Part 4 (1/2)

”They have been invited to a repast with the other servants,” Taretha explained. She still didn't look up.

”I see. Well, that's kind of the lieutenant general; I'm sure the men appreciate it.”

She didn't move.

”Is there anything else, Taretha?”

The pink in her cheeks deepened, and she lifted her eyes to him. They were calm, resigned. ”My lord Blackmoore sent me with this offering of things to tempt you,” she repeated. ”Things you might enjoy.”

Understanding burst upon him then. Understanding, and embarra.s.sment, and irritation, and anger. He composed himself with an effort-it was hardly the girl's fault, indeed, she was the one being ill used.

”Taretha,” he said, ”I'll take the food, with thanks. I need nothing else.”

”Your Highness, I'm afraid he will insist.”

”Tell him I said it's fine.”

”Sir, you don't understand. If I come back he-”

He glanced down at the hands holding the tray, at the long hair draped just so. Arthas stepped forward and lifted her trailing hair out of the way, frowning at the brownish-blue fading marks on her wrists and throat.

”I see,” he said. ”Come inside, then.” Once she had entered, he closed the door and turned to her.

”Stay for as long as you feel comfortable, then go back to him. In the meantime, I can't possibly eat all this.” He gestured for her to sit and took a chair opposite her, snagging a small pastry and grinning.

Taretha blinked at him. It took a moment for her to understand what he was saying, and then cautious relief and grat.i.tude spread over her face as she poured the wine. After a little while, she began to respond to his questions with more than a few polite words, and they spent the next few hours talking before they agreed it was time for her to return. As she picked up the tray, she turned to him.

”Your Highness-it pleases me so much to know that the man who will be our next king has such a kind heart. The lady you choose to make your queen will be a very lucky woman.”

He smiled and closed the door behind her, leaning on it for a moment.

The lady he would choose to make his queen. He recalled his conversation with Calia; fortunately for his sister, Terenas had started to have some suspicions about Prestor-nothing that could be proven, but enough for second thoughts.

Arthas was almost of age-a year older than Calia had been when their father had nearly betrothed her to Prestor. He supposed he'd have to start thinking about finding a queen sooner or later.

Tomorrow he would be leaving, and not a minute too soon.

The winter chill was in the air. Autumn's last glorious days were gone, and the trees, once shades of gold and red and orange, were now bare skeletons against a gray sky. In a few more months, Arthas would reach his nineteenth year and be inducted into the Order of the Silver Hand, and he was more than ready. His training with Muradin had ended a few months ago, and he had now begun sparring with Uther. It was different, but similar. What Muradin had taught was attentiveness and a willingness to win the battle no matter what. The paladins had a more ritualistic way of looking at battle, and focused more on the att.i.tude one brought into the fight than the actual mechanics of swordplay. Arthas found both methods valid, although he was beginning to wonder if he'd ever have the chance to use what he had learned in a true battle.

Normally, he'd be in prayer session now, but his father was off on a diplomatic visit to Stromgarde, and Uther had accompanied him. Which meant that now Arthas had afternoons free for a few days, and he was not about to waste them, even if the weather was less than perfect. He clung easily and familiarly to Invincible as they galloped over the glade, the animal's stride only slightly slowed by a few inches of snow on the ground. He could see his breath and that of the great white horse as Invincible tossed his head and snorted.

It was starting to snow again now, not the soft fat flakes that drifted lazily down but small, hard crystals that stung. Arthas frowned and pressed on. A little farther, then he would turn back, he told himself. He might even stop at the Balnir farm. It had been a while since he had been there; Jorum and Jarim would likely be interested to see the magnificent horse that the gawky little colt had grown into.

The impulse, having struck, now demanded to be obeyed, and Arthas turned Invincible with a subtle pressure from his left leg. The horse wheeled, obedient and completely in tune with his master's desires. The snow was picking up, tiny needles digging into his exposed skin, and Arthas pulled the cape up over his head for a little more protection. Invincible shook his head, his skin twitching as it did when he was being annoyed by insects in the summer. He galloped down the path, stretching his neck forward, enjoying the exertion every bit as much as Arthas.

They were coming up on the jump soon, and shortly after that, a warm stable for the steed and a hot mug of tea for his rider before they headed back to the palace. Arthas's face was starting to become numb with the cold, and his hands in their fine leather gloves weren't much better. He tightened his chilled hands over the reins, forcing his fingers to bend, and gathered himself as Invincible leaped-no, he reminded himself, flew, flew, they flew over this jump like- they flew over this jump like- -except they didn't fly. At the last minute, Arthas felt the hideous sensation of Invincible's rear hooves slipping on the icy stone, and the horse flailed, neighing, his legs frantically trying to get a secure footing on thin air. Arthas's throat was suddenly raw, and he realized he was screaming as jagged stone, not smooth snow-encrusted gra.s.s, rushed up to meet them with lethal speed. He pulled hard on the reins, as if that could do something, as if anything could do something- The sound cut through his stupor, and he blinked his way back to consciousness with the bone-chilling shriek of a beast in agony clawing at his brain. He couldn't move at first, though his body spasmed of its own accord, trying to move toward the awful cries. Finally he was able to sit up. Pain shot through him and he added his own gasp of agony to the hideous cacophony, and he realized he'd probably broken at least one rib, probably more.

The snow had picked up and was coming down hard and heavy now. He could barely see three feet in front of him. He shut out the pain, craning his neck, trying to find- Invincible. His eye was drawn to movement and the widening pool of crimson that melted the snow, that steamed in the cold.

”No,” Arthas whispered, and struggled to his feet. The world went black around the edges and he almost lost consciousness again, but through sheer will hung on. Slowly, he made his way to the panicked animal, struggling against the pain and the driving wind and snow that threatened to knock him over.

Invincible was churning up the bloodied snow with two powerful, unharmed rear legs and two shattered forelegs. Arthas felt his stomach heave at the sight of the limbs, once so long and straight and clean and powerful, hanging at odd angles as Invincible kept trying and failing to stand. Then the image was mercifully blurred by the snow and the rush of hot tears that spilled down his cheeks.

He slogged toward his horse, sobbing, dropping to his knees beside the maddened animal and trying to do-what? This was no scratch, to be quickly bound so that Invincible could be led to a warm stable and hot mash. Arthas reached for the animal's head, wanting to touch him, to calm him somehow, but Invincible was manic with agony. And he kept screaming. screaming.

Help. There were priests and Sir Uther-maybe they could heal- Pain greater than physical shot through the youth. The bishop had gone with his father to Stromgarde, as had Uther. There might be a priest in another village, but Arthas didn't know where, and with the storm- He shrank back from the animal, covering his ears and closing his eyes, sobbing so that his whole body shook. With the storm, he could never find a healer before Invincible either died of his injuries or froze to death. Arthas wasn't even sure he could find the Balnir homestead, even though it could not be far. The world was white, everywhere save where the dying horse, who had trusted him enough to leap off an icy embankment, lay churning up a steaming crimson pool.

Arthas knew what he had to do, and he couldn't do it.

He would never know how long he sat there, weeping, trying to shut out the sight and sound of his beloved horse in agony, until finally Invincible's struggles slowed. He lay in the snow, his sides heaving, his eyes rolling in torment.

Arthas couldn't feel his face or limbs, but somehow he managed to move toward the beast. Every breath was agony, and he welcomed the pain. This was his fault. His fault. He took the great head in his lap, and for a brief, merciful moment he wasn't sitting in the snow with a wounded beast, but sitting in a stable while a broodmare gave birth. For that moment, everything was all just beginning, and not coming to this shocking, sickening, avoidable avoidable end. end.

His tears fell on the horse's broad cheek. Invincible trembled, his brown eyes wide with now-silent pain. Arthas removed his gloves and ran his hand along the pink-gray muzzle, feeling the warmth of Invincible's breath against his hands. Then, slowly, he eased the horse's head from his lap, got to his feet, and fumbled with his warmed hand for his sword. His feet sank in the red puddle of melted snow as he stood over the fallen animal.

”I'm sorry,” he said. ”I'm so sorry.”

Invincible regarded him calmly, trustingly, as if he somehow understood what was about to happen, and the need for it. It was more than Arthas could bear, and for a moment tears again clouded his vision. He blinked them back hard.

Arthas lifted the sword and brought it straight down.

He did this right, at least; pierced Invincible's great heart with a single strong blow from arms that should have been too chilled to do so. He felt the sword pierce skin, flesh, sc.r.a.pe against bone, and impale itself into the earth below. Invincible arched once, then shuddered and lay still.

Jorum and Jarim found him there some time later, after the snow had tapered off, curled up tightly against the cooling corpse of a once-glorious animal br.i.m.m.i.n.g with life and energy. As the elder man bent to pick him up, Arthas cried out with pain.

”Sorry, lad,” Jorum said, his voice almost unbearably kind. ”For hurting you, and for the accident.”

”Yes,” Arthas said weakly, ”the accident. He lost his footing...”

”And no wonder in this weather. That storm came on quickly. You're lucky you're alive. Come on-we'll get you inside and send someone to the palace.”

As he s.h.i.+fted in the farmer's strong grip, Arthas said, ”Bury him...here? So I can come visit?”

Balnir exchanged glances with his son, then nodded. ”Aye, of course. He was a n.o.ble steed.”

Arthas craned his neck to look at the body of the horse he had named Invincible. He would let them all think it was an accident, because he could not bear to tell anyone what he had done.

And he made a vow then and there that if anyone else ever needed protection-that if sacrifices had to be made for the welfare of others-he would do it.

Whatever it takes, he thought. he thought.

CHAPTER FIVE

Summer was in full blaze, and the merciless sun beat down on His Royal Highness Prince Arthas Menethil as he rode through the streets of Stormwind. He was in a foul mood, despite the fact that this was a day that he was supposed to have been looking forward to all his life. The sun glinted off the full plate armor he wore, and Arthas thought he'd bake to death before he reached the cathedral. Sitting atop his new charger only served to remind him that the horse, while powerful, well-trained, and well-bred, was not Invincible, gone for only a few months and bitterly missed. And he found that his mind had suddenly gone blank regarding what he was supposed to do once the ceremony began.