Golden Age (The Shifting Tides, #1)(25)
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.’