Arthas: Rise of the Lich King (8 page)

“Have you been to the camps, Prince Kael’thas?” she said tartly, speaking before she could stop herself. “Have you actually seen what they have become?”

Color rose in Kael’thas’s cheeks for a moment, but he kept his expression pleasant. “No, Lady Jaina, I have not. Nor do I see any need to. I see what they have done whenever I behold the burned trunks of the glorious trees of my homeland, and pay my respects to those slain in that attack. And surely you have not seen them, either. I cannot imagine that so refined a lady would wish to be given a tour of the camps.”

Jaina very carefully did not look at Arthas as she replied, “While His Highness gives me a lovely compliment, I do not think that refinement has any bearing on one’s desire to see justice. Indeed, I think it rather more likely that a
refined
individual would not wish to see sentient beings slaughtered like animals.” She gave him a pleasant smile and continued eating her soup. Kael’thas gave her a searching look, confused by her reaction.

“The law is Lordaeron’s, and King Terenas may do as he sees fit in his own realm,” Antonidas broke in.

“Dalaran and every other Alliance kingdom also must pay for their upkeep,” said a mage Jaina did not know. “Surely we have a voice in this, since we are paying for it?”

Antonidas waved a thin hand. “It is not the issue of who pays for the camps, or indeed whether the camps are even necessary. It is this strange lethargy of the orcs that intrigues me. I have researched what little we have on orcish history, and I do not believe it is confinement that renders them so listless. Nor do I believe it is an illness—at least, not one that we need worry about contracting.”

Because Antonidas never indulged in idle chatter, everyone stopped their bickering and turned to listen to him. Jaina was surprised. This was the first she had heard from any of the magi regarding the orcish situation at all. She had no doubt that this was a deliberate decision on Antonidas’s part to reveal this information at this time. With both Arthas and Kael’thas present, word would travel swiftly throughout Lordaeron and Quel’Thalas. Antonidas did little by accident.

“If it is not an illness, nor a direct result of their internment,” Arthas said pleasantly, “then what do you think it is, Archmage?”

Antonidas turned toward the young prince. “It is my understanding that the orcs were not always so bloodthirsty. Khadgar told me what he had learned from Garona, who—”

“Garona was the half-breed who murdered King Llane,” Arthas said, all trace of good humor gone. “With all due respect, I do not think we can trust anything such a creature says.”

Antonidas lifted up a calming hand, as some of the others began to murmur agreement. “This information came before she turned traitor,” he said. “And it has been verified through—other sources.” He smiled a little, deliberately refusing to identify what “other sources” he had consulted. “They committed themselves to demonic influence. Their skin turned green, their eyes red. I believe they were saturated with this external darkness by the time of the first invasion. Now they have been cut off from that source of sustenance. I think we are seeing not an illness, but withdrawal. Demonic energy is a potent thing. To be denied it would have dire consequences.”

Kael’thas waved a hand dismissively. “Even if such a theory is correct, why should we care about them? They were foolish enough to trust demons. They were thoughtless enough to permit themselves to become addicted to these corruptive energies. I, for one, do not think it is wise to ‘help’ them find a cure for this addiction, even if it could return them to a peaceful state. Right now, they are powerless and crushed. It is how I—and anyone in his right mind—prefer to see them, after what they have done to us.”

“Ah, but if they can be returned to a peaceful state, then we will not have to keep them locked up in the camps, and the money can be distributed elsewhere,” Antonidas said mildly, before the entire table could erupt in argument. “I’m sure King Terenas does not levy these fees simply to line his own pockets. How
does
your father fare, Prince Arthas? And your family? I regret that I was unable to attend your initiation ceremony, but I hear it was quite the event.”

“Stormwind was most gracious to me,” Arthas said, smiling warmly and digging into the second course of delicately broiled trout served with sautéed greens. “It was good to see King Varian again.”

“His lovely queen has recently provided him with an heir, I understand.”

“Indeed. And if the way little Anduin grips my finger is any indication of how he’ll grip a sword one day, he’ll make a fine warrior.”

“While we all pray your coronation day is many years distant, I daresay that a royal wedding would be welcomed,” Antonidas continued. “Have any young ladies caught your eye, or are you still Lordaeron’s most eligible bachelor?”

Kael’thas turned his attention to his plate, but Jaina knew he was following the conversation keenly. She kept her own face carefully composed.

Arthas did not look in her direction as he laughed and reached for the wine. “Ah, that would be telling, would it not? And where’s the fun in that? There’s plenty of time left for such things.”

Mixed feelings washed over Jaina. She was a little disappointed, but also somewhat relieved. Perhaps it was best if she and Arthas remained only friends. After all, she had come here to learn how to be the most accomplished mage she could become, not flirt. A student of magic needed to be disciplined, to be logical, not emotional. She had duties, and needed to perform them with her full attention.

She needed to study.

“I need to study,” Jaina protested a few days after the dinner, when Arthas approached her leading two horses.

“Come on, Jaina.” Arthas grinned. “Even the most diligent student needs to take a break now and then. It’s a beautiful day and you should be out enjoying it.”

“I am,” she said. It was true; she was in the gardens with her books, rather than cloistered in one of the reading rooms.

“A bit of exercise will help you think better.” He extended a hand to her as she sat underneath the tree. She smiled despite herself.

“Arthas, you will be a magnificent king one day,” she said teasingly, grasping his hand and allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. “No one can seem to deny you anything.”

He laughed at that and held her horse while she mounted. She was wearing trousers today, light linen breeches, and was able to sit astride rather than sidesaddle with long robes. He swung up easily on his own horse a moment later.

Jaina glanced at the horse he was riding—a bay mare, rather than the white stallion fate had snatched from him. “I don’t think I ever said how sorry I was about Invincible,” she said quietly. The mirth left his face, and it was like a shadow passing over the sun. Then the smile returned, slightly sobered.

“It’s all right, but thanks. Now—I have picnic supplies and the day awaits. Let’s go!”

It was a day Jaina would remember for the rest of her life, one of those perfect late summer days where the sunlight seemed thick and golden as honey. Arthas set a hard pace, but Jaina was an experienced rider and kept up easily. He took her far away from the city and along stretches of green, expansive meadows. The horses seemed to be enjoying themselves as much as their riders, their ears pricked forward and their nostrils flaring as they inhaled the rich scents.

The picnic was simple but delicious fare—bread, cheese, fruit, some light white wine. Arthas lay back, folding his arms behind his head, and dozed for a bit while Jaina kicked off her boots, digging her feet into the thick, soft grass as she sat with her back to a tree, and read for a while. The book was interesting—
A Treatise on the Nature of Teleportation
—but the languid heat of the day, the vigorous exercise, and the soft hum of cicadas served to lull her to sleep as well.

Jaina awoke some time later slightly chilled; the sun was starting to go down. She sat up, knuckling the sleep out of her eyes, to realize that Arthas was nowhere to be seen. Nor was his horse. Her own gelding, reins draped about a tree branch, grazed contentedly.

Frowning, she got to her feet. “Arthas?” There was no answer. Likely he had just decided to go for a quick exploration and would be back any moment. She strained to listen for the sound of hoofbeats, but there were none.

There were still orcs loose, wandering around. Or so the rumors went. And mountain cats and bears—less alien but no less dangerous. Mentally Jaina went over her spells in her mind. She was sure she’d be able to defend herself if she was attacked.

Well—fairly sure.

The attack was sudden and silent.

A thump against the back of her neck and cold wetness was the first and only clue she had. She gasped and whirled. Her attacker was a blur of motion, leaping to another hiding space with the speed of a stag, pausing only long enough to fire another missile at her. This one caught her in the mouth and she started to choke—with laughter. She pawed at the snow, gasping a little as some of it slid down her shirt.

“Arthas! You don’t fight fair!”

Her answer was four snowballs rolled in her direction, and she scrambled to pick them up. He’d obviously climbed high enough to find the places in the mountains where winter had come early, and returned with snowballs as trophies. Where was he? There—a flash of his red tunic—

The fight continued for a while, until both had run out of ammunition. “Truce!” Arthas called, and when Jaina agreed, laughing so hard she could barely get the word out, he leaped from his place of concealment among the rocks and ran to her. He hugged her, laughing as well, and she was pleased to see that he, too, had traces of snow in his hair.

“I knew it all those years ago,” he said.

“Knew w-what?” Jaina had been pelted with so many snowballs that despite the fact that it was late summer, she was chilled. Arthas felt her shivering and tightened his arms around her. Jaina knew she should pull back; a friendly and spontaneous hug was one thing, but to linger in his embrace was something else. But she stayed where she was, letting her head rest against his chest, her ear pressed against his heart, hearing it thump rhythmically and rapidly. She closed her eyes as one hand came up to stroke her hair, removing bits of snow as he spoke.

“The day I first saw you, I thought that this would be a girl I could have fun with. Someone who wouldn’t mind going for a swim on a hot summer day, or”—he stepped back a little, brushing a few bits of melting pieces of winter off her face and smiling—“or getting a snowball in the face. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She smiled in return, suddenly warmed. “No. No you didn’t.” Their eyes met and Jaina felt heat coming to her cheeks. She moved to step back, but his arm encircled her as firmly as an iron band. He continued to touch her face, trailing strong, calloused fingers down the curve of her cheek.

“Jaina,” he said quietly, and she shivered, but not from cold, not this time. It was not proper. She should move back. Instead she lifted her face and closed her eyes.

The kiss was gentle at first, soft and sweet, the first Jaina had ever known. As if of their own will, her arms crept up to drape around his neck and she pressed against him as the kiss deepened. She felt as though she was drowning, and he was the only solid thing in the world.

This was what—who—she wanted. This youth who was her friend despite his title, who saw and understood her scholarly character but also knew how to coax forth the playful and adventurous girl who didn’t often have a chance to come out—who wasn’t often glimpsed.

But he had seen all of who she was, not just the face she presented to the world.

“Arthas,” she whispered as she clung to him. “Arthas…”

I
t was a good few months, in Dalaran. Arthas found, somewhat to his surprise, that he actually
was
learning things that would be useful for a king to know. There were also plenty of opportunities to enjoy the lingering summer and first cool hints of autumn, and he loved riding, even if he felt a pang in his chest every time he mounted a horse that was not Invincible.

And there was Jaina.

He’d not planned on kissing her initially. But when he found himself with her in his arms, her eyes bright with laughter and good humor, he’d done so. And she’d responded. Her schedule was more demanding and rigorous than his, and they had not seen each other nearly as much as they had wanted to. When they had, it was usually at public functions. And both had agreed without discussing it at all that it would not do to give the rumor mill any grist.

It lent an extra spice to the relationship. They stole moments when they could—a kiss in an alcove, a fleeting look at a formal dinner. Their first outing had been completely innocent at the outset; but now they avoided such things assiduously.

He memorized her schedule so as to “bump” into her. She found excuses to wander into the stables or in the courtyard that Arthas and his men used as practice areas to keep their battle skills sharp.

Arthas loved every risky, daring minute of it.

Now he waited in a little-used hallway, standing in front of a bookshelf, pretending to peruse the titles. Jaina would be coming in from her fire spell practice; out of habit, she told him with a slightly embarrassed grin, she still trained near the jail area and the many pools of water. She’d have to cross through this area to get to her room. His ears strained for the sound. There it was—the soft, swift pad of her slippered feet moving across the floor. He turned, taking a book down and pretending to look at it, watching for her out of the corner of her eye.

Jaina was clad, as usual, in traditional apprentice robes. Her hair looked like sunshine and her face was set in her typical expression of a concentrated furrow, one of deep thought, not displeasure. She hadn’t even noticed him. Quickly he put the book away and darted out into the hallway before she could get too far, grasping her arm and tugging her into the shadows.

As ever, she was never startled by him, and met him halfway, clutching the books to her chest with one arm while the other went around his neck as they kissed.

“Hello, my lady,” he murmured, kissing her neck, grinning against her skin.

“Hello, my prince,” she murmured happily, sighing.

“Jaina,” came a voice, “why are you—”

They sprang apart guiltily, staring at the intruder. Jaina gasped softly and color sprang to her face. “Kael…”

The elf’s face was carefully composed, but anger burned in his eyes, and his jaw was set. “You dropped a book as you left,” he said, lifting the tome. “I followed you to return it.”

Jaina glanced up at Arthas, biting her lower lip. He was as startled as she, but he forced an easy smile. He kept his arm around Jaina as he turned to Kael’thas.

“That’s very kind of you, Kael,” he said. “Thanks.”

For a moment, he thought Kael’thas would attack him. Anger and outrage fairly crackled around the mage. He was powerful, and Arthas knew that he wouldn’t stand a chance. Even so, he kept his gaze even with the elven prince’s, not backing down an inch. Kael’thas clenched his fists and remained where he was.

“Ashamed of her are you, Arthas?” Kael’thas hissed. “Is she only worth your time and attention if no one knows about her?”

Arthas’s eyes narrowed. “I had thought to avoid the ravages of the rumor mill,” he said quietly. “You know how those things work, Kael, don’t you? Someone says something and next thing you know, it’s believed to be true. I would protect her reputation by—”

“Protect?”
Kael’thas barked the word. “If you cared about her, you would court her openly, proudly. Any man would.” He looked at Jaina, and the anger was gone, replaced by a fleeting expression of pain. Then that, too, disappeared. Jaina looked down. “I will leave you two to your…
tryst
. And do not fear, I will say nothing.”

With an angry hiss, he scornfully tossed the book toward Jaina. The tome, likely invaluable, landed with a thump at Jaina’s feet, and she started at the sound. Then he was gone in a swirl of violet and gold robes. Jaina let out her breath and laid her head on Arthas’s chest.

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 faintly 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.