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

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 shining armor, and Arthas exhaled in relief. This had to be what Uther had spoken of. The feeling of unworthiness that Uther assured 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.
    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 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