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.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Dion said. He didn’t know what else he could say. His mouth was dry; he struggled to form words. Lukas was an innocent. Who could kill a child?
Finally, he recovered himself enough to say what had to be said. ‘But, brother, this is no time for grief. You are king now and the struggle is not over. We have to help our allies. We must go to Phalesia to drive away the enemy forces. Then we can grieve.’
Nikolas turned his stricken eyes on his younger brother. ‘What do I care if the sun king seizes the Ark of Revelation? Or Phalesia itself? Phalesia didn’t defend us or fight with us. I owe them nothing.’
‘We were victorious only with the help of Zachary and the eldren who follow him,’ Dion said softly, but clearly. ‘He helped us because of what is in the ark. There are things I need to tell you. You saw that a larger group of eldren fights with Solon. They are under the command of one called Triton, who calls himself their king. Inside the ark is an ancient relic, a horn that he can use to summon the wildren. Think about it. All of them at his command. Out to destroy all humans. That includes the people of Xanthos, those you are duty-bound to protect.’
Nikolas was silent. He ran his fingers through Lukas’s short black hair. The child stared directly ahead, facing the sea.
‘Brother,’ Dion tried again. ‘I did not betray us.’
‘I know,’ Nikolas said.
He walked to the stone rail and Dion frowned as he followed. Nikolas looked down, and Dion drew in a sharp intake of breath.
Peithon was dead, impaled on a wooden stake erected on the grassy bank below. The point of the spear rose from his shoulder blades; he hung limply, with his head lolling to the side. He wore his fine silk tunic, though it was bloody and red, and the large fingers of his hands still had heavy silver rings encrusted with jewels.