Christie Golden: Arthas: Rise of the Lich King

“…and His Royal Highness, Arthas Menethil,” intoned the bishop. Arthas jerked to attention, wondering if he’d missed something important. “May the Light’s blessing be upon him in every thought, word, and deed, so that he may thrive beneath it and grow to serve it as its paladin.” Arthas felt a sudden calming warmth flow through him as the blessing was laid upon him. The stiffness and soreness vanished, leaving him refreshed and at peace. The bishop turned to the queen and the princess. “May the Light shine on Her Royal Majesty, Lianne Menethil, that she—”

Arthas grinned and waited for the bishop to complete the individual blessings. He’d name the girl then. Arthas leaned against the back room of the wall.

“And we humbly request the Light’s blessing on Lady Jaina Proudmoore. May she be blessed with its healing and wisdom, that she—”

Aha! The mystery girl was a mystery no longer. Jaina Proudmoore, a year younger than he, daughter to Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, naval war hero and ruler of Kul Tiras. What did intrigue him was why she was here and—

“—and that her studies at Dalaran go well. We ask that she become a representative of the Light, and that in the role of a mage, she will serve her people well and truly.”

That made sense. She was on her way to Dalaran, the beautiful city of magi not too far from Capital City. Knowing the rigid rules of etiquette and hospitality that were so pervasive in royal and noble circles, she’d be here for a few days before traveling on.

This, he thought, could be fun.

At the end of the service, Arthas, already located near the door, stepped out first. Muradin and Trollbane were the first out, both looking slightly relieved that the service was over. Terenas, Uther, Lianne, Calia, and Jaina followed.

Both his sister and the Proudmoore girl were fair haired and slender. But the resemblance stopped there. Calia was delicately boned, with a face right out of old paintings, pale skinned and soft. Jaina, however, had bright eyes and a lively smile, and she moved like someone who was well accustomed to riding and hiking. She obviously spent a great deal of time out of doors, as her face was tanned with a smattering of sprinkles across her nose.

This, Arthas decided, was a girl who would not mind getting a snowball in the face, or going for a swim on a hot day. Someone, unlike his sister, he could play with.

“Arthas—a word wi’ ye,” came a gruff voice. Arthas turned to see the ambassador peering up at him.

“Of course, sir,” Arthas said, his heart sinking. All he wanted to do was talk to this new friend—he was already sure they would get along famously—and Muradin probably wanted to scold him again for the embarrassing display earlier in the armory. At least the dwarf was discreet enough to walk a few paces away.

He turned to face the prince, stubby thumbs hooked into his belt, gruff face knotted in thought. “Lad,” he said, “I’ll get right tae th’ point. Yer fightin’ form is terrible.”

Again, Arthas felt the blood rush to his face. “I know,” he said, “but Father—”

“Yer father has many things on ’is mind. Dinna ye be saying a thing against ’im.”

Well, what was he supposed to say? “Well I can’t very well teach myself fighting. You saw what happened when I tried.”

“I ken tha’. I’ll teach ye if ye like.”

“You—you will?” Arthas was at first disbelieving, then delighted. The dwarves were renowned for their fighting prowess, among many things. Part of Arthas wondered if Muradin would also teach him how to hold his ale, another thing dwarves were known for, but he decided not to ask that.

“Aye, that’s what I said, wasn’t it? I’ve spoken wi’ yer father, an’ he’s all for it. Been put off long enough as it is. But let’s get one thing straight. I’ll take nae excuses. And I’ll be pushin’ ye right hard. And if at any moment I say tae mesel’, ‘Muradin, ye’re wastin’ yer time,’ I stop. D’ye agree, boy?”

Arthas fought back an incongruous giggle at the thought of someone who stood so much shorter than he calling him “boy,” but bit it back. “Yes, sir,” he said fervently. Muradin nodded and stuck out a large, calloused hand. Arthas shook it. Grinning, he glanced up at his father, who was deep in conversation with Uther. They turned as one to regard him, both pairs of eyes narrowing in speculation, and inwardly Arthas sighed. He knew that look. So much for playing with Jaina—he’d probably not have time to even see her again before she left.

He turned to watch as Calia, her arm around the younger girl’s shoulder, swept Jaina from the room. But right before she disappeared through the doorway, Admiral Proudmoore’s daughter turned her golden head, caught Arthas’s gaze with her own, and smiled.

“I’m very proud of you, Arthas,” said his father. “Stepping up to the responsibility like this.”

In the week that Jaina Proudmoore had been with the Menethil family as an honored guest, “responsibility” had been the watchword. Not only had his training with Muradin begun—and it was every bit as rigorous and demanding as the dwarf had warned, the pain of sore muscles and bruises augmented by the occasional ringing cuff on the ear when Arthas was not paying sufficient attention for Muradin’s liking—but as Arthas had feared, Uther and Terenas also decided it was time that the prince’s training was stepped up in other areas. Arthas would rise before dawn, grab a quick breakfast of bread and cheese, and go on an early ride with Muradin. The ride would end in a hike, and it was the twelve-year-old youth who always ended up shaking and winded. Arthas secretly wondered if the dwarves had such an affinity with stones that the very earth made it easy for them to climb it. Back home, bath, lessons in history, mathematics, and calligraphy. A midday meal, then it was all afternoon in the chapel with Uther, praying, meditating, and discussing the nature of paladins and the rigorous disciplines they must observe. dinner, and then Arthas stumbled into bed to sleep the deep dreamless sleep of the utterly exhausted.

He’d seen Jaina only a few times at dinner, and she and Calia seemed to be thick as thieves. Arthas finally decided enough was enough, and, taking the lessons in history and politics that were being drilled into his head, he approached his father and Uther with the offer to escort their guest, Lady Jaina Proudmoore, to dalaran himself.

He didn’t bother to tell them it was because he wanted to get out of his duties. It pleased Terenas to think of his son as being so responsible, Jaina smiled brightly at the prospect, and it got Arthas exactly what he wanted. Everyone was happy.

And so it was that in early summer, when the flowers were blooming, the woods were full of game, and the sun danced above them in a sky of bright blue, Prince Arthas Menethil was accompanying a brightly smiling, blond, young lady on a journey to the wondrous city of magi.

They’d gotten a little late of a start—one thing Arthas was starting to learn about Jaina Proudmoore was that she was not exactly punctual—but Arthas didn’t mind. He was in no hurry. They weren’t alone, of course. Propriety demanded that Jaina’s lady-in-waiting and a guard or two ride escort. But still, the servants hung back and let the two young nobles become acquainted. They rode for a while, then stopped for a picnic lunch. While they were munching on bread, cheese, and watered wine, one of Arthas’s men came up to him.

“Sir, with your permission, we will make preparations to spend the night in Ambermill. On the morrow, we can push on the rest of the way to Dalaran. We should arrive there by nightfall.”

Arthas shook his head. “No, let’s continue. We can camp overnight in the Hillsbrad area. That will get Lady Jaina to Dalaran by mid-morning tomorrow.” He turned to smile at her.