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Heath sighed, drawing an arrow from the quiver at last. “I know.”
He lined up the shot, inhaling deeply, then released it. Both brothers watched impassively as the arrow hit the bullseye dead center.
“Mother and Father know it too,” Heath added. “They’re not really angry with me. They just don’t want to give anyone extra reasons to be suspicious of us.”
He drew out another arrow. “The truth is, I don’t even care about the prejudice. Not really. I’m just annoyed about being kept kicking my heels here because…”
He trailed off, and Percival looked at him, his forehead creased. “Because what?”
“Nothing,” said Heath. He wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t told his brother about his discovery of the abandoned island kingdom, but every time he went to say it, he found himself reluctant to share the secret.
“Lord Niel just wants to take his insecurity out on anyone he can,” he said instead. “Even he doesn’t really think I have magic.”
“Well that’s his mistake, then,” said Percival staunchly. “No one without magic could have hit that shot.”
“I told you,” said Heath impatiently. “I could see the target.”
Percival’s frown deepened. “I tied the kerchief myself, Heath.”
Heath poked his brother in the stomach with the tip of his bow. “I guess kerchief-tying isn’t part of your magical abilities.”
Percival rolled his eyes, but let the matter drop. Heath returned his attention to the target, his conscience niggling at him. Again, he wasn’t sure why he didn’t want to confide the full truth in his brother. He hadn’t hesitated to tell both his grandmother and Reka the details, and both of them had received the information placidly enough. But then, they had both always insisted that they could sense magic in Heath, without knowing its form. Telling his brother—the ever-confident Lord Percival, known throughout the kingdom for his legendary strength—seemed like more of a risk, somehow.
Heath went to bed that night in a sour frame of mind, having just tried without success to convince his parents to let him out of the cage. He was starting to contemplate directly disobeying their instructions, something he hadn’t done since childhood.
“Reka,” he called to his empty bedchamber as he prepared for sleep. “Still no point coming tomorrow. I’m still a prisoner. Apparently I have to lie low for a few more days.”
He threw his tunic petulantly across the room onto a carved wooden chair. He knew that his friend would hear the message. Reka’s farsight was tuned in to Heath, and calling the dragon by name was always enough to get his attention. Of course there was no way for Heath to hear any response.
As the thought occurred to him, an image flickered before his mind’s eye, of Reka. Heath blinked, thrown by how real the picture seemed. Reka was sitting on his haunches, his head tilted to one side as he listened to Heath’s complaint. The dragon’s form and mannerisms were familiar enough that it was no surprise that Heath’s imagination could conjure up a convincing image, but the surroundings were somewhere he’d never been before. Heath shook his head to clear it, wondering how much resemblance his imagination bore to the reality of what the dragon colony on Wyvern Islands looked like.
He slept fitfully, his mind as always on the island, and his strange encounter with the only inhabitant he’d been able to find. Who was she? Was she the sole survivor of some terrible tragedy? Her eyes, filled with a restlessness that spoke to his soul, haunted his dreams as they had the last three nights.
But just before dawn, he fell into a dream that for once had nothing to do with Vazula.
“Mama, Mama, who’s he?” A five year old Heath tugged on his mother’s skirts as they wandered through Valoria’s summer markets.
“Hush, Heath, where are your manners?” his mother chided. “It’s not polite to point.”
“But he’s not normal.”
“Heath!” his mother said, her tone shocked. She shot an apologetic look at the stranger in the market. “My apologies, sir.”
The man inclined his head in acknowledgment of her words, but his expression remained cold. Heath stared at him, unable to pull his eyes away. There was something chilling about the older man’s face, something alien.
“But Mama, why’s he different?”
“That’s enough, Heath,” his mother said firmly, tugging him away. “No more excursions to the markets until you can learn to behave with the manners fitting your station.”
“But he’s different,” Heath insisted, his shrill little voice rising. “He’s different!”
He continued to protest, even after his mother had handed him over to one of their personal guards, and the man had dragged him gently but inexorably out of the public eye.
“He wouldn’t stop saying it,” his mother reported to his father later that evening, her tone still disapproving. “I was mortified. The poor man was simply walking through the market, minding his own business.”
She all but rolled her eyes when her husband responded with eagerness rather than seconding her rebuke.
“Maybe it’s a sign of his magic coming out! Maybe he could see something you couldn’t.” He got down to his young son’s level, his expression encouraging. “What was different about him, Heath? Can you remember?”
