Golden Age (The Shifting Tides, #1)(29)

Thea drew in a sharp breath. ‘Across the Maltherean Sea? The voyage is too long, the dangers too many.’

‘I could consult with the Oracle at Athos on the way, which would give the journey a secondary purpose. I know there are dangers—’

‘Dangers?’ Peithon cut in, arching an eyebrow. ‘Have you ever spoken to a man who has beached at Cinder Fen? Surely you’ve heard tales of the Sea of Serpents?’

Dion set his jaw with determination. Ignoring Peithon, he addressed his father and brother. ‘It is the longer journey, but I could sail via Orius and Parnos, missing Cinder Fen altogether. Navigating the sea is to me like leading warriors is to you. Let me do this. Let me use my skills to do something for Xanthos, the same way Nikolas does every day at the training ground.’

Markos looked uncomfortable. Dion was worse than useless with a sword, awkward to say the least with a shield. But in front of a father who valued the skills of a warrior, it was rarely spoken about so openly.

‘Think about all we could learn,’ Dion persisted. ‘Their ship-building techniques. Their intentions. Their strengths and weaknesses. Even if danger never comes, the knowledge will help us. Trade on the Maltherean Sea is as important as the struggle to control it. Silver buys many swords.’

‘I will think on it,’ the king said, and Dion knew that was all he would get from him tonight. ‘In the meantime we have my grandson’s naming ceremony.’ He paused, and then spoke decisively to everyone in the group. ‘I will make my decision by then.’





13


Stools, benches, recliners, and bed-like sofas lay clustered around the banqueting hall, framing the walls and cluttering the interior but leaving much of the center bare. Tasseled pillows, embroidered cushions, and dyed linens covered items of furniture and were covered again by lolling occupants in opulent costumes. Fires roared in the six great hearths, filling the hall with warmth that was utterly unnecessary on an evening in early summer.

The forty guests wiped sweat from brows, laughed uproariously, ate salty food, and then called for more wine to slake their thirst. The aroma of roasting lamb and goat rose from the cooking hearth, an iron bed the size of a table, occupying a wall near the wide-open doors leading to the Flower Terrace. Two servants stood at either end, regularly rotating the two spitted beasts that sizzled over the crimson coals. The noise of loud conversation drowned out the music, though the two seated musicians with lyres played on regardless.

Dion sat on a bench near his brother, who drained his cup and then held it up into the sky to call for more wine. They were near the banqueting hall’s back wall, which afforded them a view of the entire room. Nikolas had been saying something about the different lengths of a pike and the effect on tactics when he’d forgotten what he was saying, had his cup refilled, and now suddenly looked at Dion with an expression of alarm.

‘Luni . . . My son. Where is he? The magus will come at any moment.’

‘Nikolas,’ Dion said, shaking his head and grinning. ‘You’re drunk. Look.’ He nodded. ‘Over there. Next to my mother. There’s Helena, and your son next to her.’

‘Good, good,’ Nikolas said, smiling. He sipped again at the wine and his smile fell. ‘What if the magus doesn’t choose iron?’

‘Everything will be well, brother,’ Dion said. ‘He’s a strong lad, and waves his toy sword at anyone who comes near him. The magus will choose rightly. He’ll make a fine warrior.’

Dion looked across the room at Nikolas’s black-haired seven-year-old son, who was dressed in the naming gown, a special garment he would wear only today. The crimson tunic was oversized on his small frame and he looked overwhelmed by all the attention. Nikolas’s statuesque blonde wife, Helena, was beside him, crouching and arranging the folds of his tunic as she smiled and spoke to Dion’s mother. Thea chuckled as she assisted Helena. The women stood clustered in a group close to the empty center of the room and apart from the men. There was an air of expectancy to their posture; they were evidently nervous as they awaited the magus.

In contrast, Dion’s father sat near the cooking hearth with his old comrades, paying the women little attention as he laughed and waved his cup with stabbing motions, evidently reliving some past battle. He made an overly ambitious swipe and nearly fell from his recliner, as inebriated as Nikolas. A servant scurried to help him up while the scarred soldiers with him roared and stamped their feet on the floor.

Peithon formed another group, in company with two of the city’s richly dressed merchants and a burly old man with an iron necklace who oversaw the quarries and mines. They were deep in discussion, and the plump first adviser to the king was sober-faced as he prodded his palm with the tip of a thick finger.

‘Tell my wife to come over,’ Nikolas suddenly barked. ‘I want to talk to my son again.’

‘Leave them be,’ Dion said, smiling as he sipped from his cup. ‘He’s as prepared as he’ll ever be.’

‘He soon won’t be Luni anymore,’ Nikolas said. ‘He’ll be given a man’s name. How will he fare when they put a real sword in his hands? Will the other boys consent to his leadership?’

A servant bent down to refill Dion’s cup. ‘There’s only so much you can do, brother. His fate is in Balal’s hands.’

Nikolas turned a bleary gaze on his younger sibling. ‘I sacrificed this morning and prayed at the temple.’