CHAPTER 19
Within her dreams, Idira passed Dalaran's Legerdemain Lounge on her way back from the Observatory, her arms laden with folders destined to go back to the archives. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee wafted from the open doors of the exclusive coffee house. She went inside, but there was no one there, the furniture stood against the walls, stacked away so the floor could be cleaned, the baristas gone and the coffee machines silent. Drawn by the intensifying scent, she went upstairs and pushed the door open to one of the guest rooms. She looked in and saw herself sleeping on the bed in Khadgar's sanctuary, the Leader of the Kirin Tor looking down at her, his expression aching with love.
"Idira," he whispered, reaching out to brush the hair from her brow, "wake up."
She stirred, languid, and opened her eyes, waking. Khadgar sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, watching her, his eyes soft, filled with tenderness. On the bedside table, a mug of coffee steamed, its rich aroma filling the air. She smiled. The cause of her dream.
"That coffee smells good," she murmured, indulging in a luxuriant stretch.
Khadgar leaned over and brushed his lips against hers, leaving behind his familiar scent, cedarwood, leather and warm earth. He turned and retrieved a wrapped bundle from the bed, presenting it with a flourish.
"A little something from the Council's breakfast table," he said, looking pleased with himself as he opened it. A pile of croissants tumbled out, their warm buttery scent mixing with the coffee's. Idira's mouth watered. Croissants were a luxury only the very wealthy could afford.
She sat up and pulled a feathery tendril from the nearest pastry, exclaiming with delight as it melted, buttery and warm on her tongue. Khadgar held out her coffee, his eyebrow quirking, betraying his satisfaction. She took the mug and sipped, sighing. He really did conjure the best coffee.
"Once you have breakfasted, we must work," he said, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of her hair behind her ear.
A tremor of pleasure rippled through her. "Together?" she asked, popping another luxurious bite of croissant into her mouth.
He looked away, a moment of unease slicing over his features, quickly suppressed. He looked back at her again, his steel-grey eyes veiled. "Your ability to be able to transcend closed teleports has lead the Council to believe that you might be able to open two barriers which so far no one else has found a way to overcome apart from brute force, which, if used would only make matters worse. Impossible, in fact."
Idira leaned back against the headboard, eyeing the Leader of the Kirin Tor. He looked away again, but not before she saw a finger of dread slide behind his eyes.
"Tell me," she whispered, bracing herself for the worst.
Khadgar got up and went to the fireplace, his gaze falling to the empty grate. He crossed his arms over his chest. "I believe you are aware Gul'dan has the body of the Betrayer and is using it to create an avatar for the Titan Sargeras; I recall you sorted the papers regarding that matter?" He glanced up, abrupt, waiting for her affirmation, his look no longer that of a lover, but a leader, tense, burdened by the weight of his terrible responsibilities. Idira nodded, wary.
He began to pace, his eyes on the stone-flagged floor. "We believe the quickest way to stop what is to come is to remove the Betrayer's body from the Chamber of the Eye. Without a body, there is no avatar." He glanced at her again. "By using ancient magic, I have found the way in: a concealed and warded tunnel which cuts under the channel separating the Broken Shore from a small islet called Hope's End, leading straight into the foundation of the Tomb of Sargeras and the Chamber of the Eye. Hpwever, the wards have proven difficult to read. Even I cannot unlock the deepest ones. But the Council believes you can, since you are able to use closed teleports." He stopped his pacing, falling into his thoughts for several moments. He shook himself, continuing, "Well, at least we need to try. If you can read them, we will need you to open the way for the party going in tomorrow to retrieve not only the Betrayer's body but also the consort of Malfurion, the Lady Tyrande, who was abducted by Gul'dan over a week ago."
Idira lifted her brow. She had braced herself for the worst and Khadgar had certainly delivered. She caught him watching her, intent. Nodding her understanding, she picked up another croissant and bit into it, wondering how he would be able to get them into the Legion's stronghold undetected. Her thoughts scattered, hijacked, as the most delightful, warm, sweet liquid swam across her taste buds. She lifted the pastry up, examining it. A dark brown liquid, viscous and glistening, pooled within the hollow centre of the croissant.
"What is this?" she asked, her mouth thick with its sticky sweetness.
Khadgar stopped pacing, taken aback. "Have you never tasted chocolate before?"
She didn't answer, she couldn't, she was in raptures, how could something as marvellous as this exist, and she had never heard of it? Uncaring of the stickiness of her fingers, she gobbled up the rest of the croissant, turning to root through the remaining ones, breaking them apart, searching for more chocolate. She found two more chocolate centres, her delight at her sudden bounty filling her with joy.
She glimpsed Khadgar's lips quirking into a smile as he returned to the bed and joined her, pushing himself up against the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He conjured a mug of coffee, settling back to enjoy it, watching her as she ate, though his look was one of affection, not arousal.
With a satisfied sigh, she finished the last of her breakfast, casting a small spell to cleanse the chocolate from her hands. Khadgar eased his arm around her and brought her up against him. She settled into the crook of his arm and sipped the last of her coffee, content.
"So, you are a frost mage, then?" he asked, chafing her arm, warming her.
She scoffed. "I have no idea how you were able to figure that out."
"A wild guess," he said, wry as he set his empty mug onto the bedside table. "Do you suffer much from it?"
She nodded, biting her lip, recalling how numb she had been before he had arrived in the night, the cold grinding into her, relentless, brutal. He took hold of her chin and lifted her face to his, his eyes darkening. "That drives me crazy, just so you know."
Unable to stop herself, she bit her lip harder, teasing him. He groaned and pushed himself from the bed. "No, don't start that." He held out his hand to her. "Come, the font awaits. We have work to do."
"The font?" she asked as she took his hand, letting him pull her from her cocoon.
"The locked door, down the hall, it lays within," he answered, giving her an oblique look. "It can carry our spirits into the corridors of time and space where we may move about undetected."
She shuddered, repulsed by the thought of having to return to that dark doorway. "I read Medivh's notes regarding such a thing," she said, "though he did not call it a font. He said it is a dark relic from the time of the Faceless Ones, its main purpose to grant them a return from death, a kind of repeatable immortality paid for with the souls of innocents. It is a thing of pure evil."
"Yes, among other things, it was used for that," Khadgar admitted, terse. "But the font is also able to transcend time and space." He crossed his arms once more over his chest, continuing, "There will be wards in place. You must trust me, I will not let any harm come to you." He glanced down at her naked body, his gaze stalling on the bruising imprint of his fingers against her hips. "I hurt you," he murmured, a look of shame shearing, abrupt, into his preoccupied expression. "Forgive me."
She glanced down at the marks he had left on her, a ripple of pleasure shimmering through her as she recalled the way he had held her, fast in his grip as he took her, his lovemaking so passionate it had teetered on the brink of violence. She waved her hand. The injury faded away. She smiled up at him. "All better now."
He turned away, uneasy. "I was too rough with you. I won't let that happen again."
"Oh?" she teased. "That's a shame."
He turned back, his voice hardening, clipped with hard-won restraint. "Stop. I beg you. Right now, you are the Council's best hope to open the way to the Chamber undetected. To do so you must travel with me through that unspeakable thing to a dark and terrible place. A place crafted out of the deepest evil, echoing with the cries of souls ripped free from living men, women and children. Idira, for the love of the Light, prepare yourself."
"Forgive me," she murmured, feeling her cheeks colour, chastened by both his look and his words. He might be her lover, but he was also the Leader of the Kirin Tor, a man overwhelmed by terrible responsibility, and deserving of her deepest respect. She closed her eyes and concentrated on manifesting her full regalia. Her Light awakened, weaving itself around her, tendrils of darting lights, moving up from her feet, over her body and down her arms. She opened her eyes. Her silver-white gown shimmered over her form, its neckline, waist and hips accented with glittering diamonds. Silver thread shot through the material, covering it with embroidered frost runes. She turned to the mirror. A silver circlet, embossed with glowing violet runes wove through her upswept hair. She held out her hand and a silver staff manifested, crackling with power, its crown encircled with threads of white light. Her Light settled, falling to a deep thrum inside her, active, yet passive, waiting, anticipating. The temperature in the room dropped, frost iced over her skin, making it glimmer in the light of the arcane lamps.
Khadgar gazed at her, reverent. "My Lady," he breathed, sinking to his knee, "I am not worthy of you."
Dismayed, she touched his shoulder, urging him back to his feet. He rose, shaking his head, marvelling at her transformation, his eyes following the darting tendrils of violet light encompassing her body. "Never do that again," she said, earnest. "To you, at least, I must be Idira."
"And so it shall be, my love," he answered, soft.
"Then let us do this thing," she said, her Light resonating, beating within her like a bird trapped in a cage, desperate to be freed, driving her onward. "I am ready. Take me to the font."
The font was enormous. It stood in the centre of an austere windowless hall, its dark stone floors and walls stripped bare of furnishings, tapestries and rugs. Supported by an ancient ashlar of stone, the contents of its wide, shallow basin undulated as they approached, its viscous, metallic fluid shifting, a greasy, molten silver. A shudder of revulsion rippled through Idira as she sensed its sentience, quivering as it followed them around the room, reacting to their presence. Behind the font, a narrow stone staircase butted up against the plinth, leading up to the basin. Freed of her body, she stood in spirit form beside Khadgar on the top step and looked back at their bodies held immobilised within an arcane force field; arcane runes spinning and rotating around them, enclosing them in a complex web of intricate blue light.
Frozen in time, Khadgar stood positioned in the casting stance, holding her protectively against him with one arm, while casting with his other hand, his staff held outward, its crown glowing with arcane energy. She had rested her head against his shoulder as she waited, her hand against his chest, frost riming the front of his collar where her fingers touched the material. The pain had come soon after. Ice and fire had sluiced into her, releasing the bonds which connected her body to her spirit. It had been most unpleasant. How Khadgar could have gone down this path more than once told her just how committed he was to the protection of Azeroth, even beyond his own brutal suffering. She endured the agony of her terrifying transition from corporeal to incorporeal, feeling his hand finding hers, holding it tight, reassuring her, reminding her he was there with her, that she was not alone.
Before he had opened the door to the shadowy room he had told her they would only have one hour within the font for her to complete her readings. Quavering with dread anticipation, she looked down at the quivering meniscus within the basin. An hour? Even a minute in that thing would be too long. As though reading her thoughts, Khadgar squeezed her hand again, reassuring her. Before they left their bodies behind, she had added an additional spell of her own, enabling them to speak to each other through their thoughts, a spell she had discovered encrypted deep within one of Medivh's books, buried in his office, something Khadgar had missed.
Are you ready? Khadgar asked.
Yes, she answered.
Follow me into the font.
She felt him move away as he stepped into the basin, his hand lifting up to steady her so she could follow him in. She hesitated for a heartbeat then lifted her gown to step over the basin's ridge. Her foot came down into the liquid, feeling nothing. It was as though she had stepped into thin air, despite seeing the metallic liquid swirling around the outline of her foot. She brought her other foot down and watched, horrified as the liquid swam around the outline of her gown's hem, creeping upwards.
Khadgar pulled her against him. Don't look.
She slid her arms around his torso, trying and failing not to look down at the liquid slithering up, moving toward her waist, terror clawing at her.
Hold on tight. Do not let go.
She nodded, tightening her grip on him, sensing his concentration as he cast the incantation which would carry them to their destination.
In a heartbeat, the font disappeared and she found herself within a damp, dark, claustrophobic tunnel, the entire corridor cut from living stone. Fel torches dotted its length, lurid pools of sickly green light stretching away into the shadowy distance.
Her Light bloomed, awakening, reacting to the Legion's foul taint; scenting the dark magic which lurked, hostile and malevolent at both ends of the tunnel, paid for with the souls of the living. Her senses prickling, she moved forward, her Light already intuiting the complicated weave of the wards blocking the tunnel, finally understanding Khadgar's difficulty in unravelling them. The wards were not only the work of the necromancer Gul'dan. Deep within them, at the weave's core lay the darkest wards of all, enhanced by the power of a Titan.
Her Light tugged on her, guiding her. She moved away, Khadgar's hand capturing hers, ensuring their tenuous contact. He followed after her to the end of the tunnel, waiting as she pressed her hand against the solid stone blocking the way out. Through the residue of its wards, she saw the tunnel let out into a large cave, half-filled by the ruins of an ancient Elven temple. The weaves were layered, complex and dangerous, crafted to ensure there was no way through apart from using the magic made for them—the magic the Council needed her to decode, magic only someone belonging to the Legion could see and use. Or, someone like her. It took her several painstaking, time-consuming tries to work out its order: seven layers, designed to change over time and reassemble into a different order to further ensure no one but one of Gul'dan's inner circle could use them.
Can you take us back in time, slowly, over the past three days? she asked.
Yes, of course. Khadgar began to scroll back through time, stopping at various intervals whenever she asked him to, so she could check the patterns. Satisfied she had learned all she could, she asked him to take them into the future: perhaps there might be hidden wards awaiting them, she wanted to be certain she had checked all the possibilities. He moved them forward in time, the wards clicking into place just as she suspected they would. They had progressed into the afternoon of the next day when she felt a lurch, as though hitting a wall.
Strange. He said, and tried again, she felt herself pushing against a bubble of resistance, heavy with the weight of time. She shoved hard, using all her will, fearing a hidden ward she might be missing. She burst through, a flash of her Light blinding her as she stumbled out alone out on the other side.
A woman, the same woman she had seen on the sabre cat in the Violet Citadel, stood before her future self in a large circular room, the floor blazing with fel runes; a massive portal to the Nether gaping like a festering wound in the wall, its edges framed by more glowing runes, the colour of pestilence. The woman spoke, in the voice of a powerful male. No longer beautiful, the Elven queen's face and body had been ravaged almost beyond recognition, only her eyes remained intact, flaming with fel fire. Idira watched, horrified, realising she was looking at her future, when she would confront the Titan's avatar.
Her future self, wearing her full regalia, reached out and touched the Titan's avatar, her fingers glowing, brilliant with her Light, consuming the power imprisoning Tyrande, freeing her. Tyrande fell, and the being Sargeras emerged, hovering at the threshold of the portal to the Nether, enraged, a flaming thing of pure energy. The Titan's burning eyes met hers. He hissed one word: Azeroth. In response, a brilliant flash of violet light flared out from the torso of her future self, the entire room pulsating with Azeroth's blinding, cleansing Light. The Light faded. Wounded and bloodied, Khadgar crawled across the ravaged room to a metallic object laying on the floor. He picked it up and clutched it against his chest, over his heart, his face twisted with anguish. She stared, disbelieving at the item in his hands. Her silver circlet. Of her and the Titan, there was no sign. The runes on the floor lay dormant, extinguished. The portal to the Nether gone, replaced by the ashlars of the stone structure. She looked around, frantic, it had to be a mistake, she was somewhere else, thrown aside by the blast.
Tyrande, the night elf woman, still remained, her ravaged, bleeding body caught up into the arms of a male night elf, also bloodied and injured, who wept over her limp form. Two more bodies lay on the floor, mutilated beyond recognition and the crushed remains of something made of glass lay scattered amongst the debris. But of herself, there was no evidence. It was as though she had never existed. She sank to her knees, disbelieving. No. It couldn't be. This was not how it was to end. To defeat the Titan, Azeroth's Light would need to consume her, obliterate her? Her whole existence was meant for this? To cease to exist? She staggered, unable to comprehend why she had been the one chosen for this horrible destiny. What had she done to deserve such a terrible end? She wanted to scream, but she had no voice, her heart stuttered as she caught sight of Khadgar's desolation, his eyes haunted, disbelieving, stricken, her name on his lips. She screamed, in total silence, her soul rending in two, shorn apart. She reeled, plummeting into darkness, riven by loss and despair.
Pain slammed into her, harsh, jagged, shattering her into a thousand pieces, the force of it blinding her. Smears of colour danced at the edges of her vision. An epochal silence surrounded her, the colours faded. Darkness. She weighed of nothing. A voice, faint, called to her. She swam towards it, frightened. Khadgar? No, not Khadgar, another. They called again. A familiar voice, filled with love, urging her to them.
A hand grasped hold of hers, firm, dragging her back. She plunged backwards, barrelling through the darkness, back through the circular chamber, past Khadgar, bleeding and kneeling on the floor, clutching her circlet against his heart, past her future self confronting the Titan's avatar, and onwards, through the barrier, and into the arms of Khadgar, holding her tight against him; surrounded once more by the fel light of the tainted tunnel.
She sagged in his grip, quaking, her thoughts in chaos, as the awful, terrible truth slammed into her. Her whole life had only been lived for one purpose: to face the Titan, and to stop him. She was nothing without her Light, and once she channelled the Light of Azeroth into the Titan's avatar, her body would not survive, the power needed would be too great, would tear her apart until there was nothing left of her. She struggled to elide the path of her life with the cost of being chosen as the Light's vessel. No. It was too much. It was unbearable, the burden too great. She had never been given a choice, never even been warned. Her life had only just begun and now she was to lose it?
Khadgar's arms tightened around her; the memory of him clutching her silver circlet against his heart seared through her mind. And what about him? Guilt clawed at her. She should not have persisted in trying to tempt him. Her Light had never promised him to her and he had done his best to do what was right by resisting her. Her selfish determination to make the supposed fairytale of her life story come true was going to exact a terrible price. He was the Leader of the Kirin Tor, with grave responsibilities and obligations. He was not a man to be trifled with, to act out her childish ideals of love conquering all. Far better for him if she had been nothing more than another journal entry, another woman to add to his list of women he had loved from afar. He asked her how she was, but she couldn't answer. What could she say? She couldn't tell him the truth, that tomorrow she would cease to exist. He had a world to save.
She shuddered, stricken, devastated, unable to stop the relentless march of the pieces of her life rearranging themselves, revealing her true path, glaring, brutal, cruel. Pain slashed through her, tearing at her, the disjunct of passing the threshold of her death while still alive fragmenting her. Agony sheared at her, clawing at her from the inside out, the rending far more brutal than the severance she had endured to enter the font. It worsened, deepening, making it difficult for her to think; she suspected the time disjunct had made her connection to the font unstable, her continued presence within it might even be killing her. She needed to get out of the font, and soon.
She turned, trembling and weak, staggering from the slicing rifts of darkness scything into her, her spirit struggling to maintain its integrity against the unstoppable forces tearing at it—ignoring Khadgar's rising concern, his need for reassurance she was not harmed—progressing as fast as she could down the tunnel. At the tunnel's termination, she went to work again sensing and reading the wards, again asking to go back in time, for three days, but all of her readings came back the same as before. Sagging with relief, she turned to him, sliding her arms around him, shuddering, broken.
I have learned all I can, she said. Please, take us away from this place.
He brought them back through the font and led her down its steps to where their bodies stood, immobile. She juddered, enduring the searing pain of ice and fire as their spirits merged with their bodies. When it was over, she clung to him, quaking, barely able to remain conscious, pain continuing to sear through her. Blood dripped from her nose, mouth and eyes, freezing on her skin.
With a cry of alarm, Khadgar swept her up and carried her to the bed, conjuring a bowl of warm water and fresh linens, cleaning the blood away and pressing compresses against her nose and mouth, cursing with frustration when the linens began to freeze. She lay passive to his ministrations, letting him tend to her, hopelessness paralysing her. He changed the compresses continuously, but despite the pressure he applied, she continued to bleed.
He took hold of her shoulders, giving her a shake. "Idira," he said, his voice taut with fear, "are you aware?"
She pulled herself toward his voice and opened her eyes, noticing the pile of bloodied linens beside him, the desperation in his eyes. She called to her Light. The bleeding slowed, and finally stopped. Another spell and her regalia disappeared, replaced by a simple robe, the frost on her skin melting away. She felt his hand on hers, chafing her, trying to warm her. He lit another fire, and covered her with the blanket. Shivering, she curled into herself, turning her back to him, despair consuming her. Tomorrow she would be gone forever. Azeroth was a cruel mistress after all.
Khadgar's fingers moved against her head, stroking her hair, his movements taut with apprehension. The mattress shifted as he lowered his weight onto it and lay down behind her, pulling her freezing body against his, chafing her, trying warm her. She lay silent and unresponsive in his embrace, her heart aching, letting him do his work. His murmurs of concern finally pierced through her shroud of depression. She shifted in his embrace, turning to face him, her heart breaking anew at the sight of his steel-grey eyes gazing at her, consumed with trepidation.
"I will be able to open the tunnel tomorrow without Gul'dan knowing," she said, quiet.
He watched her, uneasy, waiting for her to say more. When she didn't, he brushed her hair from her face, his tenderness nearly undoing her. "Won't you tell me what it is that is troubling you?" he asked, her eyes searching hers.
She closed her eyes, fearing he might see the truth in them. She would never tell him. Never. She felt a tear slip free. He kissed it away, waiting for her answer.
"Just love me," she whispered against his neck, desperate to escape the darkness consuming her. "I need to forget."
With an anguished groan, he undressed her and gently made love to her, cradling her against him as though she were made of porcelain, his kisses soft and tender, and when she cried out with her release, her tears were not tears of joy, but sorrow.
He dressed afterwards, quiet, watching her, his eyes dark with concern as he prepared to return to his duties at the Citadel. He promised he would return that evening with her favourite dinner, asking her to wait up for him. She watched him leave, her throat so tight she could barely breathe. He vanished. On the other side of his teleport, he walked away; she watched him, crushed by the unbearable burden of her knowledge. Dragging his pillow against her chest, she drank in his lingering scent, grieving at how little time she had left to love him. Unable to hold back her heartache any longer, she bent her face against his pillow and wept.
She stirred, waking, her face tight with dried tears, her eyes gritty from crying. She sat up and stared at the fading teleport, bleak, a fresh spear of grief lancing through her.
"So," Khadgar's echo said, standing up from one of the wing-back chairs and making his way over to the bed, "it seems I might be of more use to you than just keeping you company, after all." He held out his hand. She took it and let him pull her up from the bed. He looked her over, arching an eyebrow. He cleared his throat, meaningfully.
She glanced down at herself, realising she stood naked before him. Her dress had been neatly hung over the top of the folding screen. Her heart lurched, Khadgar must have put it there, the man who always dropped his expensive clothing onto the floor into a heap, had taken the time to hang up her old, threadbare dress.
"How long have you been in here?" she asked, dull, as she pulled the dress over her head.
"Long enough," the echo replied, shrugging.
"You didn't watch us?" Idira asked, momentarily shocked out of her despondency.
"Hmm," he answered, oblique, looking away. "I came back after Khadgar left to break his fast, watched you sleep for awhile, waiting for you to wake up, was about to go to the library when he came back with those delicious buns—which I watched you gobble up like a little pig, not even thinking to save me a single one." He looked so put out, mirroring the look of a petulant child, Idira would have laughed if her heart had not ached so much.
"So you watched us," she said, flat.
"Hmm," he said again. He glanced at her. "You do realise I am his echo? Everything he experiences I experience. I didn't get much sleep last night, thanks to you."
Idira felt her cheeks begin to flame, she ducked her head, embarrassed. "I hadn't thought of that. Is there a way to turn it off?"
"Turn it—?" the echo repeated, astonished. "No, there is no way to 'turn it off', unless you send me back to the Nether."
"Are you . . . jealous?" Idira asked, seeing his gaze moving over the rumpled blankets on the bed, his fists clenching, exactly like Khadgar had done when he had seen her with the echo.
"Who, me?" the echo asked. "Jealous? Of him? Of course not. No. Not at all."
"You are," Idira breathed. "But you have no . . . "
"Yes, I know it well," the echo answered, sharp, "but I can still feel his feelings, know his thoughts. The man is lost to you, would die for you. And now . . . No. Absolutely not, I am not jealous of him. Not knowing what he is going to have face tomorrow."
His blunt words hit her so hard, she staggered. For just a moment, she had been distracted from her pain. But now, seeing the look of anguish on the echo's face, she felt sick, realising the echo was already experiencing Khadgar's pain, anticipating his fall, having learned the truth from her thoughts.
"What is going to happen to him?" she asked, low.
The echo turned to her. He eyed her, desolate. "He will not recover. Bitterness will claim him, and he will abandon his duties to use the font, his intention to remain within it, living in the past with you until his body dies of hunger."
Her legs gave out. She sank down onto the cold stone flags of the floor. "What have I done?" she whispered, remorse tearing her apart. "Oh Light. What have I done?"
The echo lowered his hand to her. "Get up," he said, rough. "You're no use to him moping about on the floor." Bridling a little, she thrust her hand into his.
"I have a plan," he said as she came back to her feet. "It's not much, but it should keep Khadgar out of the font, give him the will to go on and get him through the worst days to come." He pulled on her hand, leading her out into the corridor. "That's the good news. The bad news is we're going to have to use the font."
"No," Idira said, letting go of his hand. "I won't go back to that thing. There has to be another way."
The echo turned, bearing down on her. "You made this mess," he said, cold. "You need to clean it up. It's not always about you, you know."
Idira pulled away from him, stung, biting back a blistering retort. Though his words cut deep, he was right. It wasn't all about her. But still. The font? That thing was dangerous. It had almost killed her. "What about my Light," she offered, "couldn't we use that instead of the font?"
"No."
"Why not?" Idira persisted, annoyed by his terse reply.
"Because, there are other potentialities at play," the echo snapped, suddenly fractious, "things that the Light would prevent that the font won't. I like to keep your options open."
"Options?" she repeated, confused. "What sort of options?"
"Second chances," the echo said, vague. "There are other variables that would have to come into play, but this way, they are at least possible. It would be up to Khadgar to decide if he wishes to avail himself of them or not."
The echo wasn't looking her in the eye. He knew something and wasn't telling, and from the look on his face, he wasn't going to tell, either. She decided to change tactics.
"Couldn't we just destroy the font," she broached, "so Khadgar can't use it?"
The echo laughed, abrupt. "Have you not yet realised Khadgar is a man of secrets?" He waved his hand, encompassing the length of the corridor. "Just what do you think is holding this fortress intact outside of space and time, hmm?"
She licked her lips, nervous, and glanced at the forbidden door, warded, sealed, locked.
The echo followed her gaze. "That's right. Destroy it, and—" he waved his hand again, "—all of this ceases to exist, the library, the books, Medivh's office, you, even me, obliterated by the impossibility of our material presence in a place immaterial."
He waited for her to digest his words, looking exactly like Khadgar, his hands on his hips, frowning down at her, severe. She nodded, resigned, and moved to the door.
"Before we go in there," she said as he joined her, placing his hands against the door, working to remove the wards. "Tell me what you plan to do. This time I want to be prepared."
He cut a look at her. "I am going to make your echo, and imbed her into the fortress. She won't materialise until after you have gone to the Light, hopefully sooner rather than later."
"Oh," Idira breathed, both impressed and disturbed by the thought. "Wait," she said, as a troubling new thought rose up, "I made you out of Khadgar's raven with my Light. What will we make my echo from?"
The echo paused in his work. "What will be my purpose once tomorrow's events have passed?" he asked, his voice softening. "The font can create an echo for the price of a soul. I can think of no better use for my existence than to do this. Anyway, I rather like the idea of not having to go back to the Nether, waiting to be remade for evil."
"But you said you were made out of the stuff of the Nether," Idira said, perplexed by his logic. "You don't have a soul."
The echo looked down at the door. He clenched his jaw. "When I told you I was made of the stuff of the Nether, I wasn't being entirely honest," he paused to look at her, guilt cutting its way through his eyes.
"Go on," Idira said, tentative, her skin suddenly prickling.
"Aeons ago, in another universe," he began, low, his voice hard with shame, "I was a god, soulless." He leaned back against the door frame and looked down the corridor, crossing his arms over his chest, avoiding her eyes. "My power was absolute. At first I sought to do good, but after thousands of years I became tired of mortals and their unending greed, pettiness and wanton destruction. I turned against them, growing depraved as my hatred deepened, hungering only for blood, ruin, suffering and death. The crimes I committed were so heinous that the Creator of all life destroyed my corrupt world, and turned my immortal body into a soul, sending it to the Nether, fully conscious, never to be broken down and reborn." He glanced at her, uneasy. "The Nether is terrible place to be conscious. While other souls exist in full awareness for a just a brief flicker of time before the Nether's relentless pressure breaks them apart, granting them the oblivion of the great dark until it is their time to be reborn, I drifted, alone and outcast, crushed by the timeless, epochal silence. Every now and again, I was able to escape by joining with those who have the power to call recently passed spirits from the Nether, but those who do such things are usually practitioners of the darkest arts." He paused, a spasm of deep anguish passing behind his eyes. "The things I have been forced to do, things so abominable," he said, shuddering, "even thinking of them makes me long for the release of eternal death. No. I will not let you believe me a hero. By manifesting me here in this place, you have granted me a way out of the endless cycle of my suffering. To create your echo, the font will need to extinguish a soul, but I welcome it. I have suffered enough for what I have done. I long for annihilation."
Idira stared at him, stunned. A god. That explained the vanity, arrogance, his cold logic, his spoiled, childish pique over the croissants. "Will my echo—?" she couldn't bring herself to ask, wasn't sure she wanted to know.
"Have my memories?" he finished for her, reading her thoughts. "No. She will be you. My soul will merely be the fuel to create her." He turned back to the door, continuing the work of removing the wards. The door swung open, silent, driven by its own magic. Her heart thudding, Idira eyed the font, sensing it waiting for them, the liquid in its basin rippling. It sat there, dark and malevolent, somehow sentient, watching them, reminding Idira of a spider, crouched low against the ground, waiting to strike its prey.
The echo held out his hand. "Are you ready?" he asked, quiet.
Idira hesitated. "Tell me your real name. I deserve to know who is giving up their soul for my echo to be created."
He looked at her, intrigued. "How unusual you are. So unique," he said, eyeing her with genuine admiration. "But my name?" he winced. "That is the only thing I can't remember. The Creator took it from me when he sent me to the Nether. Ah, but it is of no matter for I have had many names since then, all of them meaningless. Just call me The Echo, it suits me well enough, don't you think? Come," he took her hand, and positioned her in front of the font. "Stand here, and do not move until it is over." He kissed her brow, soft. "Farewell Daughter of Azeroth," he said, turning to make his way up the steps behind the font, "may the Creator reward you well." He stepped into the basin. The silver liquid stirred and began to creep up his boots, coating them in its residue. He closed his eyes.
"Wait!" she burst out. "How will I know when it is over?"
He opened his eyes and threw her a cavalier smile, brave, valiant, reckless. He looked at her, full of admiration, Khadgar but not Khadgar, dying forever so Khadgar would not. "Why, when it has consumed me, of course," he said, soft.
And then, she watched, horrified, as he uttered the ancient incantations and the font awakened, hungry; its mercurial liquid slithering up his legs, across his torso and up to his neck, encasing him in its cruel grip.
When it was over, Idira rose up from the floor, trembling. She must have blacked out near the end. She backed away, wary, her flesh creeping with horror, keeping her eyes fixed on the sated font, which stood deathly quiet after its feeding. The thing had torn The Echo apart. shearing him into hundreds of thousands of pieces, all of them identical, tiny cubes; no blood, no gore, just an eye-watering amount of swirling cubes, each no bigger than a pin's head, his screams of agony still ringing in her ears, even when he was no longer whole, his scream carried on, as though coming from a great distance. She shuddered and pulled the door closed behind her, throwing up wards, covering it, frantic, her hands flying over the wooden surface in her haste to lock the font away, using every possible combination she could think of.
She stepped back, her breathing shallow. A memory stirred, visceral, of what the font had done to her while she was unconscious. She staggered back, hitting the opposite wall, her hands covering her mouth as the memory replayed in all of its bizarre horror. Two silvery tentacles had arced up from the basin, reminding her of vipers about to strike. They had darted down and wrapped around her inert body, their touch freezing cold, their lengths containing thousands of feelers, sharp like needles, tasting her, reading her, imprinting her into itself. Smaller tentacles calved from the main tendrils and slid up around her head, probing into her mouth, nose, eyes and ears, cold, sharp, unfeeling, delving into her brain.
When it was finally done, the calved tentacles merged back with the two larger ones. Fat and heavy with her imprint, they slithered back across the floor to the font to rise up once more, spiralling, slow at first, then faster, around the centre of the basin, forming into a double helix. Within its vortex, thousands of tiny cubes swarmed up from the silver liquid, moving back and forth, like a flock of birds, forming, taking shape, solidifying into a perfect copy of herself. The tentacles slowed their spin, and slithered back into the basin. The woman looked down at herself, then around, curious, biting her lip, self-conscious. She stepped out of the font's basin and walked down the steps, wearing a precise copy of Idira's old and faded dress from Logan. The echo lingered over Idira for a heartbeat, examining her, then with a soft smile, she dematerialised and sank into the floor.
Idira's thoughts careened to a halt. Her echo was not a perfect copy. The other woman's eyes had been a brilliant icy blue, not violet. Idira fled to the library, calling out to the books. They clustered around her, frightened, agitated, sensing the subtle change in the fortress, the arrival of another, concealed within its foundations, and the font's malevolent energy, fed for the first time in tens of thousands of years, rippling outwards, disrupting the magical balance.
"Bring me everything you have on the font and the Nether," she cried out, urgent. "Leave nothing behind. Hurry, before it is too late."
Late that evening, Idira closed the last book and rubbed her eyes. Now she understood what The Echo had meant when he said they needed to use the font and not her Light to create her echo; what he meant about potentialities, second chances. There are other variables that would have to come into play, he'd said, but this way, they are at least possible. It would be up to Khadgar to decide if he wishes to avail himself of them or not .
She scoffed, Khadgar would never avail of said option. Never. To merge her soul with her echo, Khadgar would have to sacrifice a living person to the font, which would kill them, just as it had done to The Echo, taking their soul in exchange for pulling hers back from the Nether. She shuddered, forcing the thought from her mind. Trailing her fingers over the book's silver clasps, she went over what she now knew about the Nether: unless a soul was protected by incomprehensible powers—that of a Titan or a Creator—a soul did not last long, days at most, before it lost all awareness and was broken down, returned to the energy of the Nether. Then came the long wait to be reborn, perhaps on the same world they'd left, perhaps in another universe in an entirely different reality, but always without any memory of the lives they had previously lived. She had come to realise The Echo's situation in the Nether had been quite singular; a terrifying, brutal punishment. He must have known there were no others like him, suffering an eternal imprisonment, ready and willing to be extinguished so someone they had never heard of could have a second chance. And that was why he didn't want to create her echo from the Light. The font accepted victims, the Light only accepted volunteers. But who would volunteer for her? No one. The Echo had shown his true nature, his coldness, his detachment, his lack of humanity. Perhaps he might be capable of such a heinous thing, but not Khadgar.
She leaned back in the chair, trying to look at the situation in a positive light. The Echo had found peace and left a near-perfect echo of herself for Khadgar, which was as much of an insurance against his despair as she could hope for. If her echo was as complete as Khadgar's echo had been, her echo's presence might comfort him just enough to keep him from the end The Echo had predicted. She shivered, not from cold, but from dread, fearing it might not be enough, watching as the books lifted away from the table, returning to their places, quiet, subdued. They knew the truth, they knew she was going to leave, she could sense their sadness as they'd clustered around her, forlorn, butting up against her hand, seeking her touch against their spines, covers and pages.
She conjured a cup of wine and sipped. One night. She had one night left before her destiny would be fulfilled and Khadgar would be left alone to face his loss. She heard the sound of a teleport opening at the far end of the library. She closed her eyes, enduring the brutal ache of grief in her heart at the sound of his footsteps approaching, steady and purposeful, his scent preceding him, suffusing her with longing. She bit her lip, fighting back the tears threatening to fill her eyes. No. She would not ruin their last night. Tonight she would hide her pain, and be his companion, lover, friend. Tomorrow she could grieve. But tonight, there would only be these last moments, ones she would not mar with mourning.
He neared. From behind, the rustle of a paper bag being set on the table. His hand on her jaw. His lips touching hers. His smile, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling. He turned and opened the paper bag, presenting her with her favourite, smoked whitefish salmon and wild mustard on rye. He took out his own sandwich, then reached in to pull out a small white cardboard box, tied with gold ribbon, bearing the gold-gilt logo of the luxury bakery Dalurée. She leaned forward, curious. He slid the box behind him as he pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the table, hiding it from her sight.
"For later," he whispered, giving her a quiet look of affection. He looked tired as he leaned over and kissed her brow. "I have been worried about you today," he said, conjuring a glass decanter half-filled with ruby-red wine, followed by two crystal goblets. "Are you feeling any better?" he asked, waiting for her answer, eyeing her. Unable to trust her voice, she nodded, watching as he turned to pour a little wine into her goblet.
She took it from him and tasted it, her eyebrows lifting, impressed. It was the most complex, full-bodied red she had ever tried; new, exotic flavours rolled over her tongue, shifting, changing, melding. She glanced up at him, curious, as she held out her glass for more.
"From the time of Suramar's height, before its corruption," he said as he poured, leaning his elbow on his thigh as he bent toward her, "an adventurer found a cache of bottles stashed away deep in the ruins of Falanaar. Utterly undrinkable, but several of the rebel Nightborne vintners were able to piece together the genus of the grape, a magic-imbued one, long extinct. They were so excited by the find I asked one of the stewards in the Council's wine cellar to commission an admirable reconstruction." He sipped. "Hm. Quite extraordinary," he said, smacking his lips appreciatively, "to taste a vintage ten thousand years old, what an indulgence." He held up the glass and swirled the liquid, watching it catch the sparks of the tower's arcane blooms in its peaks and troughs. He turned to his wrapped sandwich. "What have you been up to today?" he asked as he bit into his braised-steak baguette, glistening lengths of caramelised onions bulging, golden, out its sides.
"Just catching up on what I haven't read," Idira answered, vague, turning her attention to her sandwich, avoiding his gaze.
"Hmm," Khadgar answered, eyeing the books, hugging themselves together on the shelves, as though seeking comfort from each other. "It's very quiet in here tonight. Almost funereal. Has something happened today?"
"Ah," Idira glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the corridor. "It's been like this all day. It might have something to do with what happened while we were in the font this morning. The books have been a little skittish since then."
Khadgar nodded, following her gaze, taking a sip of his wine. "Could be. I'll double check the wards, I admit I wasn't thinking straight when I closed up the room."
"Ah," Idira stammered, her cheeks warming, "about that, I think you will find them in a bit of a mess, I added quite a few more wards of my own."
"It's alright," Khadgar said, gentle. "I can understand your uneasiness. I'll take a look later."
From the corner of her eye, Idira watched Khadgar as he ate, tucking into the fat baguette, the bottom half still wrapped in its paper; he took big bites, utterly unselfconscious, wiping crumbs away from his mouth with the back of his hand as he stared down at the floor deep in thought, a line of worry furrowing into his brow. He glanced up at her so abruptly she started in surprise.
"I apologise," he said, sweeping baguette crumbs from his lap. "There is much on my mind tonight. Unfortunately, a multitude of last minute changes had to be made to the plans for tomorrow's assault."
Idira hurried to swallow her bite. "Assault?" she asked, surprised. "I thought there was only going to be a small party."
"Yes," Khadgar nodded, peeling back the paper surrounding the bottom of the baguette. "But we needed to create a diversion, to give us the best possible advantage."
"Oh?" Idira asked, impressed. "So who is standing with you, the Horde or the Alliance?"
"Both," Khadgar answered around a fat mouthful of steak and onion. He flashed up his index finger, acknowledging her surprise, indicating he had more to say. He swallowed. "Once the Lady Tyrande was taken, King Anduin and the Warchief Sylvanas came to see the advantage of working together. Of course, finding out Gul'dan is close to completing the transformation of the Betrayer into Sargeras's avatar has helped to give the factions' leaders some much needed perspective."
"I'll bet," Idira muttered, thinking of the petty fights she had witnessed in the mess hall the morning after the Battle for the Broken Shore. She poked at a stray piece of the smoked salmon, pushing it back in between the slices of rye. "That's the second time you have mentioned the Lady Tyrande's abduction. I admit I am curious as to what happened to her."
A look of discomfort slashed across Khadgar's face. "Yes, that," he said, shaking his head, resigned. "A nasty, nasty business. Poor woman. I fear Malfurion is near to losing his senses over this."
Idira blinked, taken aback by his words, her mind irresistibly drawn to making an unpleasant comparison. She hoped her thoughts were not showing on her face. Khadgar however, appeared to be oblivious to her turmoil. He finished his sandwich and picked up his wine. "It's a long story," he said, eyeing her. "Are you certain you want to hear it?"
Idira nodded. "I do," she answered, thinking of the future she had seen, of the ruined body of Tyrande, turned into the avatar of the Titan Sargeras instead of the Betrayer as everyone seemed to expect. A part of her had begun to nurture a wild hope she had only seen one possible outcome—the worst one—her true destiny distorted by both the font and the inherent evil saturating the Tomb of Sargeras.
"Very well," Khadgar said, conjuring a chair. He sat down facing her, his knees touching hers, his sudden contact intimate in its thoughtlessness; his fingers working at the buckles of the leather straps on his shoulder collar. He shrugged it off and dropped it onto the floor, the collar's heavy weight hitting the stone flags with a dull thud.
Idira glanced down at his collar, lying in a heap, one of his habits, this undressing and letting things fall where they may, unexpected in a man who had to maintain so much control over almost everything else. She wondered what other habits he had, then suffered a paralysing stab of regret, since she would never have the chance to find out.
He leaned back, cradling the wine in his hand as he rolled his shoulders, easing the tension in them, distracting her from her thoughts as he strained the material of his tunic in a most pleasant way.
"Thirteen days ago," he said, taking a sip of his wine, "Tyrande came to me, riding her sabre cat right into the Council's Chambers." He chuckled. "That didn't annoy Modera at all. She must have ranted about Tyrande's disrespect for at least an hour after that." He sipped at his wine again, making a quiet sound of appreciation. "Anyway," he said, his expression turning serious, "Tyrande had come to tell me she had learned that Illidan the Betrayer was not as dead as we had all believed, his soul still remained fully conscious in the Nether but was being torn away from him piece by piece via a portal into the Chamber of the Eye, where Gul'dan was corrupting it and returning it to the body of the Betrayer, in readiness for the Titan's use."
Idira took a sip of wine as she digested Khadgar's words, glad all of a sudden to have spent so much time reading about the Nether. "But Illidan has been dead for a long time," she said, tilting her glass in her hand, watching the wine slide, smooth along the inside of the crystal glass. "Surely his soul would have been broken down by now. What if it was a trick, a lie of Gul'dan's to catch Tyrande instead?"
"I suspected the same, but unfortunately it was no lie. Malfurion was able to see into the Chamber of the Eye when Tyrande was abducted. Illidan's body was there, being transformed right before Malfurion's eyes." Khadgar rubbed his hand over his thigh, making the nap of his leather breeches move back and forth. "Before Karazhan was lost, I read a book—I regret I was not able to save it—but I recall reading that those who commit the greatest crimes will remain intact and conscious, forced to live with the memory of what they have done until they have atoned for their wrongs. It is rare, very rare, but I am guessing in Illidan's case, it might explain his continued existence in the Nether after such a long interval of time."
"How terribly convenient for Gul'dan," Idira said with a quiet scoff.
"Indeed," Khadgar nodded, then continued, "but Tyrande did not only come to me to tell me of this disturbing news, she also wanted me to arrange for her to speak with another—the last Na'aru, Xe'ra, whom she believed would know of a way into the Nether while one is still alive—her intention to join Illidan in spirit form so she might use the Light of Elune to protect him, or at least try to slow down Gul'dan's predations."
"I take it she found a way in," Idira said, dry. "Hence Gul'dan's sudden interest in her."
"She did," Khadgar sighed and looked down into his wine. "Not long after, Gul'dan took her unconscious body from the Barrow Dens in Moonglade, right out from under Malfurion's nose through a portal into the Chamber of the Eye. Soon after learning of these developments I used the font and went to The Tomb of Sargeras, first of all to find a way in—the tunnel, where you read the wards—and then to see for myself what was transpiring within the Chamber itself. Tyrande was there, held in the grip of the Betrayer by the nascent power of the avatar, for what purpose I cannot imagine, but it looked for all the world like the thing was worshipping her, intending her for his consort." He stopped and shook his head, his expression darkening. "But what Gul'dan was doing to feed the tethers needed to pull the pieces of Illidan's soul from the Nether . . . horrible things. Horrifying. I still have nightmares. Little Nightborne children, stolen from Suramar, still holding their stuffed murloc toys, grimy with filth; clutching them against their little chests, their eyes wide with terror as that monster robbed them of their souls. Their screams . . . " He brushed his knuckle against the corner of his eye and took a self-conscious sip of wine. "And I could do nothing but watch." Blinking back her own tears, Idira reached out and pressed her hand against his knee, his own coming to cover hers, squeezing it.
He took another quick gulp of wine and cleared his throat. "Not long after I returned from the font, you turned up, and here we are."
"Here we are," Idira repeated back, soft, her heart aching, sensing his conflict: wanting to make things right, yet being forced to wait while innocent children succumbed to total annihilation. "It will be over soon my love," she said, knowing the bitter truth. "Gul'dan will be stopped. You will not fail."
Khadgar set his glass onto the table, pinching the goblet's stem between his thumb and forefinger. He turned the glass round and round, the wine's dregs sloshing up the sides as he retreated once more into his thoughts. "I hope so," he murmured. "With all my heart, I hope so."
Idira let him brood for awhile, falling inevitably into her own troubled musings. After a time, Khadgar roused, and poured them both more wine. They drank, quiet, their eyes meeting now and again, touching, then parting, to return their thoughts.
"Ah I am bad company this night," he sighed as he swallowed the last of his wine. He set aside his empty glass and reached for the white box, pulling it across the table. He held it out to her.
"For you," he said, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Intrigued, she pulled apart the golden ribbon and lifted open the lid. Inside, perched on a thick piece of golden card, a tall, circular chocolate confection awaited, its top slick with hardened icing, a tiny golden physalis perched on top, its papery pod artfully opened.
"It's called a chocolate fondant," he said, taking the box back from her and conjuring a dainty porcelain plate and silver spoon. Lifting the cake out of the box by the card, he set it on the plate and handed it back to her. "Try it."
She didn't need any encouragement, her mouth watering, she broke her spoon through the cake's icing, pushing through the confection's silky softness, crying out with delight when she discovered a puddle of liquid chocolate in its centre.
She held up her spoon, laden with chocolate cake, icing and sauce, offering him the first taste. He shook his head.
"No, you have a lot of chocolate to eat to catch up to me," he said, the corner of his lip quirking into a half-smile when she couldn't hide her relief at his refusal. "Enjoy it. It's more fun for me to watch, anyway."
She ate the cake, lost in bliss, its chocolate even better than the croissants'. It was all over too quickly. Khadgar took away her plate and kissed her, gentle, tasting the chocolate lingering on her lips before pulling back to conjure his incredible coffee. As she sipped, savouring the moment, he leaned forward and took her hand.
"When we have finished with our task tomorrow," he said, twining his fingers together with hers, "I would like to bring you back to Dalaran with me, to live in my residence. Or, if you'd rather," he hastened to add, looking a little sheepish when she started, misunderstanding her reaction, "we can find you an accommodation of your own. Whatever you prefer."
Stricken anew by is ill-timed request, she visualised all the things she would never have: mornings together waking tangled in his arms, late nights spent drinking wine and talking, him dropping his clothing into heaps as he undressed. The love they would never make, the kisses they would never share, the balcony she would never stand on with him again, the journeys they would never take, the enemies they would never face, the trials they would never endure, the arguments they would never have. The path neither of them would ever know.
"Idira?" he broached, quiet, his brow creasing with worry.
"Yes," she cried out, abrupt, throwing herself into his arms, clinging to him, sobbing, riven with sorrow and regret, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, soaking the expensive woollen material with her tears, feeling his embrace tightening around her as he lifted her up and took her to the bedroom.
"I will make you happy," he promised, fierce, as he kicked the door open to the bedroom and shouldered his way inside, cradling her against him. "I swear it." He settled her on the bed, his eyes raking over her, unveiled, exposing his heart to her, vulnerable, letting her realise the depth of his love. "Finally," he breathed, "Azeroth has granted me my heart's desire."
She cried out at that, anguished, though in the heat of his own blinkered joy, he misunderstood her reaction. Kissing her tears away, he promised she would never suffer again, would never again be outcast, alone, alienated; driving spears of sorrow into her heart with each whispered vow, grieving at his belief in a future she knew they would never have, leaving her languishing alone in her torment as he loved her, whispering words so tender, she wept anew.
Much later, he slept, holding her against him, his warmth staving off the worst of her cold. She watched him sleep, memorising the planes of his cheeks, the cut of his jaw, the furrows in his brow, the reckless fall of his silver hair; wiping away her tears before they fell against his chest; her heart bruised and sore, cursing the day she was born.
The hours dwindled. Soon it would be morning. Her last day. Soon she would die, so others could live. It had been her fate, it had always been her fate, there would be no fairytale ending for her.
Despite her fighting it, her body succumbed to its fatigue and she slept. She dreamed of nothing, until a voice came to her from within the unutterable depths of her inner darkness; clarion and clear, reeking of eternity.
Daughter, you are not forsaken. You are not alone. There is another. They are waiting.
Idira woke with start, hurtling back to consciousness as though struck by an internal blow. The cryptic words made no sense. Who was waiting? Logan? Was Logan who she was meant to be with after all? Was she and he to be reborn soon after, given another chance? She shook her head, a fresh wave of grief assailing her. She didn't want to be with Logan, she wanted to be here, now, with Khadgar. Within the tangle of blankets, she turned, emptiness consuming her, longing to feel Khadgar's arms around her, but his side of the bed was abandoned, his pile of clothes collected; in front of the marble fireplace the glow of his teleport glimmered, faint. She was too late, he was already gone.
On the bedside table, evidence of his recent presence: a bouquet of wildflowers, another box from Dalurée, half-opened for her, exposing an artful selection of chocolate truffles nestled on a bed of golden tissue, a mug of coffee, long cold.
Naked, she got up and looked at her old dress from Logan hanging over the folding screen. No, she didn't want to wear that dress anymore. A plain black dress materialised over her body instead. She went to the door and looked back at Khadgar's parting gift, her throat tight, she turned away and went to the library, leaving the coffee and chocolates behind.