Page 8 of A Kingdom Restored

“I’m fine, Perce, don’t worry about it,” Heath said, regretting his words already. “You’re the one we need to worry about.”

Percival was silent, leaning his elbow on the cross bars as he considered Heath, his face still marred by a thoughtful frown. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be,” he said softly. “I’m the big brother. I should be worrying about you.”

He ran a hand down his face, over the uneven beard that had grown during the weeks of his imprisonment.

“I’m sorry you had to be the bigger brother,” Percival went on. “I know you tried to warn me lots of times, and I know I never listened. I guess it took me being thrown in with the rats to realize the danger you were really trying to warn me about.” He chewed his lip. “Does it really seem like I’m guilty?” he asked softly. “I mean, I know you believe me that I’m not. But does it look from the outside like I am? Does King Matlock genuinely believe it?”

Heath nodded, a lump in his throat. “So many little things, Perce. The timing of it, when you were known to be riding out to confront the king in a rage. The impossibly heavy bar over the door of the grain house. The way the guards were felled with a single blow. All things that are possible to happen without you…but seem designed to make you look guilty.”

“It must have been designed, then,” Percival said simply. “The question is, who tried to frame me for killing the king? And why?”

“Those are most definitely the questions,” Heath agreed fervently.

A few short weeks ago, he would have been thrilled by his brother’s malleable mood, and his willingness to believe that the king was genuinely suspicious of him rather than trying to set him up. But knowing what had brought about the change in Percival’s attitude, Heath could take no joy from it.

He let out a sigh. “I just wish I had answers to them. But I can’t find anything that would be likely to convince the king.”

“Heath,” Percival said, “I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, but I want you to step back from it.”

“What are you talking about?” Heath demanded.

Percival gestured around him. “Look where my defiance landed me, Heath. If I’m going to be executed, the last thing I want is for you to get yourself killed over it, too.”

“You’re not going to be executed,” Heath said hotly. “We’re not going to let that happen.”

Percival said nothing, and Heath could feel panic rising inside him. If the indomitable Percival gave up, he didn’t know what he’d do.

With a glance around, he lowered his voice. “Could you break out of the cell if you tried?” he asked softly.

Percival hesitated, his hand tightening and loosening on the bars. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m afraid to try. Afraid I can’t trust myself.” His eyes met Heath’s. “I wouldn’t run away, Heath, even if I could. Not when I know the deal Father made with King Matlock. If I escaped, he’d execute Father instead. And I’d rather die than live with that knowledge.”

Heath was silent, a sense of helplessness overtaking him. He understood. He’d feel the same way. But for all his brother’s hotheaded, irritating ways, the idea of Percival being executed for a treasonous crime he didn’t commit was unendurable.

He would clear Percival’s name openly, and in good faith. There had to be a way.

Chapter Three

Rekavidur flew low over the water, his tail flicking in irritation. They excluded him, did they? Shut him out, left him voiceless in the discussion, in spite of the fact that he was most closely enmeshed in the situation, and had the most accurate information to offer.

The elders didn’t trust his information. That was the truth of it, and it stung. They would be able to tell if he lied, but apparently that wasn’t enough. They must suspect that he would withhold information, or perhaps that he believed what he said, but had been deceived himself.

He sighed, smoke issuing from his nostrils only to be whipped away as he sped through the air. Bypassing the largest of the rocky islands sticking out of the water, he made for one right next to it.

Like most of the masses that formed Wyvern Islands, it looked from the outside like a barren rocky crag, with nothing but gray stone and sharp edges all the way to its peak. But once he reached the summit, a very different landscape was revealed. The rocky crags formed an outer ring, but inside it there were two lower levels. The outer of the two was made up of pebbles, a patchy array of black, white, and gray. A second rocky ring encased the lowest inner level, this ring of rock glinting all over with pale purple crystals, each of them thoroughly imbued with the dragon magic that permeated the very air of the dragons’ realm.

Inside this ring, the lowest level of flat ground was grassy and pleasant, several dragons lounging on the soft turf. Reka landed beside them, moving swiftly toward one of the many chasms in the rock. His family’s home was within, and although he knew his father wasn’t there, he expected to find his mother.

Sure enough, the yellow dragon—her scales not as bright as his hide, and missing the purple tint around the edges of his own scales—was curled inside, her tail draped partially up one wall. Her attention was on a cluster of crystals that sprouted from the base of the wall, and into which she was pouring magic. But at Rekavidur’s approach, she looked up. Her eyes glinted in the light of the crystals, the magic that constantly poured off the dragons causing them to glow in a myriad of colors that danced across the cave.

“Rekavidur, my son,” Raqisa said solemnly. “Welcome home.”

“My bearer,” he responded. “Greetings.”

She straightened, leaving her task for the moment. “You are troubled,” she commented, the words not a question. “Are you distressed regarding the meeting of the elders currently taking place?”

“Distressed is too strong for my current state,” Rekavidur responded evenly. “But I am displeased at my exclusion.”

“You are not an elder,” she pointed out unarguably.

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