Golden Age (The Shifting Tides, #1)(24)

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.