Many people are unable to handle adversity, becoming husks of their formal selves, shriveling under its weight. A few can bear it, but the strain shows on their faces in a way to touch the mind. Prince Gwanor, however, I think, is one of the rare few who does none of these things. In dark times, he thrives.
Fatima Mahawari, The Later Years, Volume II
The funeral had been the next day, a hasty and shortened affair. After all, there were no bodies to bury, so how could an excellent funeral take place?
The ancient Deocater, Father Chlesloë, droned on and on about the pleasures of life in the hereafter. Peringain had refused to make a speech to honor his son. He stood towards the back, looking for once shocked.
And Gwanor felt empty. He kept waiting for Thwanor to turn toward him and make some joke about the proceedings, but then he would remember, with a jolt, that the funeral was for Thwanor. Why is this happening? What have I done? He still couldn't shake the thought, unrealistic as it was, that he could have done something about it.
But you can't and you never would have, said the little annoying voice in his head. It had been talking to him a lot more lately, now that his brother was dead.
Columbine's death had been met with a lot more anger than sorrow-as far as Gwanor knew, there had not been a funeral for the Lady Ambassador. In the early morning, as the last flames were being stamped out, Julian and the rest of Faerie Caverns departed, but not before marching up to the Greater Faerie camp and demanding an audience with Peringain. It hadn't ended well-he had accused them of starting the fire so as to "conspire to murder the children of my country". As Peringain had been planning to say something along the the lines of that to Julian, civil discourse was impossible, and the conversation had dissolved into a passel of thinly veiled threats.
After that, the peace talks had completely dissolved. Disquietingly, the delegations from Jaelin and Amecrysta left not long after Julian. The Karanins, Tiodeans, and Ansantians still remained, but Gwanor wondered how long that would last. Already there were whispers of a second war-he knew for a fact that his father had recalled two thousand men from all over the country to the camp.
If that happens, Father will expect me to command our army in Thwanor's stead. And it won't be like sparring in the yard. These will be real lives, real men, looking up to me to lead them.
It was not a comforting thought.
The funeral lasted the better part of a day, and Gwanor was forced to accept meaningless condolences from the various families-not just theirs, but the remaining kingdoms as well. He thanked them countless times, smiled at their kind words, and all in all felt ready to run himself through. It was almost a relief to enter the practice green for Magorian's painful lessons.
Surprisingly, there was not a snide remark or comment tossed in his direction. Everyone looked as shocked as he felt-after all, if Thwanor could die in such an unexpected way, then so could any of them. The Knights were dressed completely in funeral grey as an homage to their fallen leader. It was almost pleasant, a word Gwanor hesitated to use to describe his fellow young noblemen. The only thing missing was Thwanor.
Gwanor resigned himself to face Lander. But to his surprise, Lander was paired with the second of Lord Eyan's sons. One by one, Magorian partnered off every member of the non-Knight group. Except Gwanor. His old dread resumed. He's going to do something horrible.
Magorian then moved on to the Knights. Fairly soon, the only one left alone was Gwanor, to whom Magorian motioned to urgently. "Come with me."
What the hell does he want? Numbly, he followed the tall Amecrystan as he crossed the practice field, heading into the tent city. His suspicion increased as Magorian bypassed any area with a large crowd of people, leading Gwanor further and further into the section that had been ravaged by the flames. Here, the grass was scorched and blackened hunks of tent poles littered the ground. Gwanor was forced to pick his way carefully through the scorched rubble. He recognized the green on which Columbine and Thwanor had sparred the day before. To his surprise, Magorian knelt on the grass and picked up a long broadsword. "Do you recognize this?"
