On his left, several men—and a few women, Arthas noticed—dressed in flowing white robes stood still and poised. Some held censors, which swayed almost hypnotically. Others bore large candles. One carried an embroidered blue stole. Arthas had been introduced to many of them earlier, but found that their names had gone right out of his head. That was unusual for him—he was genuinely interested in those who worked for him and served under him, and made an effort to get to know all their names.
Archbishop Faol asked the clerics to bestow their blessings upon Arthas. They did, the one who bore the blue stole coming forward to drape it about the prince’s neck and anointing his brow with holy oil.
“By the grace of the Light, may your brethren be healed,” the cleric said.
Faol turned to the men on Arthas’s right. “Knights of the Silver Hand, if you deem this man worthy, place your blessings upon him.”
In contrast to the first group, these men, standing at attention in heavy, gleaming plate armor, were all known to Arthas. They were the original paladins of the Silver Hand, and it was the first time they had assembled since their induction many years past. Uther, of course; Tirion Fordring, aging but still powerful and graceful, now governor of Hearthglen; the six-and-a-half-foot Saidan Dathrohan, and the pious, bushy-bearded Gavinrad. One was missing from their number—Turalyon, right hand to Anduin Lothar in the Second War, who was lost with the company that had ventured through the Dark Portal when Arthas was twelve.
Gavinrad stepped forth, holding an enormous, heavy-looking hammer, its silver head etched with runes and its sturdy haft wrapped in blue leather. He placed the hammer in front of Arthas, then stepped back to stand with his brethren. It was Uther the Lightbringer himself, Arthas’s mentor in the order, who next came forward. In his hands he carried a pair of ceremonial shoulder plates. Uther was the most controlled man Arthas had ever known, and yet his eyes were bright with unshed tears as he placed the armor on Arthas’s broad shoulders. He spoke in a voice that was both powerful and trembling with emotion.
“By the strength of the Light, may your enemies be undone.” His hand lingered a moment on Arthas’s shoulder, then he, too, retreated.
Archbishop Faol smiled at the prince kindly. Arthas met the gaze evenly, no longer worried. He remembered everything now.
“Arise and be recognized,” Faol bade him. Arthas did so.
“Do you, Arthas Menethil, vow to uphold the honor and codes of the Order of the Silver Hand?”
Arthas blinked, momentarily surprised at the lack of his title. Of course, he reasoned, I’m being inducted as a man, not a prince. “I do.”
“Do you vow to walk in the grace of the Light and spread its wisdom to your fellow man?”
“I do.”
“Do you vow to vanquish evil wherever it be found, and protect the innocent with your very life?”
“I d—by my blood and honor, I do.” That was close, he’d almost messed up.
Faol gave him a quick wink of reassurance, then turned to address both the clerics and the paladins. “Brothers and sisters—you who have gathered here to bear witness—raise your hands and let the Light illuminate this man.”
The clerics and paladins all lifted right hands, which were now suffused by a soft, golden glow. They pointed at Arthas, directing the radiance toward him. Arthas’s eyes were wide with wonder, and he waited for the glorious glow to envelop him.
Nothing happened.
The moment stretched on.
Sweat broke out on Arthas’s brow. What was going wrong? Why wasn’t the Light wrapping itself around him in blessing and benediction?
And then the sunlight streaming in through windows in the ceiling slowly began to move toward the prince standing alone in shining armor, and Arthas exhaled in relief. This had to be what Uther had spoken of. The feeling of unworthiness that Uther assured him all paladins felt simply seemed to drag out the moment. The words Uther had spoken came back to him: No one feels he deserves it…its grace, pure and simple…but the Light loves us anyway.
Now it shone down on him, in him, through him, and he was forced to shut his eyes against the almost blinding radiance. It warmed at first, then seared, and he winced slightly. He felt—scoured. Emptied, scrubbed clean, then filled again, and he felt the Light swell inside him and then fade away to a tolerable level. He blinked and reached for the hammer, the symbol of the order. As his hand closed about the haft, he looked up at Archbishop Faol, whose benign smile widened.
“Arise, Arthas Menethil, paladin defender of Lordaeron. Welcome to the Order of the Silver Hand.”
Arthas couldn’t help it. He grinned as he grasped the enormous hammer, so large that for a brief moment he thought he wouldn’t be able to lift it, and swung it upward with a whoop. The Light, he realized, made the hammer seem to weigh less in his hands. At his exultant cry, the cathedral suddenly began to ring with the sound of answering cheers and applause. Arthas found himself roughly embraced by his new brothers and sisters, and then all remnants of formality were torn away as his father, Varian, and others crowded the altar area. Much laughter was had as Varian tried to clap him on the shoulder, only to have his hand sting when he struck the hard metal of the shoulder plates. And then somehow Arthas was turned around and stared into the blue-eyed, smiling face of Lady Jaina Proudmoore.
They were mere inches apart, jostled and pressed together by the throng that had somehow sprung up around the newest member of the Order of the Silver Hand, and Arthas wasn’t about to let the unique opportunity slip away. Almost at once his left arm slipped around her trim waist and he pulled her to him. She looked startled, but not displeased, as he hugged her. She returned the hug, laughing against his chest for a moment, then pulling back, still smiling.
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
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.