Golden Age (The Shifting Tides, #1)(114)

The officer nodded. ‘Already done.’

At that moment a regular soldier ran forward, white-faced as he gasped for breath. ‘Commander—’ He corrected himself. ‘Sire.’

‘What is it?’

‘Your son,’ the breathless soldier said. ‘He’s . . . He’s in the palace.’

Nikolas felt a terrible dread sink into his chest.

‘Nikolas—’ Dion said.

‘Clear the palace!’ Nikolas called out to his men. His voice lowered to a whisper. ‘Let me go in alone.’





55


Dion stood in the middle of the deserted agora of Xanthos, a shambles of broken market stalls and blood-stained marble steps. Toward the sea, the huge bronze statue of a hoplite was toppled over. The temples had been looted and the priests murdered. Many of the city folk had survived the destruction, but not all were so lucky.

He tried to tell himself that soon Xanthos would be as it had once been, but the thought seemed impossible. His parents were gone, and now he was on his own. He tried to blot out the horror of the battle to free his homeland. Xanthos was once more in the hands of its people. But Triton’s eldren and the sun king’s fleet had left mere hours ago, heading for Phalesia. The fight was far from over.

Though the few surviving priests had more work than they could handle, King Markos and his queen had been given their final resting places, with the army arrayed in front of the Temple of Balal and the black-robed magus chanting sorrowfully as they were interred. Dion’s parents would now sleep together in the deep royal crypt beneath the temple. He vowed to himself that his mother’s secret would die with her.

Nikolas had requested that he be alone for the burial of his wife. Dion had tried to provide the right words as his brother exited the Temple of Edra, but Nikolas would not be comforted. The new king of Xanthos still wouldn’t let anyone into the Royal Palace.

Despite the scene of carnage at the battlefield, already the bodies of the fallen Xanthians were growing few and far between as their families gave them their last rites and buried them with honor. Dion had spoken with Zachary and the eldren with him, who were waiting outside the city walls. Fearful for the fate of the ark, the eldran had asked Dion when Nikolas would lead the army to Phalesia. Dion had told him soon.

But he was worried.

Dion’s own emotions were ragged, but he needed his brother to keep going, just for a little longer. Chloe would by now be in Phalesia. The Ilean warships were on their way.

Finally, Dion could wait no more.

He left the agora and traveled to the palace’s main gates. As he approached he could see the courtyard, the gardens, and the servant’s quarters and stables. The gates were open, but guarded by six soldiers.

As Dion walked toward them their spears came up and their leader, a veteran soldier with thick black eyebrows, raised a warding hand to hesitantly bar the way.

‘Let me see my brother,’ Dion said softly.

‘He is now the king,’ the soldier said, uncertain. ‘That is how you should refer to him.’

‘He is also my brother, and a soldier. If what I think is true, though I hope to the gods it isn’t, I am now his heir.’

The guard scratched his chin and then nodded to his fellows. The spears came up and the men drew aside.

Dion crossed the courtyard and entered the palace.

He went immediately for the broad stone steps leading up to the first floor. Trepidation in every footstep, he climbed them one after the other. He emerged into the banqueting hall, where little Lukas had been proudly given his name, scanning the wide room but seeing that the hearths were cold and the hall was empty.

He glanced at the Flower Terrace. His mother’s favorite place would now haunt him forever.

Dion walked through the corridor and entered the audience chamber. He slowly approached the high-backed wooden chair that had been his father’s throne, and was now his older brother’s.

Nikolas sat on the throne with his head in his hands. He heard Dion’s footsteps and looked up.

Dion approached the throne and turned to face his brother. He sank to one knee and placed his hand on his heart.

‘Brother,’ Dion said softly. ‘You are now king.’

Nikolas’s face bore the marks of grief in every line. The dark, twisted expression on his usually jovial face was one that Dion had never seen before. His reddened eyes were weary and uncaring.

‘Father said this chair was never comfortable,’ Nikolas said. He paused for a moment, as if he was finding speech difficult. ‘By the gods, I never thought I would inherit in this way.’

‘Brother . . . Sire . . .’ Dion said. ‘We need to talk—’

‘There is something I must show you,’ Nikolas said. He tugged on his thick black beard, before sighing and climbing off the throne to join Dion on the floor. ‘Come.’

Feeling growing concern, Dion followed Nikolas out to the Orange Terrace. Dion’s brother led him to the half-circle of stone benches, where so many times the family had sat in council with the crashing waves on the shore below the palace forming a backdrop to their conversation.

Nikolas waited expectantly at the circle for his brother to arrive. Dion followed his gaze and put his hands over his face before taking them away, forcing himself to see what his brother wanted him to see.

Seven-year-old Lukas sat composed on the central bench with his back leaning against the stone, staring sightlessly out at the endless blue horizon of the Maltherean Sea. He wore a clean white tunic, low at the neck, making the neat slice across his throat clearly visible.