Thrall - Christie Golden [49]
“Perhaps someone killed him,” Thrall said. He smiled slightly. “One can hope.”
“If so, then there would be great fanfare,” Taretha pointed out. “That throne would be filled by someone—either Arthas as the rightful heir, or by Blackmoore’s killer. No, something odd is going on. But it won’t last long. I am certain that Arthas and Varian are already planning an attack. They must have spies.”
She was right. Though denied her education, Taretha was still a highly intelligent woman. There would, of course, be spies, and Arthas and Varian would likely move as quickly as they were physically able to take advantage of this mysterious “absence.”
Thrall paused a moment, thinking hard. He knew he had to restore the timeway or else all would unravel. Perhaps it was a good thing that Blackmoore was gone; perhaps this would open up some way for the timeway to restore itself somehow.
And yet—that would mean such great tragedy.
The plague would have to sweep through the land. Thousands would be either corpses or worse.
Arthas would need to become the Lich King. A thought made him break out in sweat: What if, in this world, Blackmoore was to become the Lich King? He had Kel’Thuzad whispering in his ear.
Antonidas would have to die, and Dalaran must fall, as must Quel’Thalas.
And Taretha—
He rested his forehead in his hand for a moment. The task seemed impossible. If only he could find one of the bronze dragons, talk to him or her, explain what was going on. Even a green or red dragon would be of aid. They knew of the charge of the bronzes; they would believe this story of fouled timeways, at least in theory.
“Do … do you think we can make a difference?” Taretha asked quietly.
He laughed hollowly. “I think we need to find a dragon,” he said. “One who would actually listen to an orc without killing me first and—”
His eyes opened wide.
“—and I know where we can find one.”
Krasus sat in his private study, seldom more happily ensconced than here. It was a warm-feeling room, smaller than he could have commandeered given his position in the Kirin Tor, but comfortable. Currently, every flat surface, from desk to small table to top of a bookcase, was covered with an open book of some sort. Only when he was at the side of his mate, Alexstrasza, did joy fill his heart more than when he was here. He disliked the necessity of being away from her, but no one understood “duty” better than the Life-Binder. She understood that his work here among the Kirin Tor would aid the flight, and, more importantly in his beloved’s eyes, aid Azeroth. The humans, high elves, and gnomes with whom he worked might have assumed that dragons, living as long as they did, would grow bored with one another and welcome chances to spend time apart.
They would be wrong.
An orb hovered nearby, its shades of green and brown and blue revealing it to be an accurate and immediately current representation of Azeroth. Scattered hither and thither were tools, trinkets, and other priceless items. At present, he was busily scratching on vellum notes from a very ancient tome that, should it be handled more than was necessary, would crumble into dust. Magic held it together for now, but Krasus was practical, and knew that making a copy of the key elements in the book would be a wise backup against the ravages of time and broken spells. It was a task that an apprentice could accomplish, but Krasus preferred to do it himself. It appealed to his scholarly, magical soul to sit quietly and revisit ancient lore.
There was a knock on his door. “Enter,” he called, not looking up.
“Lord Krasus?” It was Devi, one of the young high elf apprentices.
“Yes, what is it, Devi?” Krasus inquired.
“There is a young lady here to see you. With her slave. She insisted I bring you this. But … may I speak freely?”
“You always do,” he said, smiling a little. “And I always value it. Please.”
“There seems something … off about her. Nothing hostile, but …” She shook her raven head, frowning a little, gnawing on the problem. “She told me to give