Nor did they do the ordinary political maneuvering such as inviting royalty to enjoy their hospitality. It was only because Jaina was coming to study that Arthas and his retinue were permitted admittance. Dalaran was beautiful, even more glorious than Capital City. It seemed almost impossibly clean and bright, as a city based so deeply on magic ought to be. There were several graceful towers reaching skyward, their bases white stone and their apexes violet encircled with gold. Many had radiant, hovering stones dancing around them. Others had windows of stained glass that caught the sunlight. Gardens bloomed, the fragrances from wild, fantastical flowers providing a scent so heady Arthas was almost dizzy. Or maybe it was the constant thrum of magic in the air that caused the sensation.
He felt very ordinary and dingy as they rode into the city, and almost wished they hadn’t slept outside last night. If they had stayed at Ambermill, at least he’d have had a chance to have bathed. But then, he and Jaina wouldn’t have gotten a chance to spy on the internment camp.
He glanced at his companion. Her blue eyes were wide with awe and excitement, her lips slightly parted. She turned to Arthas, those lips curving in a smile.
“Aren’t I lucky to be studying here?”
“Sure,” he said, smiling on her behalf. She was drinking this in like one who had been given water after a week in the desert, but he felt…unwanted. He clearly did not have the affinity for wielding magic as she did.
“I’m told that outsiders aren’t usually welcome,” she said. “I think that’s a shame. It would be nice to see you again.”
She blushed, and for a moment, Arthas forgot about the intimidation the city emanated, and heartily agreed that it would be nice to see Lady Jaina Proudmoore again, too.
Very nice indeed.
“Again, ye little gnome girl! I’ll pull yer pigtails, ye—Ooof!”
The shield caught the taunting dwarf full in the helmed face, and he actually stumbled back a step or two. Arthas slashed with the sword, grinning beneath his own helm as it connected solidly. Then suddenly, he was sailing through the air to land hard on his back. His vision was filled with the image of a looming head with a long beard, and he was barely able to lift his blade in time to parry. With a grunt, he pulled his legs in to his chest and then extended them hard, catching Muradin in the gut. This time it was the dwarf who went hurtling backward. Arthas brought his legs down swiftly and leaped up in a single smooth motion, charging his teacher who was still on the ground, coming at him with blow after blow until Muradin spoke the words that Arthas honestly never thought he’d hear:
“I yield!”
It took everything Arthas had to halt the strike, pulling up and back so abruptly he lost his balance and stumbled. Muradin lay where he was, his chest rising and falling.
Fear squeezed Arthas’s heart. “Muradin? Muradin!”
A hearty chuckle escaped from the thick, bronze beard. “Well done, lad, well done indeed!” He struggled to sit up and Arthas was there, reaching out a hand to help haul the dwarf to his feet. Muradin pumped the hand happily. “So, ye were payin’ attention after all when I taught ye my special trick.”
Relieved and pleased with the praise, Arthas grinned. Some of what Muradin taught him would be repeated, honed, and reinforced in his paladin training. But other things—well, he didn’t think Uther the Lightbringer would know about feet planted firmly in the belly, or the rather handy trick regarding the efficacy of a broken wine bottle. There was fighting and there was fighting, and Muradin Bronzebeard seemed determined that Arthas Menethil would understand all aspects of it.
Arthas was fourteen now, and had been training with Muradin several times a week, save for when the dwarf was away on diplomatic errands. At first, it had gone as both parties had expected—badly. Arthas left the first dozen or so sessions bruised, bloodied, and limping. He had stubbornly refused any offers of healing, insisting that the pain was part of the process. Muradin had approved, and he had shown it by pressing Arthas all the harder. Arthas never complained, not even when he wanted to, not even when Muradin scolded him or pressed the attack long after Arthas was too exhausted to even hold up a shield.
And for that stubborn refusal to whine or to quit, he was rewarded twofold: he learned and learned well, and he won the respect of Muradin Bronzebeard.
“Oh yes, sir, I was paying attention.” Arthas chuckled.
“Good lad, good lad.” Muradin reached up to clap him on the shoulder. “Now, off wi’ ye. Ye’ve taken quite the beating today; ye deserve a bit o’ rest.”
His eyes twinkled as he spoke and Arthas nodded as if agreeing. Today, it was Muradin who had taken the beating. And he seemed as happy as Arthas at the fact. The prince’s heart suddenly swelled with affection toward the dwarf. Though a strict taskmaster, Muradin was someone of whom Arthas had grown terribly fond.
He whistled a little as he strode toward his quarters, but then a sudden outburst froze him in his tracks.
“No, Father! I will not!”
“Calia, I grow tired of this conversation. You have no say in this matter.”
“Papa, please, no!”
Arthas edged a little closer to Calia’s chambers. The door was ajar and he listened, slightly worried. Terenas doted on Calia. What in the world was he asking of her to make her beg with him and use the term of endearment that both she and Arthas had dropped as they grew toward adulthood?
Calia sobbed brokenly. Arthas could take it no longer. He opened the door. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear, but—what is wrong?”
Terenas had recently seemed to be acting strangely, and now he looked furious with his sixteen-year-old daughter. “It is no business of yours, Arthas,” Terenas rumbled. “I have told Calia something I wish her to do. She will obey me.”
Calia collapsed on the bed, sobbing. Arthas stared from his father to his sister in utter astonishment. Terenas muttered something and stormed out. Arthas glanced back at Calia, then followed his father.
“Father, please, what’s going on?”
“Do not question me. Calia’s duty is to obey her father.” Terenas marched through a door and into a receiving room. Arthas recognized Lord Daval Prestor, a young noble whom Terenas seemed to hold in very high regard, and a pair of visiting Dalaran wizards he did not know.
“Run along back to your sister, Arthas, and try to calm her. I’ll be with you as soon as I can, I promise.”
With a final glance at the three visitors, Arthas nodded and went back to Calia’s rooms. His older sister had not moved, although her sobs had quieted somewhat. At a total loss, Arthas simply sat beside her on the bed, feeling awkward.
Calia sat up on the bed, her face wet. “I’m sorry you h-had to see that, Arthas, but m-maybe it’s for the best.”
“What did Father want you to do?”
“He wishes me to marry against my will.”
Arthas blinked. “Calie, you’re only sixteen, you’re not even old enough to get married.”
She reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at her swollen eyes. “That’s what I said. But Father said it didn’t matter; we’d formalize the betrothal and on my birthday I’d marry Lord Prestor.”
Arthas’s sea-green eyes widened in comprehension. So that was why Prestor was here….
“Well,” he began awkwardly, “he’s very well connected, and—I guess he’s handsome. Everyone says so. At least he’s not some old man.”
“You don’t understand, Arthas. I don’t care how well connected or handsome or even kind he is. It’s that I don’t have any choice in the matter. I’m—I’m like your horse. I’m a thing, not a person. To be given away as Father sees fit—to seal a political bargain.”