Daughter of Azeroth

57 | THE WOMAN IN BLACK

Once in the city, Idira experienced another paralysing spike of shame. She had thought the men and women she had seen shopping along the canal in Stormwind had looked well off, but this city's residents made Stormwind's prosperous citizens look like paupers by comparison. Now she understood what Nin meant about making the trip to Dalaran to buy her hats from a famous milliner.

Within a glass-fronted shop, its interior finished in luxurious fabrics and sumptuous colours, Idira glimpsed an elegant group of three slender, beautiful women reclining on pale sofas, holding crystal-cut glasses filled with sparkling wine. They nodded and chatted amongst themselves, ignoring the liveried attendants carrying out fantastic, gem-encrusted gowns, holding them out for their inspection.

One of the women glanced out the window, catching Idira watching them. She said something, tilting her head at Idira. The others turned and eyed her, hostile, bristling with indignation. An attendant moved to the open door and closed it, his expression dripping with contempt. Idira backed away, drowning in humiliation, trying and failing to blend into the crowded street, realising as she searched the faces for others like her that she was utterly alone, at least on this street. Everywhere she looked, beauty and wealth surrounded her, down to the smallest detail, even the potted palm trees lining the street were perfectly tended.

The deeper she went into the city, the more she became convinced only the most elite and privileged of Azeroth could afford to be in Dalaran; the families of kings and princes; the highest nobility; the wealthy barons of war, and titans of commerce. She didn't belong in such a place. She stopped and half-turned, thinking to go back to the Gryphon Master to fly back to Stormwind. She could go back to The Pig and Whistle, it wasn't much of a life, but at least she wouldn't be alone in a place like this. Maegan had said there would always be a place for her there, should she want one.

Her hand drifted to her pouch, a stab of guilt puncturing her insecurities. No. It was Logan's wish for her to do this, she had to at least try. She looked around, searching over the heads of the people strolling along the avenue and found a guard. Steeling herself for another derisive dismissal, she approached him and asked where she might apply to join the Kirin Tor. He didn't say anything cruel, but neither did he say anything at all, he simply ignored her, as did the other two guards she found. She tried very hard not to take it personally, but it wasn't easy.

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Several wrong turns later, and after losing herself in a garden maze for almost an hour, she discovered, quite by accident, a low, discreet opening at the base of an enormous citadel. Despite the steady flow of fashionable people along its vast, ostentatious staircase, no one seemed interested in the little patch of grass where Idira stood, tucked away behind the street, and accessed by a narrow grassy alley. She leaned back and looked up at the citadel. Over its main entrance, the magical sigil of the Kirin Tor—an eye with three pointed lines beneath it—hung suspended, glowing a cerulean blue, and pulsing with arcane energy. She shivered, sensing the power the citadel contained, for a heartbeat diverted from her misery as her body resonated to the steady pulse of the Eye.

Tearing her gaze from the sigil, she leaned back a little more. The citadel towered so high its topmost turrets disappeared into the clouds. She realised as she returned her attention to her immediate surroundings that for the first time since she had arrived (apart from a few times in the maze), she was completely alone. Here in this quiet corner of Dalaran, no imperious, disdainful guards stood in front of the low opening in the wall. Considering all the places she had seen them standing, beside a post box, outside a pet menagerie, even flanking the entrance to a barber shop for Light's sake, she was surprised not to find any here in front of a dark, suspicious looking, musty staircase leading into the bowels of the city. It seemed as if by their absence they were sending a message: This place is beneath us. Despite herself, she smiled at the pun.