"Who would come to Quel'Lithien Lodge?" one asked.
Lor’themar looked down at him evenly.
“Do not be an idiot. You know who I am.”
The other looked him straight in the eye.
“That does not mean you are welcome, Lord Theron.”
Lor’themar unsheathed both of the swords he wore across his back. The Quel’Lithien guards’ knuckles whitened around their own weapons, and he saw one twitch his fingers slightly, readying the signal of attack to the myriad others who were surely hidden throughout the terrain. Silently the regent lord tossed his blades to the ground, then loosed his bow and quiver and dropped them as well. He motioned for his escorts to do the same, and when they had done so, he raised an eyebrow.
“Is that convincing enough of my honest intent?”
The first Lithien scout spoke again.
“Tell us why you have come.”
“I have news for Ranger Lord Hawkspear and High Priestess Skycaller,” he said. “Regarding…” He cleared his throat. “Regarding Prince Kael’thas.”
“So, then.” Renthar’s eyes glittered strangely—he almost reminded Lor’themar of Rommath. “Are you here on the prince’s orders to offer us an official apology?”
“I might be,” Lor’themar answered, “if he were alive.”
If either of the high elves in front of him had looked shocked before, it was nothing compared to their expressions now. The color drained from both their faces.
“Explain, damn you,” Renthar demanded.
Lor’themar took a deep breath and began to outline the events of the recent past. He had not entirely anticipated how painful it would be to relay the story, especially to two people who so thoroughly despised him. He drew the words from his throat, one by one, sometimes forcefully. He had to spit them across the room to get them out at all. When at last he had finished, he blinked once, as if waking up.
“The Sunwell is thus returned to us,” Aurora said. She turned her face to the window.
“Yes,” Lor’themar replied.
The Plaguelands’ absolute, dead silence fell across them. Lor’themar bowed his head, reliving his own moment of comprehension, when the last dust of battle had settled on Quel’Danas and the Sunwell had shone majestic and proud once again. He had stared into it with the same paralyzed expression that had now etched itself into Renthar’s and Aurora’s faces, and had found no joy in its glow. He had never dreamed the price of its return could be too much to pay.
Aurora’s voice startled him. “I had wondered why the pangs of the addiction felt so eased lately. I have not needed… help… to cope.”
“The magic in the Sunwell is different now,” Lor’themar said. “It may take a while for some to adjust.”
“Some, yes.” Aurora reached her hand up and seemed to grasp something that Lor’themar could not see, twisting it between her fingers as if it were a long ribbon. “I am a priestess of the Light. I know this magic.”
“It was a great gift,” Lor’themar heard himself say. Aurora looked sidelong at him, and he knew his lack of conviction had not gone unnoticed.
“If the prince is dead,” Renthar said, “then what will become of the crown of Quel’Thalas?”
“Kael’thas himself decreed that Anasterian will always be the last king of Quel’Thalas. The crown is unclaimed.”
Renthar narrowed his eyes. “And if someone were to lay such a claim?”
“There are none alive with any right to it.”
Renthar looked him right in the eye. Lor’themar matched his gaze just as fiercely. Renthar Hawkspear could doubt him in any way but this one.
Aurora spoke again. “I suppose this is what you came to tell us of.”
“Yes,” Lor’themar replied.
“Then feel free to leave,” said Renthar.
Lor’themar closed his eye. “There is one more thing.” This would be the hardest.
“Is there?” Renthar’s voice was flat. “Well?”
Lor’themar began, “and our position in the Ghostlands is more… secure… the Farstriders are finding themselves stretched a bit less. They - I - would send you regular supplies.”