Part 4 (2/2)

Beside him rode his father, who seemed completely unaware of his son's irritation. ”This has been a day long in coming, my son,” Terenas said, turning to smile at Arthas.

Despite the heat and the weight of the helm he wore, Arthas was glad of it; it concealed his face, and he wasn't sure he could fake a convincing smile right now. ”Indeed it has, Father,” he replied, keeping his voice calm.

It was one of the biggest celebrations Stormwind had ever seen. In addition to Terenas, many other kings, n.o.bility, and famous personages were in attendance, riding like a parade through the city's white cobbled streets to the ma.s.sive Cathedral of Light, damaged during the First War but now restored and even more glorious than before.

Arthas's boyhood friend Varian, king of Stormwind, was now married and a new father. He had opened the palace to all the visiting royalty and their retinues. Sitting with Varian last night, drinking mead and talking, had been the highlight of the trip for Arthas so far. The hurting, traumatized youth of a decade ago had grown into a confident, handsome, centered king. Somewhere along about early morning, after midnight and before dawn, they had gone to the armory, fetched wooden training swords, and gone at each other for a long time, laughing and recounting memories, their prowess only a little the worse for the alcohol they'd consumed. Varian, trained since early childhood, had always been good and now he was better. But so was Arthas, and he gave as good as he got.

But now it was all formality, incredibly hot armor, and a nagging sense that he didn't deserve the honor that was about to be bestowed upon him.

In a rare moment, Arthas had spoken of his feelings to Uther. The intimidating paladin, who, since Arthas was old enough to remember, had been the very image of rock-solid steadfastness to the Light, had startled the prince with his reply.

”Lad, no one feels ready. No one feels he deserves it. And you know why? Because no one does. does. It's grace, pure and simple. We are inherently unworthy, simply because we're human, and all human beings-aye, and elves, and dwarves, and all the other races-are flawed. But the Light loves us anyway. It loves us for what we sometimes can rise to in rare moments. It loves us for what we can do to help others. And it loves us because we can help it share its message by striving daily to be worthy, even though we understand that we can't ever truly become so.” It's grace, pure and simple. We are inherently unworthy, simply because we're human, and all human beings-aye, and elves, and dwarves, and all the other races-are flawed. But the Light loves us anyway. It loves us for what we sometimes can rise to in rare moments. It loves us for what we can do to help others. And it loves us because we can help it share its message by striving daily to be worthy, even though we understand that we can't ever truly become so.”

He'd clapped a hand on Arthas's shoulder, giving him a rare, simple smile. ”So stand there today, as I did, feeling that you can't possibly deserve it or ever be worthy, and know that you're in the same place every single paladin has ever stood.”

It comforted Arthas a little.

He squared his shoulders, tilted the visor back, and smiled and waved to the crowd that was cheering so happily on this hot summer day. Rose petals were showered upon him, and from somewhere trumpets blared. They had reached the cathedral. Arthas dismounted and a groom led away his charger. Another servant stepped up to take the helm he tugged off. His blond hair was damp with sweat, and he quickly ran a gauntleted hand over it.

Arthas had never been to Stormwind before, and he was impressed by the combination of serenity and power the cathedral radiated. Slowly, he moved up the carpeted carved stairs, grateful for the sudden coolness of the building's stone interior. The fragrance of the incense was calming and familiar; it was the same as that which his family burned in their small chapel.

There was no giddy throng here now, just silent, respectful rows of prominent personages and clergy. Arthas recognized several faces: Genn Greymane, Thoras Trollbane, Admiral Daelin Proudmoore- Arthas blinked, then his lips curved into a smile. Jaina! She had certainly grown up in the years since he had last seen her. Not quite a drop-dead beauty, but pretty, the liveliness and intelligence he'd responded to as a boy still radiating from her like a beacon. She caught Arthas's look and smiled a little in return, inclining her head in respect.

Arthas returned his attention to the altar he approached, but felt a little bit of the trepidation leave his heart. He hoped there would be a chance for him to talk to her after all the formalities were taken care of.

Archbishop Alonsus Faol awaited him at the altar. The archbishop reminded Arthas more of Greatfather Winter than of any of the rulers he had hitherto met. Short and stout, with a long flowing snow-white beard and bright eyes, even in the midst of solemn ceremony Faol radiated warmth and kindliness. Faol waited until Arthas approached him and knelt before him respectfully before opening a large book and speaking.

”In the Light, we gather to empower our brother. In its grace, he will be made anew. In its power, he shall educate the ma.s.ses. In its strength, he shall combat the shadow. And in its wisdom, he shall lead his brethren to the eternal rewards of paradise.”

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 a.s.sembled 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 st.u.r.dy 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 t.i.tle. Of course, Of course, he reasoned, he reasoned, I'm being inducted as a man, not a prince. I'm being inducted as a man, not a prince. ”I do.” ”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 rea.s.surance, 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 s.h.i.+ning armor, and Arthas exhaled in relief. This had to be what Uther had spoken of. The feeling of unworthiness that Uther a.s.sured 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. 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 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. 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.

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