Thrall - Christie Golden [51]
It was mad. It was absurd. Ludicrous.
It also made perfect sense.
Mad tales, Korialstrasz had learned, having heard his share of them in his many millennia of life, had holes in them. They had notes that did not ring true. But while this strange orc, Thrall, spoke of things that seemed impossible, Korialstrasz knew they were not. As Krasus did, Thrall knew the nature of Ysera the Dreamer and of her flight. Thrall said that the acorn Krasus still held was a gift. Krasus could tell: there was a peace about it that would not be present had it been randomly picked up or taken by force. The orc knew how the timeways worked. He even knew names of bronze dragons who were friends to Korialstrasz and his queen.
No orc slave would know of such things.
When Thrall had finished, Krasus took a sip of tea, examined the precious acorn in his hand, then reached over and dropped it into Thrall’s palm.
“This is not for me,” he said quietly. “Not really. Is it?” It was a statement, not a true question.
Thrall looked at him for a moment, shook his head, and returned the acorn to his pouch. “I was to plant it where it seemed right,” he said. “I do not think Dalaran is the place.”
Korialstrasz nodded. He had sensed the same thing from the acorn.
“I dislike Aedelas Blackmoore heartily,” the dragon mage continued. “Nearly everyone does, unless they are in his pay, and I would wager that even they love the money, not the man. I would not mourn his loss if he were sliced from stem to stern, as you described doing. But simply doing that is not going to correct things, Thrall. While I understand the need to restore the true timeway, I will tell you that you will find few who think your world superior to their own. Plagues, a Lich King, Dalaran destroyed and remade, orcs having their own homeland—you have an uphill battle, my friend.”
“But it is the right thing to do,” said Thrall. “If it is not corrected, then my timeway—the real one—will be destroyed! And this one is already doomed!”
“I know that. You know that. A few of my fellow Kirin Tor members know that. The bronze dragonflight certainly knows that. But you are talking about mass upheaval of an entire world.” He gestured to the hovering sphere that was Azeroth.
Thrall rose and walked over to the globe, watching as wispy, miniature white clouds passed over the surface. He regarded it intently, but made no effort to touch it.
“This … is real, isn’t it?” he said. Curious, Taretha rose and joined him, her eyes widening as she regarded the slowly turning globe.
“In a manner of speaking,” Krasus said. “You couldn’t wipe out the world by smashing it with your fist, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No … but that would solve the problem, would it not?” Thrall said wryly.
“It might at that,” Krasus agreed, his lips twitching in slight amusement.
“But … are we on it? Or representatives of us?” Thrall asked.
“Yes, right here,” Krasus said. “Our … spirit essence, for want of a better term, can be detected.”
“And you could find Arthas, or Varian?”
“Not specifically. I know where we are because … well … I know where we are,” Krasus said. “I can detect that Arthas is in the world, but—” His dark eyes widened. “I see what you’re getting at.”
“Do the dead leave … signature traces?”
“They do,” Krasus said. “You want me to look for Blackmoore.”
The orc nodded. Krasus raised an eyebrow, then lifted a hand. He spread his fingers gently and held them about six inches over the white clouds as the representation of Azeroth turned. He frowned. He stepped around the globe slowly, holding his hand over it, moving it about. Finally, he lowered it and turned to Thrall.
“Your hunch was right,” Krasus said. “Aedelas Blackmoore is nowhere to be found on this world.”
“What does that mean?” asked Taretha in a small voice.
“Well, it could mean any one of several things,” Krasus said.