Sylvanas (World of Warcraft), page 1
World of Warcraft: Sylvanas is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2022 by Blizzard Entertainment, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Del Rey and the Circle colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Hardback ISBN 9780399594182
Ebook ISBN 9780399594199
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Jo Anne Metsch, adapted for ebook
Cover art: Evyn Fong
Cover design: Scott Biel
ep_prh_6.0_139683237_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Part I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Interlude
Part II
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Interlude
Part III
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Interlude
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Interlude
Part IV
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Interlude
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Interlude
Epilogue
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Christie Golden
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Sylvanas Windrunner stood at the top of the steps for a moment. She was not sure if the young king , pacing within the runic circle below, would become future prey—or future partner. It was all up to him…and her.
You will not succeed, the young lion had once said defiantly as he knelt before her. It was a ludicrous statement. Anduin Wrynn was held fast by chains woven of dark magic. He had received the worst pain the Mawsworn were capable of bestowing, yet had not broken—even managing to summon the Light in this place of cold, shattered misery. Through everything he had endured, Anduin retained a desire to help and heal, even if it meant his own suffering. And that display had intrigued the Jailer, he who ruled this realm of torment; he with whom Sylvanas had allied.
The Jailer wanted to use this shiny new weapon immediately. But something had stirred within the Banshee Queen. Something she couldn’t quite explain. Was it hubris that compelled this desire, to see her greatest enemy swayed to her side?
You’ve seen what he can do when he believes in the cause.
Their first encounter had not gone well. She hoped this one would yield better results. The Jailer had granted her the “measure of patience,” she requested, but he would not wait forever.
Anduin heard her steps and ceased pacing. He turned to face her, his blue eyes regarding her emotionless face, then he dropped his gaze to the tray she carried.
“I find myself wondering what that is, and where you obtained it.”
“Do you think you’re the only mortal in the Shadowlands?”
His eyes widened slightly. “So. My friends are still here. You’re slipping, Sylvanas.”
Sylvanas continued down the stairs. “Not at all. I told you before. No more secrets, no more lies.”
“I do try to think the best of people. But I lost hope in you even before the war.”
That surprised her, but she did not show it. “This is not a place for hope, Little Lion. But it is a place for reason. Overly gentle and trusting you may be, but I do not think you a fool.”
“I see. You’re going to attempt to convince me that I should help the Jailer destroy the cycle of life and death.” He laughed softly, shaking his head. “No. I am certainly not the fool here.”
Sylvanas had reached the invisible border of Anduin’s prison. She could enter and exit as she wished, and the tray of food and water passed easily through the barrier.
She knew he had not had water for a day; had been denied food even longer. Yet Anduin simply glanced at the food, then back at her with narrowed eyes.
Sylvanas pushed down her irritation and bit back a sharp retort. Then, to his visible surprise, she sat on the stone floor and cocked an eyebrow at him. “Eat. I do not need to resort to poison. Any harm I wished to do, you would not be able to prevent.”
“No.”
So this was how it was to be. It was fine with her. He was quite literally a captive audience, and she had come to say much.
“I told you before, we wish you to join us willingly. I know you have empathy and compassion. That has been a weakness for you—but also a strength. So I will tell you how it was that I came to be the Jailer’s partner…and why I think you should be, too. I will share with you things I have shared with no one before.” It cost her nothing; Anduin would serve, or he would be used. Either way, any words spoken within these dark halls would never be shared with another mortal soul. Not when her victory was so close at hand.
Anduin cocked his head and looked at her searchingly.
As if mocking her he sat, somehow graceful, if clanking, in his armor. He reached for the water, toasted her, and drank.
“Go on then, Sylvanas Windrunner. Tell me these truths you have never shared. It would seem I have nothing but time.”
PART
I
With love, and courage.
—Verath Windrunner
CHAPTER ONE
“Let me see, let me see!” Vereesa begged. The balcony walls, white and curving as the throat of a swan, were too tall for her to peer over, and Sylvanas sighed. She cast a final longing look at the crowd milling below, then darted back into their chambers for a stool. As Vereesa happily clambered atop it, Sylvanas returned her attention to the scene.
Their parents did host some gatherings—Father said it was “prudent” to do so from time to time—but they were usually small affairs. While Lord Verath Windrunner was one of King Anasterian’s most trusted advisers and his wife, Lireesa, was the ranger-general of Silvermoon, lesser nobles like the ostentatious Lord Saltheril threw much more lavish celebrations. But Lireesa had little patience with pretense and politics, and their quietly brilliant father’s idea of a fine evening was a glass of wine, a good book, and candles to read by.
But today, everything was different. Some of those gathered at the base of the spire were nobility like the Windrunners. Others would have once been considered commoners, but their athleticism, agility, and almost uncanny skills in marksmanship and tracking had elevated them to another sort of nobility. Certainly Sylvanas and her sisters had been raised with respect for and almost awe of the Farstriders, and thus far Sylvanas had seen nothing to disabuse her of the notion that they were worthier of respect than someone who’d simply been born with a title.
She had seen many of the Farstriders already for one reason or another, but they had usually come at the ranger-general’s request and interacted little with the rest of the family. Sylvanas was most familiar with Lor’themar Theron. Perhaps because of his white hair, he was one of the few elves who looked older than they were, and he bore himself with the same quiet, elegant dignity that Sylvanas saw in her father. Another Sylvanas had met was a relative newcomer, Halduron Brightwing. He had a cheerful grin and unruly dark blond hair, and he always greeted her and Vereesa if they were present. Like Halduron, the petite Jirri was also a relative newcomer, and clearly quite young if her obvious excitement and wonder at the spire was any indication. The blue-black color of Ranger Vor’athil’s hair made him stand out in a sea that was overwhelmingly gold and silver. Beyond the crowd, Lieutenant Helios spoke quietly to Rangers Lethvalin and Salissa while Ranger Tomathren waited, impatiently, for Helios’s attention.
Talthressar, Rellian, Auric Sunchaser, Alleria’s friend Verana—so many of them. Sylvanas’s heart was racing; she was so excited for what was to transpire that she might as well be the one undergoing the test, not her big sister, Alleria, who stood beside her mother in silence.
Ordinarily, the resemblance between mother and eldest daughter was uncanny. They had the same lean frame, though Alleria was still somewhat gawky on coltish long legs; hair that flowed like melted gold down their backs; the same curve of the mouth when they smiled. But now Lireesa’s belly was round and full, the child growing within due to make its happy appearance sometime in the next few weeks. In this moment, neither woman smiled. What was about to happen was far too serious.
Sylvanas watched Lireesa turn to Alleria and nod. As the two stepped forward, the Farstriders spread out into a circle, with mother and daughter in the center.
The ranger-general’s voice was strong and clear, used to uttering commands in the heat of battle and to having them be obeyed. It carried easily as she addressed the elite unit of the finest rangers in the entire kingdom.
“When I was a young woman, my mother, Alleria, trained me, the eldest child, to become ranger-general, as her mother had before her. Now my daughter, whom I have named after she who bore me, wishes to prove her worthiness and begin formal training. So that all may know that both Alleria and I understand the duty and importance of the position of ranger-general, I have set her a challenge.”
Lireesa turned to her daughter. There was no softening of the older woman’s mien as she spoke.
“Alleria Windrunner. Are you willing to do what is necessary to lead the Farstriders in times of both peace and war?”
“I am.” Alleria’s voice, unusually deep for one so young, betrayed no emotion.
“Then this is your challenge. Listen well. A springpaw lynx has been identified and tagged as your target. Its known territory ranges from Goldenmist Village to Farstrider Enclave. You must find it, slay it with a single arrow, field-dress it, and bring the pelt to me before the last ray of light fades. If you fail any of these charges, you fail the test.”
The ranger-general presented a single arrow to Alleria. “Here is your arrow. May it fly true.”
It was one of Lireesa’s own: uniquely fletched in the colors of green, representing the Farstriders, gold, one of the Windrunner colors, and a natural-hued gold-and-brown feather obtained in one of Lireesa’s legendary battles. Alleria hesitated just an instant before accepting it.
Most wouldn’t have noticed it. But Sylvanas knew her big sister well and frowned slightly. Alleria was a quietly confident young woman, a superlative shot, and an untiring tracker when need be. This should be easy. Springpaws were dangerous to the inexperienced, yes, but all the Windrunner daughters had begun training the instant they were strong enough to pull back the string on a child’s bow.
So why was Alleria worried? Perhaps it was simple nervousness. This wasn’t an ordinary hunt. To fail before not just the ranger-general but the entire unit of Farstriders would be humiliating.
Alleria placed the arrow in her empty quiver. Sylvanas thought it looked lonely, with none of its fellows surrounding it.
Now Lireesa offered Alleria a knife. It was beautiful; its blade, broad and sharp, as long as Alleria’s hand. The hilt was leather wrapped with golden threads.
“This is your skinning knife,” Lireesa said. “Use it only for its task. Do not use it to attack your quarry. I will examine the pelt afterward, and I will know if you do.”
Alleria nodded, accepting the knife and slipping it into its sheath. Finally, Lireesa placed a small sack in her daughter’s hands.
“Water, bread, and dried meat,” she said. “Enough for a single meal. If you grow hungry, you are permitted to gather food.”
Alleria fastened the pouch securely to her belt.
A small, warm hand, slightly sticky with melon juice, slipped into Sylvanas’s. Still not eye-to-eye with her sister even on a stool, Vereesa asked with a furrowed brow, “Is Lady Sun going to be all right?”
“Of course,” Sylvanas replied, squeezing her hand. “Alleria is going to be just fine. It’s only a springpaw. I bet even you could bring down one of those.”
Her eyes lit up. “You think so?”
“Well…maybe not right this minute, but very soon.”
Beaming, Vereesa returned her attention to the crowd below them. Lireesa placed her hands on her eldest daughter’s shoulders, though the gesture was not affectionate, but firm.
“If you succeed, we will begin the training.”
Alleria squared her shoulders. “Springpaw, I name you prey.” It was a formal phrase, the Farstrider equivalent of a vow.
Lireesa stepped back and brought a fisted hand to her heart in the Farstrider salute. Immediately, all the others did so as well, with such perfect coordination that Sylvanas heard but one single thump as hands met chests. Alleria flipped the hood over the shining gold of her hair, turned to the forest, and strode forward. The circle of hunters opened to release her, and there was silence until her slender form was swallowed by the trees.
Vereesa leaped from the stool toward Sylvanas with perfect trust that her sister would catch her. Sylvanas did so, hugging her tight and then setting her down gently while mussing her soft, silvery hair.
A thought crossed the older girl’s mind, and she could not hide a mischievous smile. “Come, let us talk to the Farstriders while we wait for Alleria.”
They descended the ramp as fast as Vereesa’s little legs could manage, Sylvanas still holding her hand. The perfect circle of Farstriders had now dissolved into smaller clusters of individuals. Some were partaking of the fare arranged on small tables, others talking among themselves. Verath had been standing beneath the balcony, keeping courteously out of the way while watching his daughter’s ceremony. Now he moved forward, hands outstretched to claim his wife’s. He squeezed them reassuringly. Lireesa squeezed back, then let out a sigh and released them. Sylvanas had observed that it was only when she was with her husband that the ranger-general allowed herself to relax.
Vereesa scurried over to their parents, and Verath bent to scoop her up. Sylvanas, though, was far more interested in the Farstriders than her family. She had left her bow at the base of the ramp. Now she picked it up, slung it over her shoulder with feigned nonchalance, and headed straight for Halduron, Lor’themar, and Jirri. They turned at her approach.
“Lady Sylvanas,” Lor’themar said, and inclined his head. His brows rose in impressed surprise. “You have traded bows since the last time I saw you—and traded quite well.”
It was true. The last time Lor’themar had come to the spire, Sylvanas was still training with a child’s bow. She had been presented this one on her most recent birthday and learned that Lireesa had arranged for one of the famed bowyers of Quel’Thalas to craft it. It had been carved from dark wood, polished till it gleamed, and inlaid with swirls of gold that spelled out her name.
“It is beautiful, yes,” she said, trying to sound casual. “But what’s more important is that the draw is smooth as silk and the valley nice and comfortable. Care to see me shoot?”
“Not at the moment, no,” Lor’themar said. “I am sure you’re quite good. You know, it is said your mother showed promise from a young age as well. Many here were present at the Battle of Seven Arrows, and they still speak with wonder at her skill on that day.” It wasn’t quite hero worship in his eyes; Lor’themar was much too grounded, but he regarded Lireesa with the deepest respect for a moment, then turned back to Sylvanas. “You have her steady hand,” he said, smiling slightly, “and I imagine you’ll be just as fine an archer.”
The Battle of Seven Arrows was a wonderful story, all the better for being true, but Sylvanas had heard it brought up so often it was all but meaningless to her now.
“Well,” she replied, hiding her disappointment, “I bet you will be telling stories about me when I join the Farstriders.”
Lor’themar inclined his head courteously, but Halduron smothered a smile. “That seems a way off.”
“Not that far,” Sylvanas shot back. “You’re hardly ancient.”
