Arthas: Rise of the Lich King Read Online Free PDF

Uther they’d been spooked and Invincible had fled. But it was obvious from the grass stains on his clothes that he’d fallen, and Uther would never believe that the prince couldn’t stay on gentle old Trueheart, spooked or not.
    “You know you were not supposed to ride him yet,” Uther continued inexorably.
    Arthas sighed. “I know.”
    “Arthas, do you not understand? If you put too much pressure on him at this age he—”
    “I get it, all right? I could cripple him. It was just the one time.”
    “And that’s all it will be, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, sir,” Arthas said, sullenly.
    “You missed your lessons. Again.”
    Arthas was silent and did not look up at Uther. He was angry, embarrassed, and hurting, and wanted nothing more than a hot bath and some briarthorn tea to ease the pain. His right knee was starting to swell.
    “At least you are in time for the prayer session this afternoon.” Uther eyed him up and down. “Though you’ll need to wash up.” Arthas was indeed sweaty and knew he smelled like horse. It was a good smell, he thought. An honest one. “Hurry up. We’ll be assembling in the chapel.”
    Arthas wasn’t even sure what the prayer session was focusing on today. He felt vaguely bad about that; the Light was important to both his father and Uther, and he knew that they badly wanted him to be as devout as they were. But while he couldn’t argue with the evidence of his own eyes—the Light was most definitely real; he’d seen priests and the new order of the paladins work true miracles with healing and protection—he’d never felt called to sit and meditate for hours as Uther did, or make frequent references in reverent tones as did his father. It was just…there.
    An hour later, scrubbed and changed into an outfit that was simple yet elegant, Arthas hurried to the small family chapel in the royal wing.
    It was not a large room, but it was beautiful. It was a miniature version of the traditional chapel style that could be seen in every human town, perhaps a trifle more lavish with regard to the details. The chalice that was shared was finely wrought of gold and inlaid with gems; the table upon which it lay, an antique. Even the benches had comfortable padding, while the common folk had to make do with flat wooden ones.
    He realized as he entered quietly that he was the last—and winced as he recalled that several important personages were visiting his father. In addition to the regular attendees—his family, Uther, and Muradin—King Trollbane was present, though he looked even less happy than Arthas to be here. And…someone else. A girl, slender and straight with long blond hair, her back turned to him. Arthas peered at her, curious, and bumped into one of the benches.
    He might as well have dropped a plate. Queen Lianne, still a beauty in her early fifties, turned at the sound, smiling affectionately at her son. Her gown was perfectly arranged, her hair pulled back in a golden coif from which no unruly tendril escaped. Calia, fourteen and looking as gawky and coltish as Invincible had been at his birth, shot him a scowl. Evidently, word of his misdeeds had gotten out—or else she was just angry with him at being late. Terenas nodded at him, then returned his eyes to the bishop giving the service. Arthas cringed inwardly at the quiet disapproval in that gaze. Trollbane paid him no mind, and Muradin, too, did not turn.
    Arthas slouched down onto one of the benches against the back wall. The bishop began to speak and lifted his hands, limned with a soft, white radiance. Arthas wished the girl would turn a little so he could catch a glimpse of her face. Who was she? Obviously the daughter of a noble or someone else of high rank, else she would not be invited to attend private family services. He thought about who she might be, more interested in discovering her identity than in the words of the service.
    “…and His Royal Highness, Arthas Menethil,” intoned the bishop. Arthas