If Kargan sailed away and returned with a fleet of biremes, what could Xanthos or Phalesia do about it? Were they in danger? What was the situation in Ilea? Was the sun king eyeing the continent across the sea, or was he too busy with trouble in his own empire?
One thing Dion knew was that the leaders of both nations were dangerously lacking in information.
As the sailboat headed for shore, he imagined what would happen if Phalesia’s navy was defeated by an enemy that then sailed on to Xanthos. The three-storied palace was walled on all sides, but the surrounding city was walled only where it faced the land.
Attempting to banish his growing concern, Dion leaped over the gunwale as the boat approached the shallows, plunging into water up to his calves and wetting the hem of his short tunic. A moment later Cob jumped out and the two men grunted as they pulled the boat above the high-tide mark and demounted the mast.
‘Leave me here,’ Cob said. ‘You have a lot to discuss with your father.’
‘You go,’ Dion said as he bunched up the sail. ‘I’ll set the boat to rights.’
‘You’re a good lad,’ Cob said, clapping Dion on the back.
The short old man stumped away, leaving Dion to work alone. Just as he finished he sensed eyes on him and looked up.
Watching him from the high bank was a tall but overweight man with the heavy build of a past warrior who now rarely exercised. A rich white silk tunic left one shoulder bare, held at the waist by a navy cord, and he was the only man in sight wearing sandals so close to the water. Hanging from his neck was a silver medallion displaying two fish entwined: Silex, in his guise as god of fortune. Three thick silver rings decorated his fingers.
‘Peithon.’ Dion nodded as he gave the boat one final check and then walked up to the bank. ‘Well met.’
Peithon was King Markos’s closest adviser and master of both trade and treasury. Long ago he and the king fought side by side in the war against Tanus. Though his stomach had a paunch, his face was large rather than fat, with a long nose and extremely thick lips.
‘Dion,’ Peithon said. ‘You’ve been gone much longer than expected. Where have you been?’ He shook his head. ‘Your mother has been hectoring the king incessantly. Others have confirmed the blocking of the narrows since you left.’
‘The blockage is gone,’ Dion said.
Peithon fell in beside Dion and the two men made the short walk to the palace. Two sailors in canvas trousers stood to one side as they passed, bowing while Dion nodded back.
‘Gone?’ Peithon asked when they were out of earshot. ‘How?’
Dion hesitated, but there was no way to prevent what he knew was coming. At least it was here, away from the rest of his family. ‘An eldran changed to serpent form and cleared it.’
‘No.’ Peithon shook his head. ‘I don’t believe you. Why would an eldran help you?’
‘I traveled through the Shards to Phalesia. I explained the situation to Aristocles and asked that he seek their help.’
‘Eldren,’ Peithon almost spat the word. ‘How can the Phalesians bear to even look at them? They are demon spawn, all of them. Eldren . . . wildren . . . it is all the same. The cunning ones are no better than the wild.’
‘Where is Father?’ Dion asked, changing the subject. ‘And Nikolas?’
Dion didn’t want to talk to Peithon about eldren any longer than necessary. A flyer – a fury – had killed Peithon’s bride-to-be just weeks before their wedding day. It was a wildran, of course, an eldran that had forgotten who he or she was. But Peithon’s logic was that if there were no eldren left living there would eventually be no wildren. It was a line that many city folk took in Xanthos, as well as Phalesia.
‘Your brother is busy at the training ground. Your father is with him.’
‘I have important news.’
‘They’ll be back soon enough. Your brother is anxious to see you. The magi have spoken. Nikolas’s son is to be given a man’s name and a materia.’ Peithon opened his mouth and then he gave a slight smile. ‘I just realized I should have let him give you the news himself.’
‘Luni is to have a man’s name?’ Dion grinned. ‘Nikolas and Helena must be pleased. When is the ceremony?’
‘In a few days.’
The high stone walls of the palace loomed overhead; they were approaching the seaward side, where a guarded stairway provided a direct entrance to the middle floor. Even though he’d been gone only a short while Dion felt pleased to be home.
‘I must go,’ Peithon said. ‘If the narrows truly are clear, there are merchant ships waiting to set sail.’
Dion’s lips thinned. ‘The narrows are clear, as I said. Before you go, where is my mother?’
‘Balal knows,’ Peithon grunted. ‘Doing whatever it is she does. Until later, Dion. If I were you I’d prepare yourself for your father’s words.’ With a nod, the older man departed.
11
Two soldiers with spears made way for Dion as he approached the stairway. Climbing to the summit, he stopped for a moment on a wide terrace, a private retreat for the king’s family, and inhaled: the smell of citrus always reminded him of home.
This place, on the palace’s middle level, was called the Orange Terrace, named after the fruit-bearing trees growing out in the open air. Paved walkways weaved through the garden, spiraling from a central paved area in the balcony’s center, where stone benches in a semicircle clustered around a basin filled with clear water. The royal council – consisting of Dion’s family and Peithon – often met in the terrace’s heart to discuss issues affecting the realm. It was a place where one could sit and gaze out at the sea while thinking deep thoughts.
Walking along the path under branches heavy with bright fruit, Dion left behind the circle of seats and continued to the archway that led to the interior.
The wan light of sunset plunged to something near darkness as Dion found himself in his father’s high-ceilinged audience chamber, feeling the dry air pleasantly cool within the thick stone walls. A high-backed throne of polished oak stood on a dais at the far end, the only item of furniture in the room. Torches in sconces burned night and day, the flickering flames dancing on the tapestries lining both walls.
Dion glanced at the throne as he walked past; he’d never seen another chair that looked so uncomfortable. One day his brother would sit on that throne, looking down on his officers and courtiers. Try as he might, Dion couldn’t imagine anyone but his father up there.
Leaving the audience chamber he passed through a connecting passage at the side and entered the banqueting hall. Low tables, high benches, recliners, and decorative amphorae were ranged along the walls, leaving the middle of the room bare. A huge woven mat, the biggest Dion had ever seen, filled the floor, displaying a pattern of red and white diamonds.
Dion’s bare feet moved soundlessly on the fabric as he continued through the banqueting hall. The fading daylight shone from a smaller arch that led to the Flower Terrace. He was now squinting as his eyes adjusted after the near-darkness of the interior.
The Flower Terrace was smaller than the Orange Terrace and offered a view of the mountains rather than the sea, where even now the setting sun in the west was dipping between two distant peaks. Tulips, sunflowers, lavender, and cornflowers sprouted from pots arranged just inside the skirting wall. Though it offered a view of the thin strip of city below and the hills around Xanthos, the king preferred the orange grove and views of the sea on the palace’s other side.
Dion had hoped to find his mother here; it was her favorite place, perhaps because it was often hers alone. After swiftly scanning and seeing the balcony was empty, he placed his hands on the rail and looked down from the height.
Directly below, outside the Royal Palace’s lowest level, were separate structures for the stables and servant’s quarters: squat, utilitarian buildings. Within the palace at ground level were the cellars, kitchens, armory, and strong room. A wall guarded the palace grounds and a barred wooden gate, currently open,
was the palace’s main entrance.
Raising his gaze, Dion saw the crescent of red tiled roofs of the residential quarter, although most of it was out of view, on the other side of the cleft in the harbor. Guarding it all, the main city wall was twelve feet high and two wide, holding the entire city in its embrace.
Behind the wall, farmland stretched to the west, on the left, and rocky hills rose on the right. A dusty road climbed the hills in the direction of the Gates of Annika, the pass that led to Phalesia.
If Dion’s mother wasn’t on the terrace, the next likeliest place was the highest floor, where there was a bedchamber for Dion, a series of rooms for Nikolas and his family, and a separate wing for the king and his wife, the queen. Dion’s mother often had the entire level to herself, for Dion spent time away trading and Nikolas could generally be found at the training ground, King Markos with him. Peithon worked from his own villa, close to the palace, and while her husband was busy, Nikolas’s wife, Helena, often spent time with her son at the home of her parents.
The distant peaks split the sun into fragments and a moment later the glowing orb dipped behind the mountains altogether. Turning back to the interior, Dion found the stairs to the uppermost level and began to climb.
He found his mother with her head bent over a copper basin filled with cloudy black water. Thea, Queen of Xanthos, had a rough woolen cloth on her shoulders, worn like a shawl over the white silk chiton underneath. She ran her fingers through her hair. An oily black substance coated them.
‘Mother,’ Dion said, smiling as he entered.
‘Dion!’ she exclaimed, turning her head to regard him with soft brown eyes while still keeping her long hair over the basin. ‘I’ve been so worried about you. I would embrace you but I’m certain you don’t want to be covered in dye.’
Dion’s mother was a slight woman, with a narrow heart-shaped face and dimples on her cheeks. She carried herself with grace and was nearly as tall as Dion, although Nikolas and Dion’s father both towered over her. She was King Markos’s second wife – Nikolas’s mother, the previous queen, had died in childbirth – but Dion’s father doted on her.
‘Mother, you barely look a day over forty.’
‘You are a man, Dion. Don’t expect to understand. Gray is not an attractive color in a woman. A queen must always look her best.’
Thea rinsed her hair in the basin and then scrubbed her head with the woolen shawl. ‘How do I look?’
‘The same as ever,’ Dion said wryly. ‘Although you might need a comb.’
‘Come.’ She indicated a stool nearby. ‘Sit beside me while I follow your advice.’
Dion sat on the stool while his mother ran a long comb of polished wood through her tresses.
‘I should be angry with you,’ she said. ‘You left with Cob and then last night when you didn’t come home . . .’
‘Do you know when Father will be back?’ Dion asked, changing the subject. ‘I have important news.’
‘He and Nikolas will soon return. Your brother has news also.’
‘So Peithon tells me. Little Luni is to be named. Nikolas must be proud.’
Thea smiled as she combed her long hair. ‘You’ve never seen a prouder father. Your news – what is it? Tell me about your journey.’
Dion explained about the narrows, but refrained from mentioning the Ilean warship.
‘Some of the Phalesians say that the gods caused the tremor because of the eldren.’
‘As I’ve already told you, earthquakes happen,’ Thea said, shrugging. ‘Mount Oden is no doubt to blame – it’s been rumbling for years. If you were to sail over to the island you’d likely see a plume of smoke rising from the volcano and ash on the ground.’
‘An eldran saved the life of the first consul’s daughter.’
Thea arrested the motion of her hand mid-stroke as she regarded her son. ‘Is that true? The Phalesians should all be grateful then.’
‘I’m sure the first consul is. But many fear them.’ Dion hesitated. ‘Mother . . . Why is it you don’t fear them? You have better reason than any. Wildren destroyed your homeland. They slaughtered your people.’
Thea sighed as she resumed combing. ‘I will never cease to be asked this question.’
‘I’m just trying to understand. The eldran who cleared the narrows . . . the serpent form he took . . .’ Dion let out a breath. ‘I can see why they frighten people. They could be powerful friends. Or powerful enemies.’
‘Friends is better,’ Thea said. ‘Remember: Wildren, not eldren, destroyed my homeland. The two are different, far more different than one human nation is from another. There are good and bad eldren, and good and bad wildren. We have all seen wild merfolk who pose no threat at all. But the thing that must be remembered is that wildren are animals. Once they pass the point where they have forgotten who they are, and are unable to change back, they are eldren no more. Some wildren pose a threat to humans and eldren alike and must be hunted down like all dangerous beasts. But to blame an eldran for what he may become – but almost certainly never will – is evil. Like people, all must be judged on their actions.’
‘All I know is that the one that cleared the narrows did a good thing. But by Silex, it was huge.’
Dion paused as he remembered the huge reptilian head bursting out of the water. He had one more question for his mother.
‘You said your people were close to the eldren. Why is it some can only change to merfolk, while others become great serpents? Why are furies somewhere between man and dragon, and ogres somewhere between man and giant?’
Thea was pensive for a moment. ‘I don’t know exactly, but I believe it has to do with their power. They can all change to three shapes, one each for sea, land, and air. But whether an eldran shifts to an ogre or giant depends on his innate strength. There are more who shift to the smaller shapes – merfolk, ogres, and furies – than those who can become serpents, giants, and dragons.’
‘Do they change often?’
Thea smiled. ‘I don’t know. I would assume that, given the risk of becoming wild, they only change in times of greatest need. The eldren in the Wilds, most likely, live quite like you and me, although they spurn metal and walls of stone.’
Dion rubbed his chin. ‘It seems we are better as friends, despite what Peithon says. There hasn’t been a wildran attack in years.’
He suddenly heard the booming voice of his older brother, loud enough to roll up the stairs and reach his mother’s chambers.
‘Go,’ Thea said, reaching out to squeeze his hand.
Dion reached the audience chamber just as his father and brother entered. They stood close, side by side, as Nikolas enthused about his latest training methods.
‘With the additional cavalry on the wings, the longer pikes in the center, and small groups of archers arranged behind each phalanx, we would be able to prevent being outflanked while at the same time protecting our center,’ Nikolas was saying.
‘But we would need more horses,’ Markos grumbled.
‘I know. And horses are expensive. I’ll speak with Peithon.’
Dion stood a dozen paces from the throne and waited for them to notice him. His older brother was the first to glance up and see him.
Nikolas was a burly man, six years older than Dion, with a thick torso and muscled arms and shoulders, his body sculpted by years of training with shield, sword, and spear. He had curly black hair and dark eyes framed by bristling black eyebrows. Half of his round face was obscured by his bushy beard and he was several inches taller than Dion. When he spoke his voice could carry to men standing at the far end of the training ground.
‘Dion!’ Nikolas cried. He opened his arms wide as he approached. ‘Brother, did you hear? The magi have spoken. My son is to be named.’
‘Congratulations,’ Dion said, grinning at his brother’s excitement. The two men embraced and Dion winced at the pounding on his back. ‘I’m sure he’ll make a fine warrior.’
‘If the magus chooses iron,
’ Nikolas said, holding Dion back as he beamed. ‘But he will. Balal will guide him to the right decision.’
‘Dion,’ King Markos said. He regarded his younger son with cold eyes. ‘You expect to disappear and then return as if nothing happened? You were supposed to be gone for a few hours, not two days. You’ve worried your mother. ’
Dion’s father had once been as tall as Nikolas and he still had the frame of a born warrior, but age had stooped his shoulders and his left leg dragged when he walked. Like Nikolas, he had curly hair and dark eyes, but the king’s hair was completely white. He had a broad, weathered face, with frown lines on his brow and a scraggly white beard. His voice was like gravel compared to Nikolas’s boom.
Both men wore dusty tunics, with only the golden thread woven in their belts marking out their status.
‘Father,’ Dion said, ‘I have news.’
King Markos frowned. ‘We know the narrows are blocked. Others confirmed it after you left.’
‘Yes, but there’s more. Much more. What I have to say is important—’
‘We need to wash and change,’ Markos said. He looked pointedly at Dion’s bare feet and tunic, its hem still wet from the sea. ‘That includes you. I’ve told you not to walk around the palace like that. You look like a sailor, not the son of a king.’
‘Father—’
‘Later, Dion. We’ll meet on the Orange Terrace to hear what you have to say. I will inform Peithon and your mother. I hope you have a good reason for your absence.’
12
Dion approached the half-circle of stone seats in the center of the Orange Terrace, seeing his father, mother, Nikolas, and Peithon already seated. The king now wore a purple toga with a golden rope tied around his waist, and like Dion, Nikolas and Peithon both wore clean white tunics. Dion’s mother’s straight dark hair glistened under the flaming torches on stout poles and she wore an embroidered silk chiton of pale blue.
Golden Age (The Shifting Tides Book 1) Page 8