CHAPTER 16
Wynn was right, though Idira was too new to the politics of the Academy to appreciate the implications of the changes, there was no doubt the shocking development within the Council had spread through the Academy like wildfire, fuelling gossip and speculation. Jaina has abandoned the Kirin Tor. Vol'jin betrayed the Alliance and left Varian to die. Khadgar's the new Leader. Members of the Horde allowed to remain in Dalaran.
At breakfast, Idira learned not only had the Alliance lost their King in the battle, but Vol'jin, the Warchief of the Horde, who had reminded her so much of Unambi, had succumbed to his own grievous injuries soon after he named his successor, Sylvanas, the Queen of the Forsaken.
Across the mess hall no one ate. Instead, the space seethed in a susurration of whispers and murmurs as little clusters of various races gathered around the tables, their voices rising as they argued, the groups breaking apart and reforming into new ones, reminding Idira of bubbles in a pot of boiling water.
Throughout the room, accusing looks flew back and forth as friendships ended and backs were turned. The students milled together, split, reassembled, and split again, taking new sides, forging new allegiances, the division between the races of the Horde and the Alliance becoming more and more striking as the minutes ticked by. It seemed Jaina's version of the story had been seized upon by the apprentices and trainees of the Academy with something akin to religious zeal, making rumours and lies the new currency in trade. Idira kept her eyes on her bowl of porridge and said nothing, realising she might be the only person in the room who had seen the Battle first-hand, and who knew the ugly truth: they were all going to die if they didn't put aside their prejudices and fight the true enemy as one.
A fight broke out near the front of the mess hall. The tutors dining at the top table watched the outburst, their eyes cold, as though enjoying the sight, doing nothing to stop the fight, spectators at a gladiator ring. In the narrow space between the student's tables and the head table, a male night elf and an orc tussled, dragging and pulling at each others' robes, their blows glancing and weak. The orc shoved the night elf away, his chest heaving from exertion.
"I thought you were my friend!" he spat, his eyes glowing with contained magic. "You would believe these lies? We lost our leader, too!"
"Our King would still be alive if your people hadn't abandoned him!" the night elf shot back, rubbing his wrist, sulky. "But your people ran away, like cowards. You talk of strength and honour, but in truth, you have none!"
At that, the orc roared and rushed at the night elf, barrelling into him, the force of his attack sending them both crashing into one of the tables, knocking several other students aside, the porcelain dishes smashing against the stone-flagged floor. The pair continued to tussle, though they were terrible at it, not really doing any real harm to the other, both of them looking ridiculous. If the situation hadn't felt so dire, Idira would have found the sight funny.
She leaned over to Wynn. "Isn't anyone going to do anything?" she asked in a low voice, glancing at the tutors watching the hapless fighters, some of them continuing to eat, bored.
"Probably not," Wynn shrugged. "As far as I can tell, the Alliance tutors pretty much have the same opinion, so maybe they like watching us fight about it, since they can't."
"But if Khadgar says we are to work together in the war against the demons, why aren't they supporting his order?" Idira asked, raising her voice to be heard over another crash, as the pair knocked over a bench and tumbled down onto the floor, crawling over each other, struggling to be the first to have the other in a choke hold, both of them failing and, at least in her opinion, utterly embarrassing themselves.
"As if!" Wynn snorted, rolling her eyes, "the Council is so far removed from us, they may as well be on another planet. The only one who takes any interest in the Academy is the Archmage Modera and that's only because Margot is her niece, and whatever Margot tells her is never questioned. It's been like that for years from what I hear."
"So Margot must have a lot of power at the Academy?" Idira hazarded, though she expected she already knew the answer.
"Huh, she is the power, and she's got money, so she's spoiled and powerful, and starting in a few minutes, she's going to be our tutor who happens to already hate us." The corners of Wynn's mouth turned down as she frowned. "I expect things are only going to get a lot worse from here on out, but at least we have each other, eh?"
The fight ended, abrupt. The orc stood up and spat on the floor beside his once-friend, who rolled on the floor, moaning, his arms wrapped around his torso. With a scoff, the orc walked away, jerking at his robes, straightening them as he joined the others milling on the opposite side of the room, all of them from the races of the Horde. Idira was glad he had won, since he was in the right, though when she looked around at the angry, bitter faces surrounding her, she suspected she was the only one on her 'side' who was.
After the morning's assembly and announcements were completed (nothing at all mentioned of the failed Battle or the deaths of Azeroth's leaders or the election of the new Leader of the Kirin Tor, or even of the morning's events in the mess hall; just useless information: a new round of croquet being added to the tournament in the Quadrangle if anyone new wished to join, please see Minty Lerue for fees and applications; until further notice, the laundry facilities were being renovated, so all laundry was being sent into the city, expect an extra day for the return of one's clothing; generous donations for the continued protection of the endangered mana kittens in the Dalaran Park being gratefully accepted in the vestibule of the library between 10am and 7pm all day).
In the vestibule outside the assembly hall, Idira and her eleven 'low-life' colleagues waited at the designated point for Margot to arrive, nervous and self-conscious, painfully aware of the hateful, disdainful looks being cast in their direction by those who 'belonged', those of the croquet-playing, mana-kitten-protecting elite. Idira wondered how much gold was considered a 'generous' donation here in la-la land, probably far more than she was prepared to imagine. As she waited, she prepared herself for the worst, expecting their classroom to be somewhere in the bowels of the Academy, dark, dank, and isolated from the rest of the campus; no daylight, spiders and cobwebs, gaping openings in the floor covered by rusting iron grills leading to even more nefarious, foul-smelling places.
In the midst of Idira's gloomy thoughts Margot swept up, in a different gown than she had been wearing at breakfast, a deep green one, the back bare and draped with—
"Are those diamonds?" Wynn breathed, as Margot's dress caught the light streaming in through the soaring windows, half-blinding Idira.
Her eyes watering, Idira nodded, watching Margot as she cast a spell, their tutor behaving as though she couldn't even see them. A portal opened. Hurrying after the others, Idira followed Wynn into the shimmering oval of light, bracing herself for the nasty shock on the other side, however within the blink of an eye, she found herself in a massive windowless cupula, her frame dwarfed by the spiralling reaches of one of the Academy's many towers. In the middle of the enormous space stood a table, in the shape of a half-moon. Trying not to gape quite as much as the others, she walked across a room so opulent she wondered if there had been a mistake, or if perhaps Margot intended a cruel joke. You could have all this, but instead—a wave of her hand and the dungeon-esque room Idira had expected would appear—you will have this.
Along with the other apprentices, Idira sank down into her seat at the table, a gilt name card set before each of their plush chairs, her fellow students' eyes roaming the book-clad walls up to the furthest reaches of the tower, where a jumble of arcane runes floated, pulsing with energy as they darted and dived following a complex dance only a trained mage could possibly comprehend.
Margot stood on the other side of the table, her slender arms crossed over her breast, waiting until they subsided. She looked down at her perfectly manicured fingernails, bored.
"I intend to teach you nothing," she said down to her nails, "your presence here is more than unwelcome, as by now you must be well aware. We at the Kirin Tor have far better things to trouble ourselves with than hand-holding the likes of you."
"Yeah, like playing croquet," one of the others muttered, a young fiery-haired man, sitting three seats away from Idira.
Margot shot him a look, her eyes flashing an icy blue. She murmured spell, so low Idira couldn't catch the words. The outspoken one cried out, his eyes widening as he scrabbled at his mouth, sealing over with a thick layer of ice. Idira shrank down in her chair, a surge of fear rocking through her, she was fairly certain the use of arcane was only meant for good, or for war, not for harming others, else why didn't the orc and night elf fight with magic? She glanced up at Margot, catching the satisfied smirk on her tutor's face, both dangerous and vindictive.
"Now," Margot continued, once more looking at her nails, "you have paid your fee and thus are entitled to have access to the Apprentices' Library—the room you now find yourselves so cravenly gawping at. Therefore if you have any talent at all, you will be able to learn the use of arcane for yourselves. As indicated in the Academy's rules: for apprentices to remain in their studies they must be able to cast a level one frostbolt, fire blast, frost nova, teleport, polymorph a colleague into a sheep and back again, and conjure refreshment within three months. If you cannot, as per the regulations you will be cast out and banned from ever being able to reapply to the Kirin Tor again. Understood?"
An uncertain nodding of heads.
She turned and swept away, placing herself as far from them as she could possibly go, taking a seat at an ornate desk tucked into an alcove. Her gaze raked over them, cold and filled with loathing. A wave of her hand and the ice melted from the red-haired man's mouth, leaving behind a bright red burn on his pale skin.
"By the blood of—" he spluttered, indignant. The girl next to him elbowed him in the arm, a warning look in her eye as Margot's glare intensified. He fell silent.
Wynn stood up, eyeing the ladders connected to railings running along the outer rim of the bookshelves; shelves which easily held tens of thousands of books. "Well, I guess we better get started," she murmured, uncertain. "Three months isn't much time to learn all that stuff, especially without any tutoring."
"Or books," one of the other girls, a dark-haired night elf muttered, her voice soft and lilting despite her acute bitterness. "She has given us an impossible task and well she knows it. Even if we work night and day it will take us years just to find the right books!"
As the others grumbled and dithered, overwhelmed by the odds against them, Idira sensed her Light awakening, just a trickle, like the beat of a butterfly's wings. A tug made her look up. High up, a fat tome stood out, outlined in a pale violet light. Keeping her eyes on the book, she went to the ladder nearest to it, pulling the ladder along its rollers until it was lined up with the glowing book. She fixed the brake, then began the long climb up.
"What's she doing?" she heard one of the others whisper.
"It's like she knows exactly which one she wants," another murmured, intrigued.
"She's just showing off," the red-haired man scoffed, derisive.
"Shut up!" Wynn, this time. "Let's just wait and see, eh?"
Idira ignored them as they bickered amongst themselves, keeping her eye on the book as she ascended the ladder, enjoying the whispering hush her new dress made as she lifted her legs. She hadn't felt the rustle of pristine linen in almost ten years, not since she had made the dress from the material Logan had given her. She reached the shelf and pulled out the book, struggling to keep it tucked under her arm as she descended the ladder, clumsy, hampered by the weight of the ponderous book.
She had no idea what book she had taken, but she trusted her Light. It wouldn't lead her astray. She set the book on the table, the others clustering around her, curious. She opened it, the lettering on the frontispiece making the others draw in their breaths, their soft gasps loud in the room's studied quiet. She read the words, written in beautiful script: The Arte of Conjuring Bolts of Frost: A Beginner's Guide Vol. 1.
She smiled at the others, pleased. "Found one," she said, and turned the page.
For the first two days of their studies in the Apprentices' Library, as the students puzzled through the complicated chapters of the book, Margot completely ignored them. But on the third day, when Wynn displayed a fluttering of arcane energy spreading through her hands as she concentrated on casting her first spell, Margot looked up from her book, sharp.
"What do you think you are doing?" she demanded, coming over to them, causing the nascent flickers of blue in Wynn's hands to dwindle away.
"I . . ." Wynn said, paling as Margot dragged the open book across the table and flipped the book closed, opening it again to its frontispiece. Her lips thinned as she read the title.
"Who found this?" she looked up at the group, her expression dangerous, full of accusation.
The red-haired male, now known to Idira as Asur pointed at her, ignoring Wynn's blistering glare. "She did," he said, adding, unnecessarily, in a sycophantic voice, "first book she picked out of the stacks."
"You turd," Wynn muttered.
"Arse kisser," someone else said, under their breath, though Idira wasn't sure who.
Margot turned, slow, and faced Idira. She drew herself up, reminding Idira of a Westfall viper preparing to strike.
"Let me guess," Margot sneered, contemptuous, "your demon-slaying Light helped you find it?"
Idira didn't say anything, suspecting Margot didn't care for her answer anyway. Her tutor continued, scathing, "From now on, your studies will be taken separately from the others. Since you seem to possess an unfair advantage, your time can be put to better use in the Academy Library. You will work there during the day, and may study here in the evenings, if there is someone around who will portal you in and out."
Margot turned away and began to cast a portal. Idira slid a look at Wynn, who was already opening her mouth to protest. Idira shook her head, warning her to stay out of it.
The portal blossomed open, spreading into a neat oval, the surface shimmering, a liquid film of bright blue, like a pool of water.
"In you go," Margot said, grabbing hold of Idira's arm and marching her towards it, rough. "When you get there, go to the Main Reception Desk and tell the Director on Duty I have sent you there for indefinite archival duty. They will know what to do with you."
At Margot's final words, Idira felt herself being thrust into the portal. She lost her balance and tumbled face first into it, landing on the other side on her hands and knees. The portal snapped shut behind her. She stood up and looked around, brushing off her dress, although there was no need, the floor was immaculate. From the sofas clustered into little groups along the vast reception hall, several students glanced up at her, curious, returning to their books and coffees when nothing else interesting happened. Along one face of the building, soaring windows rose up at least twice the height of the house in Moonbrook, allowing brilliant beams of sunlight to stream down onto an elegant interior garden, running the length of the marble-floored reception, in its leafy midst a large fountain burbled, the quiet cascade of its water calming and soothing.
On the opposite side of the garden, the entrance to the Library loomed, its silver-gilt gates standing open, a pair of guards positioned to either side. They eyed those passing by, hostile, vigilant and intimidating.
Just outside and to the left of the gates stood a low platform with a half dozen desks arranged in two neat rows. A barrier as high as Idira's waist wrapped around the platform. Behind the barrier, several Kirin Tor staff moved around, looking harried and stressed. On the wall at the back, a sign, gilt, as usual, in gold, read:
Dalaran Library of the Kirin Tor
Main Reception Desk.
All Visitors Must Sign In.
Soliciting Strictly Forbidden.
No Unaccompanied Goblins.
Thinking of Kuzzik, Idira smirked at the last restriction as she made her way along one of the paths through the garden, which she soon realised was comprised of crushed seashells. She eyed the numerous other paths, criss-crossing the garden all along the length of the enormous reception hall, trying to comprehend just how many seashells had been sacrificed to create the garden. She couldn't. The amount would have been stupefying.
She reached the desk. She had to wait a long time before one of the staff members finally glanced up from their work. A thin, ginger-haired man came over, harried, wiping his hands against the front of his robes.
"Yes?"
"I have been sent by the Lady Margot to speak to the Director on Duty?" she explained, hesitant.
The staffer raised his eyebrows at hearing Margot's name. "That'll be me today," he muttered, though he didn't sound too happy about it. "What's the message?"
"She says I have been sent for archival duty?" she answered, uncertain, hoping it wasn't going to turn out to be as bad as it sounded.
The Director nodded and turned away to pick up something. A plain, leather bound ledger landed on the counter between them. No gilt, no gold, completely ordinary. She stared at it, enjoying the sudden, unexpected uniqueness of it. He patted his robes, sighed, and waved his hand, impatient. A stylus appeared between his fingers. He opened the ledger and went through the usual questions, Idira's name, her dorm address, her tutor's name, date of registration, etc. Then: "And how long is your punishment for?"
"Punishment?" Idira asked, perplexed. "She said I would be working here since I was learning too fast."
"Learning too fast?" The Director asked, taken aback. He shook his head. "No, you must have misunderstood, no one is ever punished for advancing quickly, rather it is rewarded. And certainly none but the most offensive crimes are punished by archival duty. How long?" he asked again, impatient, waving away another staffer who approached him holding a bundle of papers in her hands, a questioning look in her eyes.
"Um. Indefinitely?" Idira answered, biting her lip, suddenly beginning to understand the gravity of her situation.
The Director looked up at her, astonished. "Really? In all my life I have never heard of that before."
Idira nodded, glum.
He glanced from side to side before leaning forward, curious. "I must know. What did you do?"
"I'm not sure," Idira answered, sincere, "but I think it's because I found a book out of the thousands in the stacks the first time I tried. The exact one we needed, I mean."
For a beat the Director stared at her, incredulous and obviously impressed. A flicker passed over his face, and his look melted into resentment. He pulled back, his expression hardening. "So you're one of those ones," he muttered as he wrote the length of her punishment in the ledger. "Should have suspected it sooner, with unnatural eyes like yours. You know it's not even supposed to be possible to be human and have eyes that colour. You're a . . . what's the word again? Oh yes, an anomaly." He slapped the book shut. "Never mind. We don't tolerate liars here in Dalaran, not for a minute. I can see why the good Lady Margot has come down hard on you."
"I'm not—" Idira protested, thinking Margot was anything but good, but the Director held up his hand, stopping her.
"Don't speak," he said, cold. "Just follow me. Let's get you settled in, shall we?"
She was told the Archives were right at the back end of the Library, accessed through a locked door and then down three flights of stairs. When the Director, whose name she discovered was Duncan, found out she hadn't even learned the most basic of spells—not even Blink, a basic teleportation spell—he grumbled to himself, complaining he would have to show her the way on foot, warning her they were going to be in for a long walk. He hadn't exaggerated. The library was vast. She had thought the library where she and her fellow apprentices were studying was enormous. No more. That library amounted to the size of a thimble compared to the interior of the tower soaring away above her, at least a hundred levels high, each level containing corridors radiating away like the spokes of a wheel, their hubs a circular balcony overlooking the Library's great tree-lined court at the base of the tower. She tilted her head back, losing her balance as she gazed up into the tower's impossible heights, the perspective diminishing with distance.
"How many books are there here?" she asked, breathless, thinking perhaps her punishment wasn't so bad after all.
"Somewhere in the vicinity of half a billion," Duncan shrugged. "Well, at the last count, at least." He sighed. "The trouble is some of them, ahem, multiply, which isn't always a good thing. We have a special room for those books, when we can catch them. We painted it red and call it the red room. After a week in there they never misbehave again."
"Half a billion!?" Idira gasped, euphoric. "So many books, and all in one place. It's like a dream. Wait. A red room? What? Like the colour of blood?" She shuddered, horrified by the thought.
Duncan nodded as he fished in his robe for the key to open the door at the back of the Library. "Interesting story," he said as he led the way down the stairs inside; wide, marble, plush blue carpet running down the centre of them. "One time a very strange book came through one of the inter-dimensional portals. I remember it took quite a long time to translate the thing only to find out it was really rather awful, extremely badly written, and no magic in it at all. We thought since it was so terribly bad at being a book, we would name the punishment room after the room they were so fascinated about in the book. We put up a bookshelf in the room and chained our misbehaving books on the same bookshelf as book, something about the colour grey as I recall."
They arrived at the bottom of the stairs. The space opened out to a large room. Desks and chairs stood stacked against one of the walls and a very plain, unassuming door waited for them at the far end. He went to the door and unlocked it, continuing, "Though no one really understands the principles behind it, after a week on the same shelf as that book our books are more than willing to do as they're told and never act up again. Seems they never want to go near it or that room again. Quite a useful book, after all, even if it reads like it was written by a teenaged goblin in heat."
He opened the door. Idira followed him into a low-ceilinged, wide corridor, the walls and ceilings painted white. The corridor curved away into the distance, presumably following the contour of the Library's foundation. A lone, bare desk stood in front of ten identical rows of metal racks, their shelves filled with labelled boxes. The racks stretched away down the corridor like long, endless fingers.
"So here we are," Duncan said, rubbing his hands together, "and just in time, too. The last offender finished their duties last week, so we were in need of a replacement." He handed her the key ring with the two keys. "You'll be needing these, since you can't portal. I hope you own something sturdier than those flimsy slippers because you are going to be doing a lot of walking from now on."
He turned to leave. Idira caught his sleeve. "Wait! What do I do? What time am I to be here, things like that?"
"Oh, yes," Duncan nodded. He glanced at the racks, clearly impatient to leave. "Well, you will receive requests to find documents. You collect them up and take them to whomever the request came from. That's all really. Sometimes the request will also ask for books, too. You get those from the Library stacks, but you need to come to the front desk and show us the request so someone can fetch them since you aren't allowed into the stacks."
Idira looked around the space, shivering a little in the oppressive space. She would be completely alone. "How do—"
"The requests arrive?" he asked, finishing her question for her as he began to cast a portal to return to the Main Reception. "They arrive on your desk, through very small portals. Oh and the hours. 7am to 7pm. Don't be late. Lunch is between 11am and 1pm, the cafeteria is in the reception hall. I'll leave a badge for you to collect at the Reception Desk so you don't have to pay. Staff perk. And don't read anything from the racks, it's forbidden for apprentices."
Idira opened her mouth to ask him where the facilities were but he had already stepped into his portal, and was gone. She turned and looked at the racks. The corridor yawned away. She glanced at the desk. No. She wasn't going to sit with her back to all that space. She didn't even know how long the corridor was. It was possible it encircled the entire foundation, ending on the other side of the stairs outside the door. She hoped not, if she had to fetch something from that distance, it would be a terribly long walk.
Grabbing hold of the edge of the desk, she turned it round, its claw-shaped feet scraping, loud against the stone-flagged floor, setting her teeth on edge. She pulled the chair around after her and sat down, facing the racks. Better. She'd rather have the door to her back than all that uncharted space. She folded her hands on the desk, thinking about her new situation, wondering if she could bring books from the Apprentices' Library down here with her to study while she worked.
A shimmering, the size of a lunch plate, appeared under her hands on the surface of the desk. She snatched her hands away, startled. As quick as it came, it vanished, leaving behind a piece of parchment, containing a list of documents written out and where to deliver them. She stared at the letters and numbers following the documents, realising she had no idea how the organisation system of the archives worked. She picked up the parchment, crisp, expensive, the ink still wet, and perused the fascinating list:
A Treatise on the Containment of Fel. by Kel'thuzad DLA451.887,01-K
A Brief History of Azeroth, the First Years. by Brann Bronzebeard LS78620. FF5-89
An Essay on the Wars of the Titans, What Went Wrong. by Evelyna DLA674.902,73-E
The titles went on, a dozen of them, she skimmed through them until:
Yr Three Final Paper, Free Choice Subject:
Arcane Mastery in the Bedroom, the Fine Line Between Pleasure and Pain and How to Maintain it. by J. Proudmoore DLA334.621,77-P
Suppressing a smile at the previous Leader of the Kirin Tor's choice of subject, Idira moved through the racks, working through the complex organisation system. After a few minutes, she realised it wasn't going to be as difficult to decipher as she had expected, in fact, the system turned out to be quite elegant. DLA meant Dalaran Archive, while LS stood for Library Stacks, the next trick she discovered was to read the code from the back to the front. Once she found the rack with the correct first letter (after the dash), she then took the number after the full stop, then the last three digit number.
She found all the documents must faster than she expected with the added bonus of there being teleportation pads at the start of each letter. After several confusing teleports she realised she needed to face the direction she wished to go before she stood on the pad. Easy, and if she was totally honest, the teleports were quite a lot of fun. Just for the sheer pleasure of it, she decided to take the teleports all the way to the end. At the letter M she discovered a magical broom sweeping the floor. She dropped her files, utterly astonished, startling the poor thing, sending it scuttling away, frightened. When Idira didn't do anything more, the broom returned to its work, cautious. Idira watched it for several minutes, fascinated, before carrying on, wondering what other wonders she might discover. (Unfortunately, only more brooms).
As she made her return trip through the archive portals, her arms filling up with neatly bound documents, she decided her punishment could have been much worse. Even though she knew she shouldn't, she took a quick peek at Jaina's paper while she walked up the stairs from the archive hall, curiosity driving her mad, but it made no sense at all, it was nothing but formulas, pages and pages of it. Nothing like she'd hoped to read. She sighed and turned the key in the lock and went out into the Library to start the long walk back to the reception desk, and onwards out into the parks, halls, corridors and offices of the vast Academy of Dalaran, strangely happy, though she really couldn't have said why.
Idira's feet hurt. She slid her shoes off and rubbed her aching soles against the soft, thick carpet. It helped, a little at least. Despite clinging to his belief that she was probably a liar, Duncan had warmed to her. After several days of enduring her pleading, he had finally relented and started casting portals for her to the Apprentices' Library once her day at the archives ended.
"Learn to make teleports," he said, just like he did every time he cast the portal for her.
"I would if only I could find the book," Idira smiled back, just like she did every time she departed. But it was true. She couldn't find the book, despite her Light having helped her discover every one of the other books.
With a quiet sigh, she finished the last of her sandwich and folded away the wrapper, still feeling hungry. Over the course of the past two and half months, since she had been banished to the archives and more or less isolated from the rest of her peers—only seeing them occasionally as she left the mess hall, having only had just enough time to bolt down a bowl of porridge between the mess hall opening and the time she needed to leave for work—she'd lived off takeaways from the Bagel Brothers and the free lunches at the Library Cafeteria. It had become her habit to spend her lunch break running across Dalaran to buy her dinner from the busy sandwich shop, hoarding the precious parcel until the evening so she could eat while she studied in the Apprentices' Library.
The sandwich wrapper safely tucked in her pouch, she reached down and rubbed her feet while trying to take in the contents of the elaborately illustrated book in front of her, demonstrating in six simple steps the art of polymorphing someone into a sheep, rendering them harmless for a limited period of time. As she read, Idira massaged a stubborn knot on the inside of her arch, wishing for the hundredth time she could polymorph Margot forever. A part of her suspected the woman had removed the book on teleportation so Idira could never have the advantage of it while running all over the Academy delivering documents. Or perhaps, Margot had done it because she suspected Idira had told Wynn where the books they needed were hidden so her fellow apprentices couldn't progress their own educations.
It had been a tricky arrangement at first, but it seemed to be working, Wynn made sure the right book lay hidden in amongst a clutter of wrong ones spread across the table, each of them surreptitiously studying it one at a time, making notes so they could practice what they'd learned back in their dorm rooms. Never again had any of them made the mistake of showing their progress in front of Margot. Failures, on the other hand, they made sure she saw plenty. Even Asur had kept his attitude in check, which considering how insufferable the arrogant know-it-all was to live with was perhaps the greatest accomplishment of all.
With the exception of Asur, Idira did miss the company of her peers. Apart from a quick hello at breakfast, she rarely saw them anymore, her lonely work in the archives and her studies in the evenings consuming all of her time and energy. Although last night when she had returned, drooping, to her bed, Wynn had been waiting up, excited to show Idira her mastery of the conjuring of refreshment, which was good because Idira was starving. Wynn made her a cinnamon bun. It was delicious, but then she couldn't sleep for hours. A magical perk for those fighting in battle, not so great for those wanting the oblivion of dreams.
She rubbed her eyes, fatigue dogging her, and reread the last portion, realising she had taken nothing in at all. She read it again, and still couldn't remember any of it. She sighed and closed the book. A glance at the clock told her it was still too early to leave, she'd only been studying for two hours. She looked around the room, only two others remained in the Library, another apprentice buried deep in a pile of books and one of the senior students, a mentor, covering desk duty, reading a novel, neither of them remotely interested in her. Just for a few minutes she would rest her head, it couldn't hurt, then she could study some more. She folded her arms in front of her and lay her head down. Within heartbeats she was asleep, dreaming of nothing.
A shove woke her. She looked up, bleary and disoriented. "What the—?"
"Library's closing," the senior student muttered, casting a portal for her. Idira barely had time to ram the book onto a shelf, grab her shoes and get into the portal before it winked out. She stepped out into the quadrangle inside the residential towers, warm evening air washing over her, heavy with the scent of hibiscus. As the senior student hurried away to his bed, she sank down onto a nearby bench and pulled on her shoes, her neck and shoulders aching from sleeping crooked. She rubbed her face, feeling worse than she had before she fell asleep. She sighed. A whole evening of studying, lost. She looked around the deserted area, glum. She was far behind the others, even Asur, who was the dimmest of the lot was racing ahead of her. She didn't have the time or the energy she needed to keep up. She signed, resigned. Margot was winning after all. Despite her best efforts, Idira was going to get expelled. But then again, if she didn't find the book on teleportation on time, they would all fail.
For the thousandth time, she wondered, bleak, how she would ever fulfil her dream and meet Khadgar. She looked up at the towering Citadel, its massive bulk dominating the glowing skyline. Rising up through the clouds, the windowless tower shimmered with ethereal blue light. Every now and again a current of arcane energy streaked along its length.
She eyed the thing, morose. Khadgar was in there, somewhere, both as near as a heartbeat and as far as another planet. Shut up in the Academy, she might as well still be on the farm in Westfall for all that coming to Dalaran had brought her nearer to him. The man lived in a world she couldn't begin to comprehend. Yet despite the impossible divide looming between them, every day Idira nourished the hope that a request for documents from the city's seat of power would materialise on her desk. Every day she locked up the archive hall, disappointed.
Since she started her duties, she felt like she had discovered every nook and cranny of the Academy; out of the way experimental labs, crooked corridors in the rafters of the towers, even a strange dome-shaped observatory hulking down in a large clearing of Dalaran's Park. When she asked what they did there, she was told the mages monitored the movements of the stars in the sky, searching for the anomalies in their movements which might indicate inter-dimensional warps. Fascinated, she stayed as long as she could, listening to the talkative blood-elf woman at the reception desk explain the details of how inter-dimensional warps worked and how badly the Kirin Tor wished to harness one in the hopes it might help in the fight against the Legion. Idira had had no idea such a thing was possible, the ability to watch the stars or harness warps of space and time. When the receptionist had to return to her duties, Idira left, her mind filled with impossible thoughts and her arms full of new documents to file back into their places in the archive. There was so much the Kirin Tor could do, so much she wanted to learn, but because of one woman's hatred, she spent her days running around, footsore and exhausted, carrying heavy books to and fro, learning nothing at all, except how political, petty and divided the city of Dalaran really was.
She gazed awhile longer at the Citadel, willing someone from within to send for her, just once. Please, she thought, using the last of her energy to force her thoughts out into the Nether. Send for me. Let me see Khadgar before my time runs out and Margot sends me away. Please. Don't let my dream only have been just a dream.
The next morning, almost as soon as Idira took her seat in the archive hall, the familiar shimmering of a portal blossomed on her desk. She watched, grumpy and resigned, wondering what far flung part of the Academy she would have to drag herself to this time. She picked up the card, vaguely noticing it felt heavier than the others she had received. The handwriting was different too, a beautiful calligraphy, and the card's edges bore fat borders of gold curlicues. She rolled her eyes. Typical Dalaran excess. It was a long list, and mostly books from the stacks. She scoffed, bitter. How in the Void was she supposed to carry so many books all by her—
She reached the bottom of the card. No. It couldn't be. She looked at it again, incredulous. Unable to stop herself she jumped up out of her chair and did a little happy dance. The Council of Six finally had need of her services. She was going to the Citadel! She stopped dancing and looked down at herself, her joy sliding away in a torrent of shame. Today was laundry day. She had left her violet dress on her bed for collection and worn the only other dress she owned, the faded one from Westfall. She slumped down onto her chair, defeated. Typical. Just typical.
Before she even reached the vast staircase leading up to the main entrance of the Violet Citadel, Idira was already exhausted. She struggled under the weight of nine fat tomes, barely able to see the way ahead. Dodging yet another self-absorbed Dalaran citizen shoving his way through the press, she managed to cling onto the books without dropping them. Back when she'd started, Duncan had warned her just before she made her first delivery that dropping books was a very serious offence, the punishment so dire, he wouldn't even say it, but the certainty of expulsion afterwards was guaranteed.
Halfway up the staircase, she huddled against the wall, leaning against it, trying to catch her breath. She was beginning to see spots in front of her eyes and her arms ached so much, they were starting to go numb. The Citadel looked so close when one looked at it from the Academy, but she was beginning to realise its magical aura distorted the sense of distance from it. In fact, the tower was halfway across the city from the Academy. She staggered up the remaining stairs, counting as she went, to distract herself from the burning sensation of pins and needles in her shoulders. Seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five. The staircase finally ended. Trying not to stagger, she crossed the large courtyard and approached the outer gates, her arms quaking with fatigue.
"Halt!" A hand on her arm, holding her back. "You must have documentation to enter."
Idira peeked around the stack of books at the guard bearing down her, fierce. She sighed and knelt, setting the books down with great care onto the polished floor tiles. She opened the cover of the top book and held out the card with the order. The guard took it and looked it over, dubious, calling over one of the other guards to check it. Surreptitiously, Idira rubbed the circulation back into her arms, secretly grateful for the chance to rest while the other guard inspected the card.
"Everything looks in order," he said, "though why the Library would send that disgrace into the High Council's Chamber is beyond me." They stood, side by side, eyeing her, disdainful. Self-conscious, Idira tugged at her skirt, straightening it.
"Go on then," the first guard said, looking away. "They're waiting."
"How do I find them?" Idira asked as she knelt and gathered up the books again, her arms screaming in protest.
The guards rolled their eyes at each other. The second one jerked his head at the open glass doors of the tower's entrance. "Just keep going straight up the stairs, the Chamber is right in the middle. Even an idiot couldn't miss it. Then again, you might." They laughed, mean as she walked away. "Have you ever seen such a thing?" the first one said, making his voice loud enough so she would be sure to hear. "Purple eyes, and that raggedy dress, where did she find that? In the sewers? People like her don't belong here. Hope the Council sends her back to whatever hole she crawled out from."
Her cheeks burning with humiliation, Idira pushed on, her arms trembling under the renewed weight of the heavy leather and brass bound tomes, unable to take in the splendour surrounding her, thinking only of putting one foot in front of the other, fighting the heaviness spreading through her arms, willing herself not to drop the books before she reached her destination.
She made it to the top of the stairs and was just about to cross the threshold into the Council chambers when her arms rebelled and gave out. She bit back a cry, despairing, as the books tumbled down around her, their brass bindings clattering onto the vestibule's marble floor, the noise drowned out by the shouts of a heated argument coming from the centre of the Chamber. Falling to her knees, she hurried to gather up the books, keeping her head down, tears blurring her eyes. It was all over for her now. She was going to be expelled. She would never meet Khadgar, everything she had lived for and suffered through would come to nothing. She thught of Logan and Unambi, of their sacrifices made for her and her Light. Shame piled onto her. She had failed them, utterly. Anger seared through her. Why hadn't her arms lasted just one minute more. Why?
But no one came to her, and no one shouted at her. She fell back onto her haunches and peeked up from under her lashes, waiting for her berating, but apart from herself, the only others she could see in the Chamber were five men and one woman, though they stood at a great distance from her. They all had high-backed, elaborately carved chairs, but none of them were sitting. They stood around a vast circular table set in the middle of the room upon a raised platform, the table glowing with arcane energy. They argued heatedly, seemingly oblivious of her grave crime. Floating in the air above the table was a rotating globe, its mountains, valleys and seas set out in realistic relief. Idira gaped, recognising the shape of the continent of the Eastern Kingdoms as the planet progressed on its slow spin. Awed, she rose to her feet, the books forgotten as she realised she was looking at a globe of the world. Of Azeroth.
She gazed at it, entranced. Back on the farm in Westfall, she had spent plenty of time absorbing the flattened maps tucked within the covers of her books, but to see the whole world, seamless, a planet, in such breathtaking detail was like a dream; she felt her perspectives shifting, her mind opening, broadening as she envisaged herself no longer on a flat world, but a spherical one.
The Archmages continued to argue, though their shouts had subsided. She listened, curious. They spoke in a language she didn't understand. She followed the strange words, intrigued, hearing for the first time the language only the Council of Six knew and used, a High Arcane dialect she had been told by Duncan during one of his more sociable moments was called Tirisian, the inscrutable words laden with magic, cloaking their words from both prying ears, and spies.
She searched for Khadgar. There. Her heart thudded. He stood on the left side of the table, the seat back of his chair slighter higher and wider than the others. One of the others was speaking now, passionately, a man wearing dark red robes, waving his arm towards the globe, but Khadgar turned away, shaking his head, his expression tight, his hands curling into fists. He leaned forward and rested his weight on the table, addressing the others again, his tone adamant and unbending. She wondered what they were arguing about.
"You look like you could use a little help," a small voice piped beside Idira's ear. Idira turned, startled. A female gnome, her blond hair braided and curled up into buns on the sides of her head stood beside Idira, green eyes twinkling. She held out her hand. "I'm Chromie. Pleased to meet you. You better hurry, soon they will notice you and it won't go well for you if they see all their books on the floor."
Idira took the pretty gnome's hand and shook it. "Idira Northshire," she answered, shy, eyeing her, curious. There was something about the gnome. Idira couldn't quite place it, but something wasn't as it seemed with her, it wasn't bad, though it wasn't quite right either. She reminded Idira of the Citadel, in the way the building distorted her perception of space, it felt like being near the diminutive gnome distorted Idira's perception of time. She glanced back at the group of Archmages, the woman, Archmage Modera had just begun to turn around, though her eyes were on one of the other Archmages, the one Idira guessed was Kalec from his blue hair. She stood still as statue, as did all the others, frozen in time, a tableau. Idira turned back to Chromie, gaping.
"Did you do that?" she breathed.
"I know who you are," Chromie said, businesslike as she picked up the books and handed them to Idira, who took them, her gaze darting back to the Archmages, astonished, incredulous. "I've covered for you this time," the gnome continued, brusque, "but next time, try not to drop the books if you don't mind. There's only so much someone like me can do. They have satchels at the Library they can lend you. Next time ask for one."
Idira took the last book and thanked the gnome, who nodded and smiled. "And don't heed any of the hateful talk in this place," she said, pausing, as she turned away. "You are above all of that. Far above it. You just need a little more time."
She lifted her staff. A flash of light filled Idira's eyes, and quick as a blink, the gnome was gone.
"There you are, finally!" the Archmage Modera called out, irritable. "Come in then, what are you waiting for?"
Idira realised Modera was speaking to her, behaving as though Idira had only just arrived. Her heart soaring with relief for what the little gnome had done for her, Idira crossed the distance to the platform and waited, unsure where to put the books.
"Here, leave them beside me," Modera snapped, impatient, pointing at a cleared space beside her, her voice raised over the others who continued to bicker in Tirisian. "I haven't all day."
Keeping her head down, Idira climbed the three steps up onto the platform and approached the table. Gently, ever so gently she lowered the books onto the shimmering blue surface and backed away. Modera turned her back to Idira, rifling though the pile of books for the one she wanted first. She opened it, her finger running down the lines, her eyes darting back and forth, seeking, hungry.
Unable to stop herself, Idira glanced at Khadgar, hoping to catch his eye, but he had sat back down and was staring at the table, deep in thought. With only Modera between them, Idira was so close to him she could see the rise and fall of his tunic as he breathed. Her heart quavered as she drank in the nearness of him, sensing his strength and charisma, his deep history of experience; a true warrior-mage, his powerful presence filling the room, leaving the others in his shadow, despite their much more elaborate robes and headpieces.
How she longed to touch him. Her heart aching, she looked at the man who had occupied most of her life, staring down at the table, as lost to her as though he were still on another planet. Please. Look at me, she begged him, silent. An inner tug pulled on her, once, twice, coming from the centre of the table, distracting her. A third tug and a judder surged through her torso, so sharp and sudden it left her breathless. A heartbeat later the globe of Azeroth flared to life, gleaming as bright as a star. Streamers of light the same colour as her own erupted from its core and darted, chaotic around the sphere, dozens of them, their numbers increasing until the globe seethed with her Light, a living thing, glowing so bright the whole Chamber turned violet. The Archmages rose to their feet, astonished, all of them apart from Khadgar talking, excited, though nothing they said was remotely comprehensible to Idira.
Idira backed away, watching Khadgar, willing him to look at her, to recognise in her the violet-imbued child he had seen when he was trapped on another planet, walking in that faraway city, but he didn't. He gazed at the shining globe, silent, brooding, and lost to his thoughts, blind both to her and her Light.
She didn't have to wait long for her next summons. She had just returned to the archives, reeling with disappointment, footsore and hungry, when the next request came in. By the look of the books on the list, the Council wished to know everything they could about what could have caused the flaring of violet light. She groaned. Twelve books this time and as many more documents from the archives. She would definitely need a satchel this time, maybe two.
The satchels helped, but not much. She still had to carry eight of the books in her aching, trembling arms and the additional weight of a satchel over each shoulder, the straps crossing her chest like a pack horse, made her neck and shoulders burn, hot as a forge's fire. She had just staggered up the seventy-five steps and through the main entrance into the front hall, ignoring the sneers and taunts of the guards when a stunning, green-haired night elf dressed in a shimmering silver and white gown rode past on a giant sabre-toothed cat, the claws of its enormous paws clacking against the marble tiles. The woman was so astonishing, so beautiful, fierce and uncommon, that Idira couldn't help but stare as she walked. She had never, in all her life, neither in her fairytale books or in Stormwind or Dalaran ever seen such a beautiful woman. She looked like a goddess. She looked like—
A sharp pain in exploded from Idira's hip as she clipped her hip bone against the corner of a table. She cried out, letting go of the precious books to clasp her side, biting her lip against the jagged waves of pain shearing through her, rough like broken glass. The books clattered to the floor, causing a terrible racket. In her haze of agony, she caught the woman on the cat glancing at her, her expression filled with cold disdain. Other mages came running, helping to gather up the fallen books, all of them looking at Idira with disgust. Her cheeks flamed. Now it was really over. There was no gnome to save her this time. Guards came forward, taking hold of her, the offender, while others took the satchels from her, to carry her delivery the rest of the way. Three of them struggling to do the job she had been left to do alone.
She watched them walk up the stairs to the Council Chamber, following after the night elf riding her sabre-toothed cat, the mages patting the books, reverent, checking them for damage. The guards pulled her arms, yanking her backwards, back out into the sunlight, and across the city like a criminal, delivering her to Duncan, reporting what she had done in the most censorious tones.
Duncan nodded, his cheeks aflame, enduring their loud, scathing accusations of his obvious inability to do his duty. When they were gone, Idira found herself hustled away by the Library guards back to her room and warded inside. Despite her frantic questions, no one told her anything.
She was left alone to wait. Food and drink arrived three times a day, and a covered chamber pot left was for her to use to relieve herself, replaced once a day by one of the mute servants. For three days she waited, pacing, claustrophobic, barely sleeping or eating, her heart and mind filled with terror and regret, imagining terrible things. She fretted constantly, even in her snatched moments of exhausted sleep, she continued stewing in her dreams, dwelling on the same question: why had she allowed herself to become distracted by the night elf? Over and over she wished for the chance to go back and relive the moment. Each time she imagined herself doing her task right, paying attention to where she was going and not hitting her hip so she could deliver the books and give Khadgar another chance to see her. But it was too late for all that now. She had crossed the line and there was no going back. She would never see Khadgar again. There would be no balcony, there would only be a portal back to Stormwind, or perhaps, even worse, to the middle of nowhere.
On the evening of her third day of confinement, her door opened. Idira looked up startled, it wasn't the usual time for either her meals or the changing of her chamber pot. She stood up, trembling, her dread spiking. Now it was coming. Margot walked in, looking like the cat that got the cream, her dark blue gown, covered with silver embroidery shimmered in the lowering light of the sun. Her mouth twisted with disgust. Idira suppressed a smile at her own small triumph. Even if she had long become inured to the stink of fear and bodily excretions, the narrow room probably smelled worse than an outhouse during a Westfall summer. She hoped it deeply offended her pampered tormenter.
"Come with me," Margot said, lifting her hand over her mouth and nose as she moved back out into the fresher air in the corridor. Idira followed, eyeing the other woman's gown, keenly aware of her own dishevelment. She longed for a bath and her violet dress which, unsurprisingly had never been returned to her from the laundry.
Once out in the hallway, Margot cast a quick spell and wash of arcane light swept over Idira, as cold as a gust of sea air. She looked down at herself, and saw that whatever Margot had done had cleaned Idira up as well as if she had gone and spent an hour scrubbing herself clean in the bath.
Without saying another word, Margot cast a portal. As she waited, Idira glanced at Wynn's door, but it was firmly closed, as were all the others, the corridor deathly silent. Somehow Idira suspected her colleagues had been warned not to come out until Idira was removed. Her heart sank. She would have liked to see Wynn at least one last time to say goodbye.
The portal swirled open, shimmering. "After you," Margot smirked, triumphant. "The Archmage Modera is waiting. She knows all about your demon-slaying light and has expressed a great interest in being the one to personally expel you not just from the Kirin Tor, but Dalaran, permanently. She, like me is very keen to keep lying filth like you from our pristine, noble city." Margot waved her hand towards the portal, her eyes narrowing, malicious. "Shall we?"
Resigned, Idira stepped through the portal. She looked up, her heart juddering to a halt. Khadgar sat at a desk going through a vast pile of papers. He glanced up, distracted, as Margot appeared. He turned back to his papers, saying nothing.
"Oh! I'm sorry to disturb you Archmage," Margot said, hastening to cast her portal spell again, "it seems I have cast to the wrong address."
Nothing happened. "I don't understand," she muttered, trying again, her cheeks colouring with embarrassment.
"Ah, it's the disbursement of magic caused by the anomaly in the Council Chamber," Khadgar said, his attention on one of the papers he held in his hand. "For the last three days it's been redirecting all sorts of things to me that ought to be going elsewhere. It even gets past my wards." He glanced up again, brief. "Who have you got there? An apprentice? I could use some help here if you don't mind."
Idira caught her breath. She waited, aching with hope, hardly even daring to breathe. Margot blinked, taken aback. She swallowed and nodded, unable to gainsay the Leader of the Kirin Tor.
"Leave her with me for an hour or so," he continued as he rifled through the piles, looking like he was searching for something. From one of the heaps, several papers slipped free and drifted down onto the thick rug. He leaned over the edge and picked them up. He sighed. "Once we've gotten on top of this mess I will send her back to you at the Academy."
Her expression stiff, Margot backed out of the room. As she pulled the door closed behind her, she shot Idira a cold, warning look, the message clear. Don't try anything funny.
The door closed. Idira glanced behind her and saw the balcony, the exact one she had dreamed of twenty long years ago, where she had stood with Khadgar as he looked at her the way she had seen VanCleef look at Myra. Her heart pounding, she smoothed down her dress, and waited.