“And when you marry—Papa cannot order you as he orders me. Make sure you care for this girl and—and that she cares for you. Or is at least asked about whom she wants to share her life and her b-bed with.”

She started to weep afresh, but Arthas was too shaken by the revelation that burst upon him. He was only fourteen now, but in four short years, he’d be of age to wed. He suddenly recalled snatches of conversation he’d heard here and there about the future of the Menethil line. His wife would be the mother of kings. He’d have to choose carefully, but also, as Calia had asked, kindly. His parents obviously cared greatly for each other. It was reflected in their smiles and gestures, despite many years of marriage. Arthas wanted that. He wanted a companion, a friend, a—

He frowned. But what if he couldn’t have that? “I’m sorry, Calie, but maybe you’re the lucky one. It might be worse to have the freedom to choose, and know that you couldn’t have what you wanted.”

“I would trade that for being a—a piece of meat in a heartbeat.”

“We each have our duties, I guess,” Arthas said quietly, somberly. “You to marry whomever Father wants, and me to marry well for the kingdom.” He rose abruptly. “I’m sorry, Calie.”

“Arthas—where are you going?”

He didn’t answer, but practically raced through the palace to the stables and, without waiting for a groom, quickly saddled Invincible himself. Arthas knew it was only a temporary solution, but he was fourteen, and a temporary solution was still a solution.

He bent low over Invincible’s back, the white mane whipping his face as the horse galloped, all sleekly coiled muscle and grace. Arthas’s face stretched in a grin. He was never happier than when he rode like this, the two of them merging into one glorious whole. He had waited, his patience sorely tested, for so long to be able to ride the animal he had watched coming into the world, but it had been worth it. They were the perfect team. Invincible wanted nothing from him, asked nothing of him, only seemed to wish to be allowed to escape the confines of the stables as Arthas longed to escape the confines of his royalty. They did so together.

They were coming up on the jump Arthas loved now. To the east of Capital City and close to the Balnir farmstead was a small cluster of hills. Invincible surged, the earth devoured by his pounding hooves, pulling himself upward toward the precipice almost as fast as if they were on level ground. He wheeled and turned along the narrow pathways, sending stones scattering with his hooves, his heart and Arthas’s both racing in excitement. Then Arthas guided the stallion to the left, over an embankment—a shortcut to the Balnir property. Invincible did not hesitate, had not hesitated even the first time that Arthas had asked him to leap. He gathered himself and launched forward, and for a glorious, heart-stopping moment, horse and rider were airborne. Then they landed securely on soft, springy grass, and were off again.

Invincible.

“As you can see, Your Highness,” said Lieutenant General Aedelas Blackmoore, “the taxes have been put to good use. Every precaution has been taken in the operation of this facility. In fact, security is so tight we’ve been able to stage gladiatorial combat here.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Arthas, as he walked with the commander of the internment camps on a tour of the grounds. Durnholde, not an internment camp itself, but the nerve center of all of the others, was huge, and indeed had almost a festival air about it. It was a crisp but bright autumn day, and the breeze caused the blue and white banners that flew over the keep to snap energetically. The wind stirred Blackmoore’s long raven hair and tugged at Arthas’s cloak as they strolled along the ramparts.

“And so you shall also see,” Blackmoore promised, giving his prince an ingratiating grin.

It had been Arthas’s idea for a surprise inspection. Terenas had praised Arthas for his initiative and compassion. “It’s only right, Father,” Arthas had said, and by and large he meant it, although his primary reason for the suggestion was to satisfy his curiosity about the pet orc the lieutenant general kept. “We should make sure the money is going into the camps and not Blackmoore’s pocket. We can ascertain if he is taking proper care of the gladiatorial participants—and also, make sure he is not walking the path of his father.”

Blackmoore’s father, General Aedelyn Blackmoore, had been a notorious traitor, tried and convicted of selling state secrets. While his crimes had taken place long ago, when his son had been but a child, the stain had dogged Aedelas throughout his military career. It was only his record of victory in battles, and particular ferocity in fighting the orcs, that had enabled the current Blackmoore to rise in the ranks. Still, Arthas could detect the smell of liquor on the man’s breath, even at this hour of the morning. He suspected that particular piece of information would not be news to Terenas, but he’d make sure he told his father anyway.

Arthas looked down, feigning interest in watching the dozens of guards who stood at rigid attention. He wondered if they were that attentive when their future king wasn’t watching them.

“I look forward to the bout today,” he said. “Will I be able to watch your Thrall in action? I’ve heard quite a bit about him.”

Blackmoore grinned, his neatly trimmed goatee parting to reveal white teeth. “He was not scheduled to fight today, but for you, Your Highness, I shall pair him up against the worthiest foes available.”

Two hours later, the tour was complete, and Arthas shared a delicious meal with Blackmoore and a younger man named Lord Karramyn Langston, whom Blackmoore introduced as “my protégé.” Arthas took an instinctive dislike to Langston, noting the man’s soft hands and languid demeanor. At least Blackmoore had fought in battle for his title; this boy—Arthas thought of him as a boy, although in truth Langston was older than Arthas’s seventeen years—had been handed everything on a platter.

Well, so have I, he thought, but he also knew what sacrifices a king would be expected to make. Langston looked like he’d never denied himself a thing in his life. Nor did he deny himself now, helping himself to the choicest cuts of meat, the most lavish pastries, and more than one glass of wine to wash it down with. Blackmoore, in contrast, ate sparingly, though he had more alcohol than Langston.

Arthas’s dislike of the pair was completed when their serving girl entered and Blackmoore reached to touch her in a proprietary manner. The girl, golden-haired and simply clad, with a face that needed no artifice to be beautiful, smiled as if she enjoyed it, but Arthas caught a quick flash of unhappiness in her blue eyes.

“This is Taretha Foxton,” Blackmoore said, one hand still caressing the girl’s arm as she gathered the plates. “Daughter of my personal servant, Tammis, whom I’m sure you’ll see later.”

Arthas gave the girl his most winning smile. She reminded him a bit of Jaina—her hair brightened by the sun, her skin tanned. She returned the smile fleetingly, then demurely looked away as she gathered the plates, dropping a quick curtsey before leaving.

“You’ll have one like that soon enough, lad,” Blackmoore said, laughing. It took Arthas a second to grasp the meaning and then he blinked, startled. The two men laughed harder, and Blackmoore raised his goblet in a toast.

“To fair-haired girls,” he said, in a purring voice. Arthas looked back at Taretha, thought of Jaina, and forced himself to raise his glass.

An hour later Arthas had forgotten all about Taretha Foxton and his indignation on her behalf. His voice was raw from screaming, his hands hurt from clapping, and he was having the time of his life.

At first, he’d felt a little uncomfortable. The first few combatants in the ring were simple beasts pitted against one another, fighting to the death for no reason other than the enjoyment of the onlookers. “How are they treated prior to this?” Arthas had asked. He was fond of animals; it unsettled him to see them used so.