It was exactly the sort of day Jaina Proudmoore didn’t like—sullen, stormy, and bitterly cold. While the ocean breezes always made Theramore feel cool, even in the hot summer months, the chill of the wind and rain that now pummeled the city cut to the bone. The ocean churned unhappily, the sky above it gray and menacing. It showed no signs of letting up. Outside, training fields turned to mud, travelers sought the shelter of the inn, and Dr. VanHowzen would need to watch the injured in his care for signs of illness brought on by the sudden cold and wetness. Jaina’s guards stood in the downpour without complaint. No doubt they were miserable. Jaina ordered one of her attendants to take the pot of tea she had just brewed for her and her chancellor down to the stalwart guards enduring their duty. She could wait for a second pot to be ready.
Thunder rumbled and there was a flash of lightning. Jaina, snug in her tower surrounded by the books and papers she so loved, shivered and drew her cloak about her more closely, then turned to one who was doubtless even more uncomfortable than she.
Magna Aegwynn, former Guardian of Tirisfal, mother to the great Magus Medivh, once the most powerful woman in the world, sat in a chair drawn close to the fire, sipping a cup of tea. Her gnarled hands closed about the cup, seeking its warmth. Her long hair, white as freshly fallen snow, was loose about her shoulders. She looked up as Jaina approached and sat in the chair across from her. Her green eyes, a deep, knowing emerald, missed nothing.
“You’re thinking about him.”
Jaina scowled and looked into the fire, trying to distract herself with the dancing flames. “I didn’t know being a Guardian meant you could read minds.”
“Minds? Pfft. It’s your face and bearing I can read like a primer, child. That furrow in your brow crinkles just so when it’s he who occupies your mind. Besides, you always get in this mood when the weather turns.”
Jaina shivered. “Am I truly so easy to read?”
Aegwynn’s sharp features softened and she patted Jaina’s hand. “Well, I’ve got a thousand years of observation under my belt. I’m a bit better at reading people than most.”
Jaina sighed. “It’s true. When the weather is cold, I do think of him. About what happened. About whether I could have done anything.”
Aegwynn sighed. “A thousand years and I don’t think I’ve ever really been in love. Too much else to worry about. But if it’s any consolation to you—he’s been on my mind, too.”
Jaina blinked, surprised and unsettled by the comment. “You’ve been thinking about Arthas?”
The former Guardian regarded her keenly. “The Lich King. He’s not Arthas, not anymore.”
“I don’t need to be reminded of that,” Jaina said, a touch too sharply. “Why do you—”
“Can’t you feel it?”
Slowly, Jaina nodded. She had tried to chalk it up to the weather and the tensions that always ran high when it was so damp and unpleasant. But Aegwynn was suggesting that there was more to it than that, and Jaina Proudmoore, thirty years of age, ruler of Theramore Isle, knew the old woman was right. Old woman. A smile flickered on her lips as she thought about the words. She herself was well past her own youth, a youth in which Arthas Menethil had played so significant a role.
“Tell me of him,” Aegwynn said, sitting back in her chair. At that moment, one of the servants came with a fresh pot of tea and cookies hot from the oven. Jaina accepted a cup gratefully.
“I’ve told you all I know.”
“No,” Aegwynn retorted. “You told me the facts of what happened. I want you to tell me about him. Arthas Menethil. Because whatever’s going on right now up in Northrend—and yes, I think something is going on—it’s about Arthas, not the Lich King. Not yet at any rate. Besides,” and the old woman grinned, the wrinkles that lined her face overshadowed by the impish, girlish glint in her emerald eyes, “it’s a cold and rainy day. And that’s exactly the sort of day stories were made for.”