Arthas: Rise of the Lich King wow-6

by Christie Golden

  For a moment, the happy sounds of a celebrating crowd on a hot summer afternoon went away, and all Arthas could see was this suntanned, smiling girl. Could he kiss her? Should he kiss her? He certainly wanted to. But even as he debated she disentangled herself and stepped back, and her fair-haired girlish form was replaced by another fair-haired, girlish form. Calia laughed and hugged her brother tightly.

  “We’re all so proud of you, Arthas,” she exclaimed. He grinned and returned the embrace, happy to hear his sister’s approval, sorry that he’d not gone ahead and kissed the admiral’s daughter. “You will make a wonderful paladin, I’m sure of it.”

  “Well done, my son,” Terenas said. “I am a proud father today.”

  Arthas’s eyes narrowed. Today? What was meant by that? Was his father not proud of him on other days? He was suddenly angry, and not certain why or with whom. The Light, delaying its approval; Jaina backing away from him right at the moment when he could have kissed her; Terenas and his comment.

  He forced a smile and began to shoulder his way through the crowd. He’d had enough of this press of people, few of whom really knew him, none of whom understood.

  Arthas was nineteen. At the same age, Varian had been king for a full year. He was of an age to do whatever he wanted to, and now had the blessing of the Silver Hand to guide him. He didn’t want to simply linger at the palace of Lordaeron, or do boring state visits. He wanted to do something…fun. Something that his power, his position, his abilities would earn him.

  And he knew exactly what he wanted that something to be.

  PART TWO:

  THE BRIGHT LADY

  INTERLUDE

  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.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jaina Proudmoore hummed a little as she strode through the gardens of Dalaran. She’d been here for eight years now, and the city never lost its sense of wonder. Everything here emanated magic, and to her it was almost like a scent, a fragrance of everything in bloom, and she inhaled it with a smile.

  Of course, some of that “fragrance” was that of actual flowers in bloom; the gardens of this place were as saturated with magic as everything else. She had never seen healthier, more colorful flowers, or eaten more delicious fruits and vegetables than here. And the knowledge! Jaina felt she had learned more in the last eight years than in her entire life—and most of that in the last two, since Archmage Antonidas had formally taken her as his apprentice. Few things contented her more than sitting curled up in the sun with a cold glass of sweet nectar and a pile of books. Of course, some of the rarer parchments needed to be protected from sunlight and spilled nectar, so the next best thing was sitting inside one of the many rooms, wearing gloves so her hands would not damage the fragile paper, carefully perusing something that was older almost than she could comprehend.

  But for now, she just wanted to wander in the gardens, feeling the living earth beneath her feet, smelling the incredible scents, and, when hunger gnawed at her stomach, reaching up and plucking a ripe goldenbark apple warm from the sunlight and crunching it happily.

  “In Quel’Thalas,” came a smooth, cultured voice, “there are trees that tower over these in a glory of white bark and golden leaves, that all but sing in the evening breezes. I think you would enjoy seeing them someday.”

  Jaina turned to offer Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider, son to Anasterian, king of the quel’dorei elves, a smile and a deep curtsey. “Your Highness,” she said. “I wasn’t aware you’d returned. A pleasure. And yes, I’m certain I would.”

  Jaina was the daughter, if not of royalty, of nobility and of a ruler. Her father, Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, ruled the city-state of Kul Tiras, and Jaina had grown up accustomed to interaction with nobility. And yet, Prince Kael’thas unnerved her. She wasn’t quite sure what it was. He was handsome, certainly, with that grace and beauty that all elves possessed. Tall, with hair like spun gold that fell halfway down his back, he always looked to her like a figure out of legend rather than a real, living person. Even though he was currently clad in the simpler violet and gold robes of a mage of Dalaran and not the lavish robes he w
ould wear to official occasions, he never seemed to lose his stiffness. Perhaps that was it—there was a sort of…antiquated formality about him. Too, he was much older than she, though he looked about her age. He was sharply intelligent and an extremely talented and powerful mage, and some of the students whispered that he was one of the Six, the secret membership of the highest ranking magi of Dalaran. So she supposed she wasn’t that much of a country bumpkin to find him intimidating.

  He reached up and took an apple himself, biting into it. “There is a certain heartiness about food native to human lands that I have come to appreciate.” He smiled conspiratorially. “Sometimes elven food, while certainly delicious and attractively presented, leaves one still hungry for something more substantial.”

  Jaina smiled. Prince Kael’thas always tried so hard to put her at ease. She only wished it worked better. “Few things are nicer than an apple and a slice of Dalaran sharp,” she agreed. The silence stretched between then, awkward despite the casualness of the setting and the warmth of the sun. “So, you are back for a while?”

  “Yes, my business in Silvermoon has concluded for the time being. So I should not need to depart again anytime soon.” He looked at her as he took another bite of the apple, his handsome features schooled to be impassive. Still, Jaina knew he was waiting for her reaction.

  “We are all pleased at your return, Your Highness.”

  He wagged a finger at her. “Ah, I’ve told you, I would prefer it if you would simply call me Kael.”

  “I’m sorry, Kael.”

  He looked at her and a hint of sorrow passed over his perfect features, gone so quickly that Jaina wondered if she had imagined it. “How do your studies progress?”

  “Very well,” she said, warming to the conversation now that it was back on scholastic ground. “Watch!” She pointed to a squirrel perched in a high branch, nibbling on an apple, and murmured a spell. At once it transformed into a sheep, a look of comical surprise on its face as the branch broke beneath its weight and it started to fall. Immediately Jaina extended a hand and the squirrel-sheep halted in midair. Gently she lowered it unharmed to the ground. It bleated at her, twitching its ears, and after a moment again resumed the shape of a very confused-looking squirrel. It sat on its haunches, chattered at her angrily, then with a flick of its fluffy tail leaped up into the tree again.

  Kael’thas chuckled. “Well done! No more setting books on fire, I hope?”

  Jaina turned scarlet, remembering the incident. When she’d first arrived, her talent with fire had needed some desperate honing. She’d accidentally incinerated a tome while working with Kael’thas—one he’d actually been holding at the time. He’d responded by insisting that for the next few months, she would need to practice all fire spells in the vicinity of the pools that encircled the prison area. “Er…no, that hasn’t happened for a while.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. Jaina…” He stepped forward, tossing away the half-eaten apple, smiling gently. “I wasn’t making idle conversation when I invited you to come to Quel’Thalas. Dalaran is a marvelous city, and some of the finest magi in Azeroth live here. I know you’re learning much. But I think you would enjoy visiting an entire land where magic is so much a part of the culture. Not just a part of the city, or confined to a handful of elite, educated magi. Magic is the birthright of every citizen. We are all embraced by the Sunwell. Surely you must have some curiosity about it yourself?”

  She smiled at him. “I do indeed. And I would love to go there someday. But I think for the moment, my studies can be best advanced here.” Her smile stretched into a grin. “Where people know what to do when I light books on fire.”

  He chuckled at that, but his sigh was sad. “Perhaps you are right. And now if you will excuse me—” He gave her a wry grin. “Archmage Antonidas demands a recounting of my time in Silvermoon. Nonetheless, this prince and mage looks deeply forward to more demonstrations of how your training has advanced…and more time spent with you.”

  Kael’thas placed a hand to his heart and bowed. Not knowing how to respond, Jaina settled for a curtsey, then watched him go, striding through the gardens like the sun, head high, every inch of him exuding confidence and coiled grace. Even the dirt seemed unwilling to cling to his boots and robe hem.

  Jaina crunched a final bite of the apple, then she, too, tossed it away. The squirrel she’d polymorphed earlier scurried headfirst down the trunk, to claim a prize more reachable than the apple that still hung on the tree.

  A pair of hands abruptly covered her eyes.

  She started, but only in mild surprise—no one who posed a threat would be able to breach the powerful wards erected about the magical city.

  “Guess who?” a male voice whispered, but still holding tones of mirth. Jaina, her eyes covered, considered, fighting back a smile.

  “Hm…. your hands are calloused, so you’re not a wizard,” she said. “You smell like horses and leather….” Her own small hands brushed feather-light over strong fingers, touching a large ring. She felt the shape of the stone, the design—the seal of Lordaeron.

  “Arthas!” she exclaimed, surprise and delight warming her voice as she turned to face him. He uncovered her eyes at once, and grinned down at her. He was less physically perfect than Kael’thas; his hair, like the elven prince’s, was blond, but simply yellow rather than looking like spun gold. He was tall and well-built, seeming solid rather than fluidly graceful to her. And despite the fact that he was of a rank equal to Kael’thas—although she wondered if privately Kael doubted that; the elves seemed to think themselves superior to all humans, regardless of rank—there was an ease about him that Jaina responded to immediately.

  Decorum returned to her and she dropped a curtsey. “Your Highness, this is an unlooked-for surprise. What are you doing here, if I may ask?” A sudden thought sobered her. “All is well in Capital City, is it not?”

  “Arthas, please. In Dalaran, the magi rule, and mere men must give deference.” His sea-green eyes twinkled with good humor. “And we are comrades in mischief, after sneaking off to see the internment camps, aren’t we?”

  She relaxed and smiled. “I suppose we are.”

  “In answer to your question, everything is just fine. In fact, so little of real import is going on that my father agreed to my request to come here for a few months to study.”

  “Study? But—you are a member of the Order of the Silver Hand. You’re not going to become a mage, are you?”

  He laughed and drew her arm through his as they walked back toward the student’s quarters. She easily fell in step with him.

  “Hardly. Such intellectual dedication is beyond me, I fear. But it did occur to me that one of the best places in Azeroth to learn about history, the nature of magic, and other things a king needs to know about is right here in Dalaran. Fortunately, Father and your archmage agreed.”

  As he spoke, he covered Jaina’s hand, resting on his arm, with his own. It was a friendly and courteous gesture, but Jaina felt a little spark go through her. She glanced up at him. “I’m impressed. The boy who sneaked me out in the middle of the night to go spying on orcs was not quite so interested in history and knowledge.”

  Arthas chuckled and bent his head conspiratorially down to hers. “Honestly? I’m still not. I mean, I am, but that’s not the real reason I came here.”

  “All right, now I’m confused. Why did you come to Dalaran then?” They had reached her quarters and she stopped, turning to face him and releasing his arm.

  He didn’t answer at first, merely held her gaze with his and smiled knowingly. Then he took her hand and kissed it—a courtly gesture, one she had experienced many times from many noble gentlemen. His lips lingered just an instant longer than was strictly proper, and he didn’t release her hand at once.

  Her eyes widened. Was he implying…had he really contrived to come to Dalaran for a few months—no mean feat, Antonidas was notoriously leery of outsiders—simply…to see her? Before she could recover sufficie
ntly to ask the question, he winked at her and bowed.

  “I will see you tonight at dinner, my lady.”

  The dinner was a formal one. The return of Prince Kael’thas and the arrival of Prince Arthas on the same day had sent those who served the Kirin Tor into a flurry of activity. There was a large dining room that was reserved for special occasions, and it was here that the dinner was hosted.

  A table large enough to seat over two dozen stretched from one end of the room to the other. Overhead, three chandeliers twinkled with brightly burning candles, echoed by the candles burning on the table. Sconces along the walls held torches, and to keep the ambiance gentle while still providing sufficient illumination, several globes hovered around the sides of the room, ready to be summoned where a little extra light might be needed. Servants rarely intruded, save to bring out and clear the courses; bottles of wine poured themselves with the flick of a finger. Flute, harp, and lute provided soothing background music, their graceful notes created by magic rather than human hands or breaths of air.

  Archmage Antonidas presided in one of his rare appearances. He was a tall man, seeming all the taller because of his extremely thin build. His long beard now had much more gray than brown in it, and his head was completely bald, but his eyes were alert and piercing. Present also was Archmage Krasus, upright and alert, his hair catching the candle-and torchlight to gleam mostly silver, with red and black streaks. Many others were in attendance, all of high rank. Jaina, in fact, was far and away the lowest-ranking person present, and she was the archmage’s apprentice.