“When I was a child, you locked me away in that little room and hid me from sight and made up a story that I was off visiting relatives. I know that was for my own good,” he added, speaking in gasps and fits and starts, but never thinking of stopping. “But it was for your own good, as well, Father, because you didn’t have to face the truth about me. And when I came back with Draconas, with the magic so bright and beautiful in my hands, you forbade me to use it. You made me feel that it was something of which I should be ashamed. Even Mother, though she loves me dearly, wishes it would all just go away . . .”

Marcus had to pause. Sweat rolled down his face, and he bunched the sheets up in a great wad beneath the blanket in order to keep the pain at bay as he plunged ahead.

“Father, if I can use my gift openly, to save the kingdom, so that all the people can see it, then you and mother will never have to be ashamed of me again.”

His strength gave out. He fell back among the pillows. Edward remained standing in silence, his face averted, so that his son could not guess what his father was thinking. Edward had his hands clasped behind him, and the fingers clenched and opened and clenched. He glanced back at Marcus and then walked out of the room.

Marcus would have sighed in bitter disappointment, but it hurt too much. Outside the room he could hear raised voices, among them his father’s. Marcus assumed the king was giving orders for the knights and what was left of his army to return to Ramsgate, though it did sound as though someone was daring to argue with the king. His father’s voice grew cold with anger, and that ended that. There was silence.

Marcus’s shoulder throbbed. Every breath hurt. Add to that the pain in his heart, that no amount of poppy syrup could ease, unless he took enough to ease him out of this life. Realizing he was thirsty, he was eyeing the water pitcher and thinking in frustration that he would have to summon a servant just to fetch him a drink, when the door opened and the court physician entered, accompanied by several assistants bearing rolls of linen bandages.

They all bowed to the prince, then continued a conversation started before they had entered the chamber.

“We will bind His Highness’s arm tightly to his side,” the leech was saying, the wide, full sleeves of the gown that marked his office billowing around him importantly as he walked. “And wrap the bandages tight around the rib cage. That might keep His Highness from puncturing a lung,” the physician added with a sniff that indicated he’d be shocked if it did.

“What’s going on?” Marcus demanded.