Though most did not know, the Night of Weeping was important for one other reason. It was the first time in a year since the Twelve of the King's Inner Circle were within the same city. One did not have to have any social status or wealth to know about the King's Inner Circle. They were the best that the nation offered. The King handpicked each one to serve in this group. They were the King's most devoted servants, loyal to every word he spoke, performing his orders without question. Thus, they received the name the King's Body with the King himself serving as the Head.
Each servant had a singular purpose within this inner circle and the King's wishes sent them all throughout the land, often keeping no four of them in the same place at the same time. The end of the war and the Night of Weeping were an extreme exception to this rule, in particular with what was to follow. However, it was not the King's desire that brought the Twelve together. In fact, they came for another reason, a more personal one.
Separate from the city's mourning, the King had a private service, one apart from even the vigils held for the captains of his army. He had it in the Court of the Body. Deep within the walls of the palace, there was a single courtyard, a place that only those of the Twelve could enter. Courtly subjects avoided it out of fear for their lives. That night, one by one, the Twelve slipped in by their own means. Tall hedges surrounded the stone yard, preventing any eyes from seeing them.
On one end of the clearing, a stone throne sat, a seat that only the Royal Head of the Body could sit. King Li sat there that night. Across the courtyard were twelve more seats, forming a semi-circle around the King's throne, but unless the Head called for official business, none of the Twelve sat in them, and even then, most of the seats were empty because of few being present. That night, they filled all chairs but one.
Among those of his Inner Circle, King Li abandoned most of the formalities of his position, one that he had to maintain to the letter under any other circumstance. Before his most trusted servants, he wore a plain sackcloth, an irritating, uncomfortable outfit unfit for a King. He leaned back in his seat, exhaling a deep, weary sigh, placing a hand on his head burying it in his long unkempt dark hair. For a long time, he said nothing, not that he had to say anything. They all knew why they had gathered, but still, a speech must be made.
At last, he stood up from his chair and spoke briefly but the impact was undeniable. "The loss of this war touched us all and, on this night, within the confines of these hedges, we feel the deep pain that came with this victory." He gestured past the chairs to a stone altar. On an elegant cot, resting on the altar, was none other than Charon, the King's Blade. His white hair glistened in the firelight, having lost its full redness long ago. On top of his chest, there laid a sword, shattered in two parts, each stained with blood. He laid clad in his armor, still stained from his deadly wound and the blood of his enemies. No man could ask for a more fitting display. There was the faintest hint of a smile on his face, though a joyful spirit no longer resided in the corpse.
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When those present turned back to the King, they found their leader turning his back to them. "Forgive me if I do not face you," he said, his voice tight with pain. "But I cannot say what I must with your eyes gazing into mine." He paused and some wondered if he would finish his thought, if he could finish it. "I wish I could deliver a eulogy worthy of Charon, but I fear that any offering I bring to him, no matter how eloquent, would be a disservice to him, so I say nothing other than this. Not once in my life nor in my father's time has Charon shirked his duties as the King's Blade. He was a man apart from all others. Everyone had a different bond with him; still, each bond was as strong as an iron chain. We will miss him."
The remaining Twelve met this speech with silence, none having the audacity to interrupt their King as he forced himself to continue talking. At the corner of the semi-circle, a tan man of eighteen years, Barak, sat with a hand planted across his mouth in a tight grip, stifling his cries of despair. Being the youngest, Barak lacked the years of controlling his emotions during these trying times, though he was not alone in his heartache.
"I will choose another," King Li announced. "But for the time being, we need to recuperate from this tremendous loss. When the time is right, there will be another Blade to serve this circle, but for now, let us honor the man who gave his all for this country's future."
On that note, the King stepped away from his throne and walked around the courtyard. He proceeded towards the altar and took his place in front of the body. No one could see his face but all knew the closeness he once shared with Charon. There was not a youth that had not crossed blades with the master swordsman at least once and few had the pleasure as much as the young Prince Li did.
With a slight tremble of his shoulders, he bowed from the waist and in a loud voice, declared, "Thank you for your service!" Another stifled cry gasped from Barak. King Li stood up straight. "Barnabas," he said. "If you will, please oversee the rest of the service." His orders clear, he strode away from the courtyard, taking his leave of the procession.
