“He understands.” King Matlock’s lip curled. “Guards, seize him.”
Three guards surged forward, and Percival raised his fists furiously.
“I know you can evade them if you choose,” King Matlock said coldly. “But there will be consequences if you do.”
Percival’s eyes flew to Heath’s, and Heath knew that, like him, his brother was remembering their conversation all those months ago. If Percival fled, their father would pay whatever penalty the king determined. Heath read a brief struggle in Percival’s eyes, but then he deflated. Heath’s mind spun with terror as the guards led Percival away, toward the horses.
“Your Majesty.” Heath spoke through numb lips. “I know what you’re thinking, but you’ve got it all wrong. Percival didn’t do this. He would never—”
“Enough, Lord Heath.” The king’s voice wasn’t as angry as Heath expected. He studied Heath’s face. “I believe you truly didn’t realize, in light of which, I am grieved for you. Perhaps the most brutal disillusionment of all is finally seeing a fallen loved one for who they truly are.”
“No, there’s no way—”
“It is no news to me that your brother was enraged by the punishment I carried out against you,” the king interrupted calmly. “My own guards reported to me on the approach of your brother and father before I left Bryford. I expected to be met with bitter conflict upon my return, but I acknowledge even I did not expect this.”
He gestured to the ruined building. The departed guard had returned with a group of men, and a bucket line was being established.
“It is understandable that you would wish to find another explanation,” the king went on. “But no one without your bias could doubt the evidence. The two guards at the back of our group were attacked from behind, each felled with a single blow. The door was barred with a rod too heavy for a normal man to lift. Discounting the arrival of yourself and your dragon friend, your brother was the only one present at the scene of the blaze.” His face hardened. “You named the crime yourself earlier. And there is only one possible penalty for attempted regicide.”
Heath stared back at the king, unable to master a single word amidst the horror that gripped his mind.
“He will be executed in the morning,” King Matlock said, his face still as hard as stone. Without another word, he swung into the saddle of his waiting mount, spurring the horse toward the capital with his guards around him.
“Percival,” Heath whispered.
He stood rooted to the spot, paralyzing fear shooting through him, a thousand times more potent than any pain he’d experienced that day. Grief slashed across his mind as his own words came rushing back to him from that day in the markets.
When your unguarded tongue lands you in real trouble, don’t expect me to come to your rescue.
He hadn’t meant it. Not for a moment. As infuriating as Percival might be, he was Heath’s brother. Even at his angriest, Percival had been frantic when he thought Heath was in danger. And it was no different for Heath—he would do anything to save his brother.
“Reka.” There was no volume to Heath’s voice, but the dragon appeared alongside him anyway. “Reka, I need your help.”
Reka inclined his head expectantly.
Heath swallowed, grasping desperately at the only hope he could think of. “We need Grandmother.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Reka said nothing, still watching Heath patiently.
“Can you take me to Bryford?” Heath asked, pulling himself together. “Then go to Bexley Manor and tell my grandmother what’s happened? Tell her she’s needed in the capital urgently.”
Reka asked no questions. Soon they’d left the effort to put out the fire far behind them, streaking toward Bryford well ahead of the king’s party. As soon as Reka set him down in the castle courtyard, Heath was running, desperate to find his father. Maybe the king would listen to him. The duke had steered him well all these years, hadn’t he?
Heath had expected to feel relief when he handed the crisis to his father, but he found himself more afraid than ever. The duke tried to keep his countenance, but Heath’s magic flared out of his control, and with its help he could see the abject terror beneath his father’s curt words.
Heath had always assumed that the duke’s frustration with Percival’s inflammatory behavior came primarily from a desire to protect the crown from the resultant conflict. But the instant and potent onset of the duke’s fear now told Heath that this outcome was exactly what his father had most feared all along. The duke’s primary concern had always been for his family. Somewhere underneath everything, Heath felt chastened for doubting his father’s loyalty, and withholding his own secrets on that basis. But there was no time to reflect on such matters now.
When the king and his escort clattered into the courtyard, Heath and his father were waiting, a pale faced Prince Lachlan beside them.
“Percival!” The duke’s cry on sight of his son—who was positioned, hands bound, in front of one of the guards—was agonizing.
“Norik.” The king’s use of the duke’s name shocked Heath, but there was no disrespect on King Matlock’s face. He looked weary. “It cannot serve anyone to make a scene.”
“Not make a scene?” the duke demanded. “Your Majesty, do you expect me to say nothing when I’m told that my son has been sentenced to death?”
“I take no pleasure from it,” the king said, a bite of frustration in his voice. “But there is no other course open now.”