“Forgive me, My Lord.” I began to wipe at my face, but he stopped me.
“Your tears are not in vain. I, myself cried at his death. But now I must ask you to take his place.”
Before I could grasp Killian’s request, Duir came into the room.
“My son, come closer. I am asking your friend, Virago, to take his father’s place at court as Royal Tailor.”
Duir strode towards us, and instead of standing by Killian, came and threw his arms around me.
“I am sorry for the loss of your father.”
“Thank you, my Prince. You are kind to say so.”
“Kind nothing!” Duir released me from his embrace. “I’ve long thought of him as a second father and you a brother. You must come to court as Royal Tailor.”
King Killian interrupted. “Virago, you’ve apprenticed with your father since you were a child. Your talents are worthy of this position.”
Although my father apprenticed me in the hopes of such a possibility, I’d never thought the chance would come, and certainly not as unexpectedly.
“You were always a thinker, Virago.” King Killian broke in on my thoughts. “But there are rumblings of war in the north, and I shall answer their call. It would give me some comfort to know you were at court to serve the Prince.” His eyes found his son. “For he will rule in my stead and you know him well.”
“Too well,” I answered before I could stop myself. I immediately began to apologize, but both men burst into laughter.
I accepted the position as royal tailor and in doing so, ensured monies necessary for Sylvain’s and my survival.
The following spring, war, as The King predicted, came to the north. King Killian being their ally, answered their pleas for aid. I remember the day he departed. Duir stood by Killian’s side while the Privy Council advised, argued, and pleaded with King Killian to stay behind the walls of the castle; leave the battles of the north to the north, and tend the matters of his own realm.
“You forget, my Lords, the Lord of the North came to our aid directly when we battled the savages of these lands. He did not send some underling, but came himself to fight alongside me, and now I must do the same!”
With heavy hearts and many misgivings behind him, King Killian rode forth from his gates.
News of the war came fast and furious to our lands and along with it, many messages from Killian to his son. When these messages stopped, Duir feared his father met his end.
A month after Killian’s last message arrived, I returned home to find my brother waiting for me at the door. He wore a strange expression on his face.
“What is it?” I asked, hoping I’d misread his dour countenance.
“I’ve heard talk of the war,” he answered with cold certainty.
“There is always talk these days, Sylvain. You mustn’t listen to every rogue piece of gossip.”
“Killian is believed to be dead. Killed on the fields of the north.”
His words struck me as though I’d been hit. I had no reply, for even as I longed to deny his news, something struck the timber of my soul with chilling realization.
“From whom have you heard this?” I asked, only after I’d found respite in a chair and a draught of bitter ale.
“From Maura, wife to Aran,” he replied.
“No, it cannot be true. She must have misunderstood. Maura is always half-hearing things. Do you remember last spring when she thought…” I couldn’t go on. I wanted desperately to fill the space in my heart that was filling with dread, but couldn’t.
“Virago, Killian is dead.”
I shook my head violently. “Lies!”
“Feckless as Maura may be, you would question Aran’s word? He is Killian’s most trusted field marshal.”
“You must go to court and tell Duir of this,” I said. “If this is true, Duir must be prepared.” When I saw Sylvain tense under my request, I added, “Why has Maura remained quiet?”
“Aran bid her to stay silent. A royal envoy from the north has been sent with the news.”
I shook my head in incredulous disbelief. “Duir must remain ignorant while his beloved father lies dead?”
“Virago, if I go to Duir—”
“It is not a matter of if,” I shouted. “It is a matter of when, Sylvain! You must go now!”
Sylvain did go to court and sought an audience with Duir. I stood by his side and even now, I remember the exchange as if it were only the day before. Duir had gathered his three closest men and council: Auberon, Briar, and Cale. They all were sitting around a long table engaged in games of strategy when we entered.
“My Prince.” I bowed low to Duir. “My Lords.” I bowed to the three men. “My brother wishes to have a word. He has heard urgent news of King Killian.”
There were many times after this meeting I’d wished I’d thought better of sending Sylvain to tell Duir of what he’d learned. I saw not only shock and disbelief cross the faces of Duir and his men, but also disdain and disgust for my blind brother.
“Until I see my father’s body, I will believe in what is before me,” Duir replied, darkly. “While neither Lady Maura nor you are familiar with war and the treachery it brings, my men and I are. You forget letters may be written by any hand, and it has happened before when false letters of death have been sent to dishearten and encourage despair!”
After his outrage, we were dismissed.
Several days later, the expected envoy arrived bearing King Killian’s sword and confirmation of his death.
Duir was twenty and I twenty-two when King Killian died in battle. At Killian’s funeral, Duir embraced and beseeched me. “You must continue to serve as my tailor.” He insisted and stared intently at my face. “I demand your fingers be the only ones to weave my garments and those of my court. Your brother,” he continued and cast a malignant
