Forcing his own voice into more even tones, Heath explained the king’s decision.
“It’s outrageous,” blustered Percival.
But Heath’s anger had melted away again in the face of the alarm he read in his father’s eyes. Only the sense of weary defeat remained.
“Just face it, Percival,” he said bitterly. “We’ve made a mess of the whole thing. You messed up when you started secret gatherings, I messed up by calling Reka to come see it, Reka messed up by passing it on to the rest of the dragons. We’ve made everything ten times worse than it already was.”
“We messed up?” Percival repeated, outraged. “How can you say that, Heath? How can you possibly be taking their side now, after this? Can’t you see now that they’re the problem, not us? They’re so afraid of our power, they’d rather watch the kingdom dwindle and weaken compared to Kyona than embrace what we have!”
“Percival,” said the duke, an edge of warning to his steady voice.
But Percival seemed to have worked himself into too much of a state to heed his father’s words. “It’s an abuse of power by the crown!” he raged.
“Hold your tongue,” the duke said, his voice as near a snap as Heath had ever heard it. Heath was acutely aware of the servants watching them, mouths open, all around the courtyard. Clearly their argument had drawn more attention than just their father’s.
For a moment the duke just stood there, his eyes passing calculatingly between his sons, Heath sagging in defeat, Percival’s eyes blazing with suppressed fury. Then he seemed to reach a decision.
“We’re going home,” he said curtly. “Back to Bexley Manor. The snow has melted now, it will be an easy journey. We all need a break.”
“But—” Heath and Percival began in unison. Their father cut them off with a gesture.
“We’ll leave first thing tomorrow.”
His tone made it clear there was no room for argument, and without another word he strode back into the house.
* * *
Heath threw a rock off the edge of the cliff, past his dangling legs. It crashed off the cliff face on the way down, and eventually splashed into the water far below.
He wasn’t sure what his father had been hoping to achieve by forcing the family back to Bexley Manor, but from Heath’s perspective, the last two weeks had been no better than those which came before. It was usually multiple times a day that he fled to his old haunt by the sea, just to escape the dour atmosphere in the manor. He hadn’t even seen his brother that day, and that was fine with him.
Percival was still furious over the restrictions, and his approval of Heath had evaporated the moment Heath dared to place the tiniest bit of blame for the fiasco on Percival’s own shoulders. A visit from Brody and Bianca—the legality of which was still uncertain—had done nothing to lighten the mood. They were angry too, and Heath couldn’t blame them. They’d been more reasonable than Percival, enough to acknowledge that their secret gatherings had been unwise. But they argued that the response was disproportionate. Heath made no attempt to disagree. It was undeniably true.
He just couldn’t understand it. King Matlock, as Prince Lachlan had said, wasn’t a tyrant. He wasn’t usually unreasonable in his demands. It was understandable that he’d been chagrined at the dragons’ words during the festival. But why had he allowed himself to be goaded into abandoning all the careful diplomacy he’d invested into the debate over magic? Who was in his ear so successfully?
“Heath?”
Heath turned quickly. He hadn’t even heard his father approach. Leaning back, he made to rise, but the duke held up a hand to stop him.
“Don’t jump up, for goodness’ sake. You’ll overbalance.”
To Heath’s surprise, his father lowered himself alongside Heath, so that his own legs dangled into open space.
“It’s always terrified your mother that you come out here, and sit so close to the edge. I always told her not to worry about you, that you were responsible enough to be trusted on the cliffs.” He gave his younger son a genuine smile. “So thank you for never falling off and getting yourself killed, or I would have been made to look quite a fool.”
Heath chuckled. “My pleasure.”
The duke looked out to sea, and for a minute there was silence.
“I thought you had gotten yourself killed, you know. Last summer.”
Heath squirmed uncomfortably. The last thing he needed right now was to be interrogated about his secrets. They’d done this dance so many times, back when Reka had first brought him home. He had thought—had hoped—that they were past it.
“I’m sorry, Heath,” said the duke heavily.
Shocked, Heath swiveled so violently to face his father that he actually wobbled on the rocks. Those words were the last he’d expected.
“What could you possibly have to be sorry for, Father?” he protested.