Free Arthas: Rise of the Lich King by Christie Golden Page A

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 masses. 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 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