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“Hmph.” Percival’s voice had dropped to a mutter. “If only we could all be so lucky.”
“Well, there have to be perks to not being the heir,” Heath pointed out without rancor. “So what did Lord Niel want this time?”
“He wanted to talk about the tournament,” said Percival, throwing himself into a chair at last.
Heath paused, lowering his bread to his plate. “Oh.”
Of course. The annual tournament hosted in the capital by the king was due to start in a week. He hadn’t even thought of that as the reason for the nobleman’s visit, but on reflection, it should have been obvious.
“Lord Niel does have a point, Percival,” interjected their father calmly. “As ungraciously as he may have put it.”
“Father!” Percival spluttered. “Whose side are you on?”
The Duke of Bexley smiled slightly at his son’s outrage, although his voice remained perfectly serious. “It’s not a matter of taking sides, Percival. It’s a matter of being honest about the truth.”
Percival groaned. “Father, I don’t even have your gift for exposing truth, and I could still see Lord Niel’s simpering excuses for what they were—the insecurity of a weak, small-minded—”
“Precisely,” their father interrupted, with a hint of sternness. “Insecurity. And if he feels insecure, you can be certain he’s not the only one. I know you’re disappointed, but we need to take people’s concerns seriously, or the prejudice will only get worse.”
“He’s right, Percival,” their mother added gently. “You said it yourself. Lord Niel is afraid. Missing out on the tournament this year is a small price to pay to reassure him that he has nothing to be afraid of.”
“Missing out?” Heath repeated, startled. “He asked you to withdraw altogether? I thought you were already only going to compete in one event, the same as last year.”
“I was,” said Percival bitterly. “But apparently that’s not good enough. And no, he didn’t ask me to withdraw.”
Heath’s parents exchanged a brief look, and he sat up straighter in his chair. Whatever Percival was getting at, it was the cause of the tension he could see behind their calm demeanor.
“What do you mean?” he asked cautiously.
“I mean,” said Percival, sounding a bit like a sulky child rather than the young man he was, “that our dear Chief Counselor came armed with a royal decree forbidding me from competing.”
Heath raised his eyebrows. It was no surprise that Percival was upset—he lived for competition, and the annual tournament had once been the highlight of his year. But the news of a royal decree was a surprise—no wonder his parents were uneasy. Such a restriction was unprecedented.
“What did it say?” he pressed.
Percival shrugged one shoulder as he helped himself to some cold meat. “That it wouldn’t be fair, in the spirit of true competition…that the king has no doubt that anyone born with power would be glad, out of loyalty to the crown, to serve the kingdom by undertaking a supervisory role instead of taking an active part in the competition, and so on, and so on.” He huffed as he loaded his fork. “It didn’t mention any names, of course, but it’s basically a specific prohibition against me.”
“I’m sure it’s not just about you,” Heath interjected consolingly.
Percival grunted, giving his brother a look. “It is. This is because of the record.”
Heath blinked in confusion. “The record?”
Percival gave an impatient sigh. “The record, remember? If I win this year, it will match Lord Henrik, who won it five times in a row before marrying the princess and withdrawing from the competition.” He scowled. “He’s our grandparents’ age! Is it really so important that his record stands forever?”
“Lord Henrik happens to be my favorite uncle,” cut in their father mildly. “And I can guarantee that this restriction doesn’t come from him. I can’t imagine he would care in the least if you beat his record.” He eyed his oldest son. “But you know how popular he and Aunt Lavinia still are. People look up to them, and it would be quite a statement for you, at nineteen years old, to use your power to knock out his record with no sign of stopping.”
“You won it at fifteen, Perce,” Heath said placatingly. “You still hold the record for the youngest champion, and it’s not likely anyone will take it away from you.”
Percival didn’t look mollified. “If you want proof it’s about me specifically, there’s more,” he grumbled. “Apparently you’re still allowed to compete in the archery tournament.”
“Of course I’m not competing,” said Heath quickly, brushing off this evidence that Lord Niel shared his own skepticism about whether his good eyesight could really be considered a sign of magic. “If you’re being excluded, I’m not going to take part without you. I don’t care if we don’t even go.”
Percival’s scowl softened at this demonstration of family loyalty, and Heath felt a little guilty at getting too much credit for the generous impulse. The tournament meant nothing to him—it really wasn’t a sacrifice.
“You should compete, Heath,” Percival said. “You won first place last year, and you’re the best archer in the kingdom, fair and square.”
Heath shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, Perce. I’ll stick with you.”
