Uther patted his shoulder awkwardly. “Aye,” he said. “It is a dark day for the boy.”
Arthas shivered suddenly, and not from the cold of a bright winter’s day. The beautiful afternoon, with its blue sky and softly curving snow-draped landscape, had suddenly darkened for him.
A few days later, Arthas was standing up on the castle’s ramparts, keeping Falric, one of the guards, company and handing him a steaming hot mug of tea. Such a visit, like the ones Arthas paid to the Balnir family and the castle’s scullery maids and valets and blacksmiths and indeed nearly every underling on the royal grounds, was not unusual. Terenas always sighed, but Arthas knew that no one was ever punished for speaking with him, and indeed he sometimes wondered if his father secretly approved.
Falric smiled gratefully and bowed deeply in genuine respect, pulling off his gauntlets so the mug would warm his cold hands. Snow threatened, and the sky was a pale gray, but thus far the weather was clear. Arthas leaned against the wall, resting his chin on his folded arms. He looked out over the rolling white hills of Tirisfal, down the road that led through Silverpine Forest to Southshore. The road along which Anduin Lothar, the mage Khadgar, and Prince Varian would be traveling.
“Any sign of them?”
“Nay, Your Highness,” Falric answered, sipping the hot beverage. “It could be today, tomorrow, or the day after. If you’re hoping to catch a glimpse, sir, you may be waiting awhile.”
Arthas shot him a grin, his eyes crinkling with mirth. “Better than lessons,” he said.
“Well, sir, you’d know that better than I would,” Falric said diplomatically, clearly fighting the impulse to grin back.
While the guard finished the tea, Arthas sighed and looked back down the road as he had a dozen times before. This had been exciting at first, but now he was becoming bored. He wanted to go back and find out how Brightmane’s foal was, and began wondering how difficult it would be to slip away for a few hours and not be missed. Falric was right. Lothar and Varian might still be a few days away if—
Arthas blinked. He slowly lifted his chin from his hands and narrowed his eyes.
“They’re coming!” he cried, pointing.
Falric was at his side immediately, the mug forgotten. He nodded.
“Sharp eyes, Prince Arthas! Marwyn!” he called. Another soldier snapped to attention. “Go tell the king that Lothar and Varian are on their way. They should be here within the hour.”
“Aye, captain,” the younger man said, saluting.
“I’ll do it! I’ll go!” said Arthas, already moving as he spoke. Marwyn hesitated, glancing back at his superior officer, but Arthas was determined to beat him. He raced down the steps, slipping on the ice and having to jump the rest of the way, and ran through the courtyard, skidding to a halt as he approached the throne room and barely remembering to compose himself. Today was when Terenas met with representatives of the populace, to listen to their concerns and do what he could to assist them.
Arthas flipped back the hood of his beautifully embroidered red runecloth cape. He took a deep breath, letting it escape his lips as soft mist, and nodded as he approached the two guards, who saluted sharply and turned to push open the doors for him.
The throne room was significantly warmer than the outside courtyard, even though it was a large chamber formed of marble and stone with a high domed ceiling. Even on overcast days such as this one, the octagonal window at the apex of the dome let in plenty of natural light. Torches in their sconces burned steadily on the walls, adding both warmth and an orange tint to the room. An intricate design of circles enclosing the seal of Lordaeron graced the floor, hidden now by the gathering of people respectfully awaiting their turn to address their liege.
Seated in the jeweled throne on a tiered dais was King Terenas II. His fair hair was touched with gray only at the temples, and his face was slightly lined, with more smile lines than the creased frowns that etched their marks on souls as well as visages. He wore a beautifully tailored robe in hues of blue and purple, wrought with gleaming gold embroidery that caught the torchlight and glinted off his crown. Terenas leaned forward slightly, engrossed in what the man who stood before him—a lesser noble whose name Arthas couldn’t recall at the moment—was saying. His eyes, blue-green and intent, were focused on the man.
For a moment, knowing whose coming he was about to announce, Arthas simply stood looking at his father. He, like Varian, was the son of a king, a prince of the blood. But Varian had no father, not anymore, and Arthas felt a lump rise in his throat at the thought of seeing that throne empty, of hearing the ancient song of coronation sung for him.
By the Light, please let that day be a long, long time away.
Perhaps feeling the intensity of his son’s gaze, Terenas glanced over at the door. His eyes crinkled in a smile for a moment, then he returned his attention to the petitioner.
Arthas cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Pardon the interruption. Father, they’re coming. I saw them! They should be here within the hour.”
Terenas sobered slightly. He knew who “they” were. He nodded. “Thank you, my son.”
Those assembled looked at one another; most of them, too, knew who “they” were and they moved as if to end the meeting. Terenas held up a hand. “Nay. The weather holds and the road is clear. They will arrive when they do, and not a moment before. Until then, let us continue.” He smiled ruefully. “I have a feeling that once they come, audiences such as this will need to be tabled. Let us finish as much business as we can before that moment.”
Arthas looked at his father with pride. This was why people loved Terenas so much—and why the king usually turned a blind eye to his son’s “adventuring” among the common folk. Terenas cared deeply about the people he ruled, and had instilled that sentiment in his son.
“Shall I ride out to meet them, Father?”
Terenas scrutinized his son for a moment, then shook his fair head. “No. I think it best if you do not attend this meeting.”
Arthas felt like he’d been struck. Not attend? He was nine years old! Something very bad had happened to an important ally, and a boy not much older than he had been rendered fatherless by it. He felt a sudden flash of anger. Why did his father insist on sheltering him so? Why was he not allowed to attend important meetings?
He bit back the retort that would have sprung to his lips had he been alone with Terenas. It would not do to argue with his father here, in front of all these people. Even if he was totally and completely in the right on this. He took a deep breath, bowed, and left.
An hour later, Arthas Menethil was safely ensconced in one of the many balconies that overlooked the throne room. He grinned to himself; he was still small enough to hide under the seats if anyone poked their nose in for a quick perusal. He fidgeted slightly; another year or two and he wouldn’t be able to do this.
But in a year or two, surely Father will understand that I deserve to be present at such events, and I won’t have to hide.
The thought pleased him. He rolled up his cloak and used it as a pillow while he waited. The room was warm from braziers, torches, and the heat of many bodies in a small space. The heat and the soothing murmur of voices in normal discussion lulled him, and he almost fell asleep.
“Your Majesty.”
The voice, powerful, resonant, and strong, jerked Arthas awake.
“I am Anduin Lothar, a knight of Stormwind.”
They were here! Lord Anduin Lothar, the onetime Champion of Stormwind…Arthas edged out from under the seat and rose carefully, making sure he was hidden behind the blue curtain that draped the box, and peeked out.
Lothar looked every inch the warrior, Arthas thought as he regarded the man. Tall, powerfully built, he wore heavy armor with an ease that indicated he was well accustomed to its weight. Although his upper lip and jaw sported a thick mustache and short beard, his head was almost bald; what hair he had left had been tied back in a small ponytail. Beside him stood an old man in violet robes.