Prince Lachlan raised an eyebrow. “Do I take it, then, that you do not wish to tell the power-wielders yourself?”
“Of course I don’t!” Heath protested. “They’ll think it was my idea, or that I agree with it, at the very least.”
“Duty,” said the prince coldly, “often requires us to undertake tasks which are unpleasant. It is your role to facilitate communication between the crown and the power-wielders. Just as it is supposed to be your role to communicate to me any threats magic may pose to the well-being of our kingdom.”
“The gathering I saw didn’t pose any threat to anyone,” insisted Heath. “Honestly, the dragons’ claim blew the whole thing completely out of proportion. The restrictions you propose would create a much bigger danger. Firstly, how can you even impose a rule against power-wielders gathering? We’re all family—of course we’ll want to spend time together. There’s nothing sinister in that. And if you go and tell the power-wielders that they’re not allowed to use their magic without direct supervision, you’ll risk creating exactly the kind of mutiny you’re trying to avoid. Surely you can see that it’s not wise to—”
“It’s not a proposal,” Prince Lachlan interrupted. “The decision has been made. If you decline to inform the power-wielders of the new restrictions, then the Chief Counselor will do so formally.”
Heath drew a long breath, trying to calm his tone. He could imagine how well it would be received when the king sent the pompous Lord Niel to deliver the news.
“Your Highness,” Heath tried again. “You’re not unreasonable. And you’re not prone to overreaction. Surely together we can find a better solution than this.”
The prince turned to look out his window, so that his back was to Heath. “There’s no point saying any more, Lord Heath,” he said blandly. “It’s out of your hands.” There was a pause, then he added in little more than a whisper, “It’s out of my hands, too.”
Heath was silent as he processed this. He couldn’t be sure that the prince agreed with him, but even if that were the case, Prince Lachlan wouldn’t—couldn’t—say so. And he evidently felt he couldn’t do anything to change his father’s mind.
“King Matlock is decided, then?” Heath asked at last.
The prince spun back around to face him, irritation coloring his face. “What did you expect, Lord Heath? The decision hasn’t been made rashly. You may have forgotten, but two months ago, our king was insulted and humiliated by the dragons, in front of his own people. It is not magic that rules in this kingdom. It is the crown. His Majesty deserves the absolute loyalty of every one of his subjects, including those with power. He’s not a tyrant. He doesn’t demand anything outrageous. They don’t have to agree with every opinion he expresses. But carrying tales to the dragons—”
“No one carried tales,” Heath interjected quickly. “It was the purest chance that Reka happened to find out about that gathering.”
“There is nothing to be gained by going over the events in question yet again,” said Prince Lachlan, with forced patience. “We must try to find the best path going forward.”
“I wish I could see it,” said Heath, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “But I’m struggling to find any path from here that brings us all together.”
With a stiff bow, he let himself out of the prince’s study and strode from the castle. The snow had melted, but the air was still bitingly cold. Heath’s steps were agitated as he made his way toward home. He was fuming so much, he could hardly see where he was walking. As Heath dwelt on the disastrous conversation, the crown prince’s face flashed before his eyes, no longer expressionless like he’d been in his study, but looking weary, defeated, too old for his twenty years.
All at once Heath’s own shoulders slumped with the same sense of defeat. He had failed utterly in his task. The tensions between the power-wielders and the rest of the court were higher now than they had been when Heath had taken on the role of liaison, nearly a year ago. He hadn’t just failed to make it better, he’d made it much worse, by unintentionally passing news of the conflict to the dragons, through Reka.
When he reached his family’s residence, his anger had settled, but he was no less distressed. The sight of Percival, his sword over his shoulder as he strode, whistling, across the courtyard, did nothing to improve his mood.
“There you are, Heath,” said Percival cheerfully. He’d been maddeningly friendly since the Winter Solstice Festival, utterly undeterred by Heath’s continued coldness. Apparently Heath’s unplanned and unwilling efforts for the power-wielders’ cause had restored him to Percival’s good graces. “I heard you got called to the castle. Don’t tell me they’re still sulking over the dragons telling them off during the lighting of the flame.”
“No,” snapped Heath. “They’re done sulking. They’re ready to start acting.”
Percival stilled, a slight frown marring his features. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” said Heath, completely forgetting his insistence that he had no desire to tell his family the news, “that as of tomorrow, there will be a ban on more than three power-wielders gathering privately together.”
“What?” Percival demanded. “You can’t be serious. That would mean we couldn’t even spend an afternoon with Brody and Bianca!”
“I’m perfectly serious,” said Heath, still speaking in the same biting voice. “And there’s more. Power-wielders are only to use their magic under supervision by the crown, or certain approved members of the court.”
“WHAT?!” Percival’s shout was loud enough to make a passing servant jump. “No. That can’t be allowed to happen.”
Heath gave a mirthless laugh. “It has happened.”
“Well, you have to stop it,” said Percival, angrily. “You’re the liaison, you’re supposed to speak up to the crown on our behalf. You’ll just have to go to the prince, and—”
“Where do you think I’ve just been?” demanded Heath, his own voice raised. “So now you want to work with the crown? Now you want me to use my influence to resolve things diplomatically?”
“Is there a reason my sons are brawling in public?” The Duke of Bexley’s calm voice made both brothers jump guiltily, although their argument was hardly a brawl, and their own courtyard couldn’t really be called public. Clearly their father had been drawn by the sound of their shouts.
“Father, surely you won’t just let this happen?” Percival demanded, turning to the duke.
“Let what happen?” their father asked, still speaking calmly.