her appearance.) She wore a white cape with green lining, but this was made of silk now, not fur, and her feet were shod not in boots but in simple white sandals. Her blond hair was held in place with a silver diadem.

“You seem to have gone to a great deal of trouble,” she said, and her face was unreadable to Khadgar.

“With sufficient magic and desire, nothing is impossible,” said the man, and turned over his hand, palm upward. Floating above his palm, a white orchid bloomed.

Aegwynn took the flower, raised it perfunctorily to her nose, then set it down on the table. “Nielas…” she began.

“Breakfast first,” said the mage Nielas. “See what a court conjurer may whip up first thing in the morning. These berries were picked from the royal gardens not more than a hour ago….”

“Nielas,” Aegwynn said again.

“Followed by slices of butter-fed ham and syrup,” continued the mage.

“Nielas,” Aegwynn repeated.

“Then perhaps some eggs of thevrocka, poached at the table in the shells by a simple spell I learned out on the isles…” said the mage.

“I am leaving,” said Aegwynn, simply.

A cloud passed over the mage’s face. “Leaving? So soon? Before breakfast? I mean, I thought we would have a chance to talk further.”

“I am leaving,” said Aegwynn. “I have my own tasks to complete, and little time for the pleasantries of the morning afterward.”

The court conjurer still looked confused. “I thought that after last night you would want to remain in the castle, at Stormwind, for a while.” He blinked at the woman, “Wouldn’t you?”

“No,” said Aegwynn. “Indeed, after last night, there is no need for me to remain at all. I have attained what I have come here for. There is no need for me to stay any longer.”

In the present, Khadgar winced as the pieces fell into place. Of course the mage’s voice sounded familiar.

“But I thought…” stammered the mage Nielas, but the Guardian shook her head.

“You, Nielas Aran, are an idiot,” said Aegwynn simply. “You are one of the mightiest sorcerers in the Order of Tirisfal, and yet, you remain an idiot. That says something about the rest of the Order.”

Nielas Aran bridled. He meant to look irritated, but only looked petulant. “Now, wait a moment….”

“Surely you did not think that your natural charms alone brought me to your chamber, nor that your wit and sense of whimsy distracted me from our discussion of conjuration rites? Surely you realize that I cannot be impressed by your position as court conjurer like some village cowherd would? And surely you must realize that seduction works both ways? You are not that big an idiot, are you, Nielas Aran?”

“Of course not,” said the court conjurer, clearly stung by her words but refusing to admit it. “I just thought that, like civilized people, we might share a moment of breakfast.”

Aegwynn smiled, and Khadgar saw that it was a cruel smile. “I am as old as many dynasties, and got over my girlish indulgences early in my first century. I knew fully what I was doing coming to your chambers last night.”

“I thought…” said Nielas. “I just thought…” He struggled for the right words.

“That you, of all the Order, would be the one to charm and tame the great, wild Guardian?” said Aegwynn, the smile growing wider. “That you could break her to your will, where all the others had failed, through your charm and wit and parlor tricks? Harness the power of the Tirisfalen to your own chariot? Come now, Nielas Aran. You have wasted much of your potential as it is, do not tell me that life in the royal court has corrupted you utterly. Leave me some respect for you.”

“But if you weren’t impressed,” said Nielas, his mind wrapping around what Aegwynn was saying, “if you didn’t want me, then why did we…”

Aegwynn provided the answer. “I came to Stormwind for one thing I could not provide for myself, a suitable father to my heir. Yes, Nielas Aran, you can tell your fellow mages in the Order that you managed to bed the great and mighty Guardian. But you will also have to tell them that you provided me with a way of passing on my power without the Order having any further say in it.”

“I did?” The results of his actions began to sink in. “I suppose I did. But the Order would not like…”

“To be manipulated? To be countered? To be fooled?” said Aegwynn. “No, they will not. But they will not act against you, for fear that I truly do have some romantic interest in you. And take this solace—of all the mages, wizards, conjurers, and sorcerers, you were the one with the most potential. Your seed will protect and strengthen my child and make him the vessel for my power. And when he is born and weaned, you will even raise him, here, for I know he will follow my path, and even the Order would not want to miss that opportunity to influence him.”

Nielas Aran shook his head. “But I…” He stopped for moment. “But did you…” He stopped again. At last when he spoke, there was finally some fire in his eyes, and steel in his voice. “Good-bye, Magna Aegwynn.”

“Good-bye, Nielas Aran,” said Aegwynn. “It has been…pleasant.” And with that she turned on her heel and was gone from the room.

Nielas Aran, chief conjurer to the throne of Azeroth, conspirator in the Order of Tirisfal, and now father to the future Guardian Medivh, sat by the perfectly set table. He picked up a golden fork, turned it over and over in his fingers. Then he sighed, and dropped it on the floor.

The vision faded before the fork struck the marble floor, but Khadgar was aware of another noise, this one behind him. The sound of a boot scraping against cold stone. The soft scraping of a cloak. He was not alone.

Khadgar wheeled, but all he caught was a tantalizing glimpse of a black cloak’s back. The Emissary was spying on him. Bad enough he was sent away each time Medivh met with the stranger—now the Emissary had run of the castle and was spying on him!

At once, Khadgar was on his feet and rushing for the entrance. By the time he reached the doorway, his prey was gone, but there was the sound of fabric brushing along stone down the stairs. Down toward the guest quarters.

Khadgar barreled forward down the stairs as well. The curve of the stairs would keep her to the outside rim, where the footing was broader and more sure. The younger mage had raced up and down these steps so many times he deftly danced down along the inner wall, skipping the stairs in twos and threes.

Halfway to the guest level Khadgar could see his prey’s shadow against the outer wall. As he reached the guest level itself he could see the cloaked figure, moving swiftly out through the archway and toward its door. Once the Emissary reached the guest quarters, he would lose his chance. Khadgar vaulted the last four steps in a single bound, and leapt forward to grasp the cloaked figure by the arm.

His hand closed on fabric and firm muscle, and he spun his prey toward the wall. “The Magus will want to know you’re spying….” he began, but the words died in his mouth as the cloak fell open to reveal the Emissary.

She was dressed in traveling leathers, with high laced boots and black trousers and black silk blouse. She was well-muscled, and Khadgar had no doubt that she had ridden the entire way here. But her skin was green, and as the hood fell back it revealed a jut-jawed, fanged orcish face. Tall greenish ears poked up from the mass of ebony hair.

“Orc!” shouted Khadgar, and reacted with an automatic response. He raised a hand, muttering a word of power, summoning the forces to drive a bolt of mystic power through her.

He never had the chance to finish. At the first opening of his mouth, the orc woman lashed out with a roundhouse kick, bringing her leg up to chest level. Her knee brushed aside Khadgar’s pointing hand, forcing his aim off. Her booted foot slammed into the side of Khadgar’s cheek, staggering him.

Khadgar staggered back and tasted blood—he must have bitten his cheek as a result of the blow. He raised his hand again to fire a bolt, but the orc was still too fast, faster than the armor-bound warriors he had fought earlier. Already she had closed the distance between them, driving a hard fist into his stomach, driving the wind from his lungs and the concentration from his mind.

The young mage snarled, abandoning magic for the moment in favor of a more direct approach. Still smarting from the blow, he spun to one side, grasping the woman’s arm and pulling her off-balance. A surprised look crossed the woman’s jade-shaded face, but only for a moment. She planted her feet firmly on the ground, pulled Khadgar toward her, and neatly broke and reversed the hold.

Khadgar caught a whiff of spices as he was drawn close to the orc, and then she threw him, bodily, down the hallway. He slid along the stone floor, bumping into the wall and at last coming to rest at someone else’s feet.

Looking up, Khadgar saw the castellan looking down on him, a look of vague concern on his face.

“Moroes!” shouted Khadgar. “Get back! Fetch the Magus! We have an orc in the tower!”

Moroes did not move, but instead looked up at the orcish woman with his bland, blinkered eyes. “You all right, Emissary?”

The woman smirked, her greenish lips tucked back, and wrapped her cloak around herself. “Never better. Needed a little exercise. The whelp was kind enough to oblige.”

“Moroes!” spat the younger mage. “This woman is…”

“The Emissary. A guest of the Magus,” said Moroes, adding blandly, “Came to get you. Magus wants to see you.”

Khadgar pulled himself to his feet and looked sharply at the Emissary. “When you see the Magus, you’re going to tell him you’re snooping around?”

“Doesn’t want to see her,” corrected Moroes. “Wants to see you, Apprentice.”

“She’s an orc!” said Khadgar, louder and harsher than he meant to.

“Half-orc, really,” said Medivh. He was bent over his workbench, fiddling with a golden device, an astrolabe. “I surmise her homeland has humans, or near-humans, or at least had them within living memory. Hand me the calipers, Apprentice.”

“They tried to kill you!” shouted Khadgar.

“Orcs, you mean? Some did, true,” said Medivh calmly.“Some orcs tried to kill me. And kill you as well. Garona wasn’t in that group. I don’t think she was, at any rate. She’s here as a representative for her people. Or at least some of her people.”

Garona. So the witch has a name, thought Khadgar. Instead he said, “We were attacked by orcs. I had a vision of attacks of orcs. I have been reading the communications from all over Azeroth, speaking of raids and attacks by orcs. Every mention of orcs speaks of their cruelty and violence. There seem to be more of them every day. This is a dangerous and savage race.”

“And she dispatched you easily, I assume,” said Medivh, looking up from his work.

Despite himself, Khadgar touched the corner of his mouth, where the blood had already dried. “That is completely beside the point.”

“Completely,” said Medivh. “And your point would be?”

“She is an orc. She is dangerous. And you have given her free rein in the tower.”

Medivh grumbled, and there was steel in his voice. “She is a half-orc. She is about as dangerous as you are, given the situation and inclination. And she is my guest and should be accorded all the respect of a guest. I expect this from you regarding my guests, Young Trust.”

Khadgar was silent for a moment, then tried a new approach. “She is the Emissary.”

“Yes.”

“Who is she the emissary for?”

“One or more of the clans that are currently inhabiting the Black Morass,” said Medivh. “I’m not quite sure which ones, yet. We haven’t gotten that far.”

Khadgar blinked in surprise. “You let her into our tower, and she has no official standing?”

Medivh laid down the calipers and gave out a weary sigh. “She has presented herself to me as a representative of some of the orc clans that are presently raiding Azeroth. If this matter is going to be solved by any manner other than by fire and the sword, then someone has to start talking. Here is as good a place as any. And, by the way, this is considered my tower, not ours. You are my student here, my apprentice, and are here at my whim. And as my student, as my apprentice, I expect you to keep an open mind.”

There was a silence as Khadgar tried to let this sink in. “So she represents whom? Some, none, or all of the orcs?”

“She represents, for the moment, herself,” said Medivh, letting out an irritated sigh. “Not all humans believe the same thing. There is no reason to believe that all orcs do, either. My question for you is, given your natural curiosity, why aren’t you already trying to pull as much information out of her as possible, instead of telling me I should not do the same? Unless you doubt me and my abilities to handle a single half-orc?”

Khadgar was silent, doubly embarrassed both for his actions and for failing to see another way. Was he doubting Medivh? Was there even a chance that the Magus would act in a fashion not to uphold his Order? The thoughts churned within him, fueled by Lothar’s words, the vision of the demon, and the politics of the Order. He wanted to warn the older man, but every word seemed to be turned back against him.

“I worry about you, at times,” he said at last.

“And I worry about you as well,” said the older mage, distractedly. “I seem to worry about a lot of things these days.”

Khadgar had to make one last attempt. “Sir, I think this Garona is a spy,” he said, simply. “I think she is here to learn as much as she can, to be used against you later.”

Medivh leaned back and gave the young man a wicked smile. “That is very much the pot calling the kettle black, young mageling. Or have you forgotten the list of things your own masters of the Kirin Tor wanted you to wheedle out of me when you first got to Karazhan?”

Khadgar’s ears were burning crimson as he left the room.