Chapter 4

You speak in riddles. Is that part of your routine?

Sometimes. I sing and dance, play instruments. From time to time, other things.

Where can I see you entertain?

Unless you have an invitation, you cannot. It is not often I perform for the general public. I am sorry.

Well, let me know when you do. Or can I get a private performance?

He had been passing by every day, just as he had before he'd found the notes. It had been some time, and the elf, whoever she may be, continued to reply to him – one note a day. Yesterday it had been an answer to his question.

You could not afford me.

Iskander had laughed, throwing back his head, a deep, unrestrained and joyous sound. Then he had stood by the stone bench, and hastily scribbled his reply.

You're probably right.

Today, it was late afternoon by the time the priest trotted down the road, on his way to the town of Southshore. His mind was still on the notes, wondering for the first time about the morality of it all. He was a devout servant of the Light, and he doubted very much that his Sin'dorei correspondent would have been thrilled to hear it. He hadn't lied, exactly... just written in orcish and neglected to mention that he happened to be human. It bothered him that he hadn't seen a problem in this until he had begun to think of meeting her.

Such a thing was of course impossible. He didn't know what this particular elf was like, but he had heard and read that the Sin'dorei were cold and ruthless, cruel and talented. And they hated humans. He didn't even know why he was considering it.

Iskander dragged his reluctant horse close to the Undercity and quickly stopped to check the old stone bench. He took from his pocket something he had picked up from the ground the previous day. A pretty shell, curved and white, the underside shining in many opalescent colors. He had been puzzled about how it came to be in the road, out of its element yet still undamaged, and kept it for this purpose. Now he held it in his hand as he pried apart the two loose stones.

I have strange news! I am to perform in a public audience with Lady Sylvanas, tomorrow, mid night. Your lucky day I suppose!

His heart skipped a beat. How strangely coincidental. But then... Impossible! There was no way he could think of for him to get into the Undercity. Yet he did not want to disappoint - or let her think he wasn't interested. He grabbed his charcoal, putting it to his mouth for a moment, leaving a dark smudge there.

Scrawling a reply and folding it now around the small gift, he pushed it quickly back between the stones.

I am not sure if I can make it, but I will try to be there.

An understatement, for Iskander was sure that if he tried to enter the city he would finish the day at the end of a guard's sword. Yet he was equally certain that he would try nonetheless. Hastily stuffing charcoal into his pocket he took a kind of running jump onto his horse's back. The startled and highly unimpressed beast snorted and jerked her head up, and Iskander laughed aloud as he urged her into a fast trot.

The priest had spent most of his life in Stormwind. Even as a child he had known he would be a priest. By the time he was sixteen he had been initiated into the church as an apprentice. He'd had very little experience of the outside world, and was satisfied until even the priests had encouraged him to stretch his wings. In these days one had to know how to fight - so fight he had.

Quite proficient in combat and the healing arts by his twenty-eighth year, Iskander was as sure of himself as any young man. But when relating to other people, he was completely hopeless. Always assuming the best in everyone, trusting, cheerful... and endlessly naïve. That naïve part of him still liked to hope that this mystery elf was different – or that he had had been mistaken about the Sin'dorei altogether.

Iskander stood, leaning against the bookshelves, ankles crossed and trying to look casual.

Brother Jeffries - the old scholar - paused, quill to his lips. His voice was shaky and hesitant. "Aside from such items as an Orb of Deception... which are quite rare and expensive.."

"Yes, yes... anything more?" Iskander said, rubbing his chin and rolling his eyes impatiently.

"Well... alchemists are quite talented these days. I have heard a few claim to have achieved an elixir of invisibility. What you seek may be possible." Jeffries paused, and looked askance at the younger priest. "I can't think of anything else, my boy. You... you are not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you?"

"Oh me?" Iskander laughed, throwing his head back. "Brother, you know me better than that!"

The rest of the day was spent searching for anything that could aid him. Finally he found elixirs of invisibility and an admittedly dubious "experimental" potion that was supposed to distort the perception of the viewer. Iskander had spent most of his meager coin on the items.

He needn't have worried about getting in – at least not on this particular night. There were many elves standing around, and entering through the gates, when Iskander arrived. The Forsaken guards barely looked at him, seeing a ragged Forsaken man, and the elves steered well clear, seeing a strange and disheveled Sin'dorei.

He tried to stay with the general flow of the visitors, as it belatedly occurred to him that he had no idea where he was going. Nice job, Iskander, wander into an enemy city with no plan, he mentally kicked himself. As it turned out, there wasn't far to go – the guests milled around just inside where the old stone throne sat. He couldn't help but scan the crowd, wondering if Zahira was among them.

"I and my sisters are easily recognizable," she had once written, "for one – by our bare feet." So he kept his eyes directed downward, but none of these elaborately dressed elves matched that requirement.

The dimly lit hall was soon filled with guests, and they began to fill the outer area as well. A great many elves and forsaken, and the occasional orc or troll. Iskander almost trembled when he brushed up against a towering tauren – closer than he had ever seen before.

Music was played, and afterwards, dancers appeared. Immediately, Iskander knew what Zahira had meant by easily recognizable. The Sin'dorei women were dressed identically – blood-red skirts, so much golden jewelery that they clinked as they walked, and bare feet. When they danced, Iskander saw that the soles of those feet were painted or tattooed with some kind of floral pattern. While their costumes were similar, the ladies themselves were as different as night and day. Dark and light-haired, pale and tanned, blonde and red, lithe and curved... Iskander gulped, a strange tightness in his throat.

He mashed himself up against the back wall, feeling conspicuous and out of place. Drawing his dark cloak around his body, and the hood over his face, he scanned the dancers, wondering. How was he to know which one was she?

After they were finished, the women passed through the crowd, pouring wine. Iskander blushed and stared at the ground as one of them smiled at him and passed him a glass. He had partaken of alcohol only on a couple of occasions, but he did now, since it had been offered to him by such a lovely being.

Then a song - clear and strong Thalassian words. Iskander could not understand, but the voice was amazing to his ears. He looked for the singer, and saw her in the corner, attended by a male and female elf, each in shining red armor and armed with long polearms. Her face was lovely – as most of the Sin'dorei women were. She had long waves of smoky hair and those bright, almost glowing green eyes. He wondered if this were Zahira.

The song did not last long enough for Iskander's taste, and he saw the elven woman grow still. Guests turned their attention back to each other, chattering in their various languages, and began milling around again. As the crowd before him parted, Iskander managed to get an uninterrupted view of the singer. Now she stood on tiptoe – and scanned the room, looking for something.

Iskander backed against the wall again, suddenly afraid. If the singer were indeed Zahira, he couldn't let her see him. While part of him wanted to speak with her, he had no idea if his "disguise" would hold up to close scrutiny. And if he were discovered here, he was sure he'd be torn apart by guards – not to mention the crowd. Instead, he found a corner where he was out of sight, and drank down one of his invisibility potions. Then he decided to make his escape, before his luck could run out.

Thanking the Light for his safe arrival back at his little house, Iskander curled into his warm bed. He blew out the candle and stared at the ceiling. In his eyes still swam visions of elven females, red and gold, with green eyes. He knew he had seen her, knew somehow in his heard that she had been the singer with the magnificent voice. It still echoed in his ears.

Conflicting emotions wracked his mind. He barely knew the woman – didn't know her. But he did know that he had crossed a line tonight, and that he couldn't go back. Something had grabbed him and he felt he was being pulled under some invisible wave. What had she done to him? Was she some kind of siren, whos song had put him under some spell?

Tossing and turning, the priest tried to sleep, tried to get the images out of his mind. He was at a loss. The one thing he was certain of, was that he had to speak with her.