Arthas patted her back gently. “It’s all right, he’s gone now.”
“I’m sorry. I guess I should have told you.”
His chest contracted. “Told me what? Jaina—are you and he—”
“No!” she answered at once, gazing up at him. “No. But—I think he wanted to. I just—he’s a good man, and a powerful mage. And a prince. But he’s not…” Her voice trailed off.
“He’s not what?” The words came out sharper than he had intended. Kael was so many things Arthas wasn’t. Older, more sophisticated, experienced, powerful, and almost impossibly physically perfect. He felt jealousy growing inside him in a cold, hard knot. If Kael had reappeared at that moment, Arthas wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t take a swing at him.
Jaina smiled softly, the furrow in her brow uncreasing. “He’s not you.”
The icy knot inside him melted like winter retreating before the warmth of spring, and he pulled her to him and kissed her again.
Who cared what a stuffy elven prince thought anyway?
The year unfolded largely without incident. As summer gave way to a crisp fall and then winter, more complaints rose about the cost of tending to the orc camps, but both Terenas and Arthas expected such. Arthas continued to train with Uther. The older man was adamant that while training at arms was important, so was prayer and meditation. “Yes, we must be able to cut down our enemies,” he said. “But we must also be able to heal our friends and ourselves.”
Arthas thought about Invincible. His thoughts always drifted to the horse in winter, and Uther’s comment only reminded him yet again of what he regarded as the one failure in his entire life. If only he had begun training earlier, the great white stallion would still be alive. He had never revealed to anyone exactly what had happened on that snowy day. They all believed it was an accident. And it was, Arthas told himself. He had not deliberately intended to harm Invincible. He loved the horse; he would sooner have harmed himself. And if he’d begun paladin training earlier, like Varian had done with sword fighting, he’d have been able to save Invincible. He swore that would not happen again. He would do whatever was necessary so that he would never be caught unawares and impotent, would never not be able to make it right.
The winter passed, as all winters must, and spring came to Tirisfal Glades again. And so did Jaina Proudmoore, arriving and looking to Arthas as beautiful, fresh, and welcome a sight as the new blossoms on the awakening trees. She had come to assist him in publicly celebrating Noblegarden, the major spring celebration in Lordaeron and Stormwind. Arthas found that staying up late the night before, sipping wine and filling eggs with candy and other treats, was not quite the boring task it would have been had Jaina not been there with him, her brow furrowed in the endearing fashion he had come to recognize as hers and hers alone, as she carefully and intently filled the eggs and set them aside.
While there was still no public announcement, Arthas and Jaina both knew their parents had spoken with one another, and there was a tacit agreement that the courtship would be permitted. So it was that more and more Arthas, beloved already by his people, was sent to represent Lordaeron at public functions rather than Uther or Terenas. With the passing of time, Uther had increasingly withdrawn into the spiritual aspect of the Light, and Terenas seemed more than content to not have to travel.
“It is exciting when you are young, to travel for days on horseback and sleep under the stars,” he told Arthas. “When you are my age, though, horseback riding is best left for recreation, and the stars one can glimpse by looking out the window are quite close enough.”
Arthas had grinned, diving with pleasure into the new responsibilities. Admiral Proudmoore and Archmage Antonidas had apparently come to the same conclusions. For more and more often, when messengers from Dalaran were sent to Capital City, Lady Jaina Proudmoore accompanied them.
“Come for the Midsummer Fire Festival,” he said suddenly. She looked up at him, holding an egg carefully in one hand, brushing a lock of golden hair from her face with the other.
“I can’t. Summer is a very intensive time for the students at Dalaran. Antonidas has already told me to expect to stay there the whole time.” Regret was in her voice.
“Then I’ll come visit you for Midsummer, and you can come for Hallow’s End,” Arthas said. She shook her head and laughed at him.
“You are persistent, Arthas Menethil. I will try.”
“No, you’ll come.” He reached across the table, littered with carefully hollowed out, brightly painted eggs and small candies, and placed his hand over hers.
She smiled, still a little shy after all this time, her cheeks turning pink.
She would come.
There were several smaller festivals leading up to Hallow’s End. One was somber, one was celebratory, and this one was a bit of both. It was believed to be a time when the barrier between the living and the dead was thin, and those who had passed on could be sensed by those still alive. Tradition had it that at the end of the harvest season, before the winds of winter began to blow, that a straw effigy would be erected right outside the palace. At sunset on the night of the ceremony, it would be lit on fire. It was an awesome sight—a giant flaming wicker man, burning bright against the encroaching night. Anyone who wished could approach the fiery effigy, toss a branch into the cracking flames, and in so doing metaphorically “burn away” anything he did not wish to carry into the quiet, deep reflection time provided by winter’s enforced inactivity.
It was a peasant ritual, sprung up from time immemorial. Arthas suspected that few nowadays truly believed that tossing a branch into a fire would really solve their problems; even fewer believed that contact with the dead was possible. He certainly didn’t. But it was a popular celebration, and it brought Jaina back to Lordaeron, and for those reasons, he was looking forward to it.
He had a little surprise for her in mind.
It was right after sunset. The crowds had begun gathering in late afternoon. Some had even brought picnics and made an event out of enjoying the last few days of late autumn among the hills of Tirisfal. There were guards stationed about, keeping an eye out for the mishaps that often happen when large numbers of people are gathered in one place, but Arthas really didn’t expect any difficulties. When he came out of the palace, clad in a tunic, breeches, and cloak of rich autumnal hues, cheers erupted. He paused and waved at the onlookers, accepting their applause, then turned and extended his hand to Jaina.
She looked a little surprised, but smiled, and the cheers now lifted her name to the darkening sky as well as his. Arthas and Jaina walked down the path to the giant wicker man and stood before it. Arthas held up a hand for silence.
“My countrymen, I join you in celebration of this most revered of nights—the night when we remember those who are no longer with us, and cast aside the things that hold us back. We burn the effigy of the wicker man as a symbol of the year that is passing, much as the farmers burn the remains of the harvested fields. The ashes nourish the soil, and this rite nourishes our souls. It is good to see so many here tonight. I am pleased to be able to offer the distinct honor of lighting the wicker man to Lady Jaina Proudmoore.”
Jaina’s eyes went wide. Arthas turned to her, grinning wickedly.
“She is the daughter of war hero Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, and promises to be a powerful mage in her own right. As magi are masters of fire, I think it only right that she light our wicker man this evening. Do you agree?”
Those assembled roared with delight, as Arthas knew they would. Arthas bowed at Jaina, then leaned in and whispered, “Give them a show—they’ll love it.”
Jaina nodded imperceptibly, then turned to the crowd and waved. Their cheering increased. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, briefly revealing her nervousness, then composed her face. She closed her eyes and lifted her hands, murmuring an incantation.
Jaina was dressed in fire hues of red, yellow, and orange. As small balls of flame began to materialize in her hands, glowing f
aintly at first and then with increasing brightness, she looked to Arthas like fire itself for a moment. She held the fire in her hands with ease, comfort, and mastery, and he knew that the days when she had little control over her spells were long gone. She wasn’t going to “become” a powerful mage; she obviously already was one, in fact if not in title.
And then she extended both hands. The balls of fire leaped like a bullet fired from a gun, hurtling toward the enormous straw effigy. It erupted into flame at once, and the onlookers gasped, then broke into wild applause. Arthas grinned. The wicker man never caught on fire that quickly when an ordinary brand was touched to its base.
Jaina opened her eyes at the sound and waved, smiling delightedly. Arthas leaned close and whispered, “Spectacular, Jaina.”
“You asked me to give them a show,” she shot back, grinning at him.
“Indeed I did. But that was almost too good a show. They’re going to demand that you light the wicker man every year now I’m afraid.”
She turned to look at him. “Would that be a problem?”
The light from the blazing fire danced over her, illuminating her lively features, catching the glint of a gold circlet adorning her head. Arthas caught his breath as he regarded her. She’d always been attractive to him, and he’d liked her from the moment they’d met. She’d been a friend, a confidant, an exciting flirtation. But now he couldn’t help but see her, quite literally, in a whole new light.
It took a moment for him to find his voice. “No,” he said softly. “No, it wouldn’t be a problem at all.”
They joined the throngs dancing by the fire that night, causing the guards no end of consternation as they went right down among the populace and shook hands and exchanged greetings. And then they gave the dutiful guards the slip, losing themselves in the crowd and stealing away unnoticed. Arthas led her through the back corridors to the private living quarters of the palace. Once they were almost caught by some servants taking a shortcut to the kitchens, and had to flatten themselves against the wall and stay perfectly still for several long moments.
Then they were in Arthas’s rooms. He closed the door, leaned back up against it, and swept her into his arms, kissing her deeply. But it was she, shy, studious Jaina, who broke the kiss and moved toward the bed, leading him by the hand, the orange light from the still-blazing wicker man outside dancing on their skin.
He followed, almost as in a daze, a dream, as they stood beside the bed, their hands clasped so tightly Arthas feared her fingers would snap in his grip. “Jaina,” he whispered.
“Arthas,” she said, the word a whimper, and kissed him again, her hands reaching up to clasp his face between her hands. He was dizzy with wanting her, and felt suddenly bereft as she drew back. Her breath was soft and warm on his face as she whispered, “I…are we ready for this?”
He started to answer flippantly, but he knew what she was really asking. He could not imagine being more ready to bring this girl the rest of the way into his heart. He had turned down the lovely Taretha, and she had not been the first he had said no to. Jaina, he knew, was even less experienced than he in such matters.
“I am if you are,” he whispered hoarsely, and as he bent to kiss her again, he saw the familiar furrow of worry cross her brow. I will kiss it away, he vowed, bringing her onto the bed with him. I will make everything you could ever worry about go away forever.
Later, when the wicker man had finally burned out and the only light on Jaina’s sleeping form was the cool blue-white of moonlight, Arthas still lay awake, running his fingers along the curves of her body and alternately wondering where this would all lead and feeling content to simply be in the moment.
He had not tossed in a branch to the wicker man fire, because he had nothing he wished to be rid of. Nor did he now, he thought, bending forward to kiss her. Jaina awakened with a soft sigh, reaching for him.
“No one can seem to deny you anything,” she murmured, repeating the words she had said to him the day of their first kiss, “least of all me.”
He clutched her to him then, a sudden cold shivering over him, though he had no idea why. “Don’t deny me, Jaina. Don’t ever deny me. Please.”
She looked up at him, eyes glittering in the cool moonlight. “I never would, Arthas. Never.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The palace had never been so cheerily decorated for the Feast of Winter Veil as it was this year. Muradin, ever a good ambassador of his people, had brought the dwarven tradition to Lordaeron upon his arrival. Over the years it had increased in popularity, and this year the people seemed to truly take it to heart.
The festive tone had been established a few weeks earlier, when Jaina had delighted them so with her theatrical display of igniting the wicker man. She had been granted permission to stay through the winter if she so chose, although Dalaran was not far to one who could teleport herself. Something had changed. It was both subtle and profound. Jaina Proudmoore was starting to be treated as more than the daughter of the ruler of Kul Tiras, more than a friend.
She was starting to be treated as a member of the royal family.
Arthas first realized it when his mother took both Jaina and Calia to be fitted for the formal dresses fashion required for the Winter Veil Eve ball. Other guests had spent Winter Veil here; Lianne had never before wanted to coordinate their outfits with her own and that of her daughter.
Too, Terenas now often requested that Jaina join him and Arthas when they sat to listen to the peoples’ petitions. She sat on the king’s left, Arthas on his right. In a position nearly equal to the king’s own son.
Well, Arthas thought, he supposed that it was the logical conclusion. Wasn’t it? He recalled his words to Calia years ago: “We each have our duties, I guess. You to marry whomever Father wants, and me to marry well for the kingdom.”
Jaina would be good for the kingdom. Jaina, he thought, would be good for him, too.
So why did the thought make him feel so uneasy?
They had fresh snow for the night before Winter Veil. Arthas stood looking out of a large window at Lordamere Lake, frozen over now. The snow had begun falling at dawn, and had stopped about an hour ago. The sky was black velvet, the stars small icy diamonds against the soft darkness, and moonlight made everything look still, hushed, and magical.
A soft hand slipped into his. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Jaina said quietly. Arthas nodded, not looking at her. “Plenty of ammunition.”
“What?”
“Ammunition,” Jaina repeated. “For snowball fights.”
He finally turned to her and his breath caught. He’d not been permitted to see the gowns she, Calia, and his mother would be wearing to the banquet and ball this evening, and he was stunned by her beauty. Jaina Proudmoore looked like a snow maiden. From shoes that looked to be made of ice, to a white gown tinged with the palest blue to the circlet of silver that caught the warm glow of the torchlight, she was heartbreakingly lovely. But she was no ice queen, no statue; she was warm and soft and alive, her golden hair flowing about her shoulders, her cheeks pink beneath his admiring gaze, her blue eyes bright with happiness.
“You’re like…a white candle,” he said. “All white and gold.” He reached for a lock of her hair, twirling it about his fingers.
She grinned. “Yes,” she laughed, reaching to touch his own bright locks, “the children will almost certainly be blond.”
He froze.
“Jaina—are you—”
She chuckled. “No. Not yet. But there’s no reason to think we won’t be able to have children.”
Children. Again, the word that galvanized him in shock and peculiar distress. She was talking about the children they would have. His mind galloped into the future, a future with Jaina as his wife, their children in the palace, his parents gone, himself on the throne, the weight of the crown on his head. Part of him desperately wanted that. He loved having Jaina by his side, loved holding her in his arms at night, loved the taste and smell of her, loved her
laughter, pure as a bell and sweet as the scent of roses.
He loved—
What if he ruined it?
Because suddenly he knew that until this moment, it had all been child’s play. He’d thought of Jaina as a companion, just as she had been since his boyhood, except their games were now of a more adult nature. But something had suddenly shifted inside him. What if this was real? What if he really was in love with her, and she with him? What if he was a bad husband, a bad king—what if—
“I’m not ready,” he blurted.
Her brow furrowed. “Well, we do not have to have little ones right away.” She squeezed his hand in what was clearly intended to be a gesture of reassurance.
Arthas suddenly dropped her hand and took a step backward. Her frown deepened in confusion.
“Arthas? What’s wrong?”
“Jaina—we’re too young,” he said, speaking rapidly, his voice rising slightly. “I’m too young. There’s still—I can’t—I’m not ready.”
She paled. “You aren’t—I thought—”
Guilt racked him. She’d asked him this, the night they became lovers. Are you ready for this? she had whispered. I am if you are, he had replied, and he’d meant it…. He really had thought he’d meant it….
Arthas reached out and grabbed her hands, trying desperately to articulate the emotions racing through him. “I still have so much to learn. So much training to complete. And Father needs me. Uther’s got so much he needs to teach and—Jaina, we’ve always been friends. You’ve always understood me so well. Can’t you understand me now? Can’t we still be friends?”
Her bloodless lips opened but no words came out at first. Her hands were limp in his. Almost frantically he squeezed them.
Jaina, please. Please understand—even if I don’t.
“Of course, Arthas.” Her voice was a monotone. “We’ll always be friends, you and I.”
Everything, from her posture to her face to her voice, bespoke her pain and her shock. But Arthas clung instead to her words as a wave of relief, so profound it made his knees weak, swept over him. It was all going to be just fine. It might upset her now, a little, but surely she’d understand soon. They knew each other. She’d figure out that he was right, that it was too soon.
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