‘If the magus chooses iron,’ Nikolas said, holding Dion back as he beamed. ‘But he will. Balal will guide him to the right decision.’
‘Dion,’ King Markos said. He regarded his younger son with cold eyes. ‘You expect to disappear and then return as if nothing happened? You were supposed to be gone for a few hours, not two days. You’ve worried your mother. ’
Dion’s father had once been as tall as Nikolas and he still had the frame of a born warrior, but age had stooped his shoulders and his left leg dragged when he walked. Like Nikolas, he had curly hair and dark eyes, but the king’s hair was completely white. He had a broad, weathered face, with frown lines on his brow and a scraggly white beard. His voice was like gravel compared to Nikolas’s boom.
Both men wore dusty tunics, with only the golden thread woven in their belts marking out their status.
‘Father,’ Dion said, ‘I have news.’
King Markos frowned. ‘We know the narrows are blocked. Others confirmed it after you left.’
‘Yes, but there’s more. Much more. What I have to say is important—’
‘We need to wash and change,’ Markos said. He looked pointedly at Dion’s bare feet and tunic, its hem still wet from the sea. ‘That includes you. I’ve told you not to walk around the palace like that. You look like a sailor, not the son of a king.’
‘Father—’
‘Later, Dion. We’ll meet on the Orange Terrace to hear what you have to say. I will inform Peithon and your mother. I hope you have a good reason for your absence.’
12
Dion approached the half-circle of stone seats in the center of the Orange Terrace, seeing his father, mother, Nikolas, and Peithon already seated. The king now wore a purple toga with a golden rope tied around his waist, and like Dion, Nikolas and Peithon both wore clean white tunics. Dion’s mother’s straight dark hair glistened under the flaming torches on stout poles and she wore an embroidered silk chiton of pale blue.
Like all Galeans – Phalesian and Xanthian alike – all present had a medallion on a chain around their neck. Although most noblemen wore gold, both Markos and Nikolas wore iron, their amulets bearing the symbol of the war god Balal. Iron was the materia of warriors, miners, masons, and farmers – anyone who used metal tools in his work. As befitted her status as queen, Thea wore gold. Both Peithon and Dion wore silver, the materia of sailors and men of commerce. No one in the council wore copper, commonly worn by musicians, artisans, and healers, although Dion remembered seeing a copper amulet on Chloe, the daughter of Phalesia’s first consul.
It was a clear night, as was often the case in early summer, and though there was no moon, the constellations in the heavens shone brightly. The warm sea breeze smelled of salt and the small waves crashing on the shore provided the only background noise, for the king had little love of music other than on festive occasions, when it was expected.
Dion was nervous. He had come to a conclusion regarding the Ilean warship, a kernel of an idea that would give him a chance to prove himself to his father. It only remained to see how his words would be received.
All eyes were on him as he approached and sat on the last remaining bench, beside Peithon and across from his mother. Nikolas and Dion’s father occupied the two benches in the middle of the half-circle.
‘Dion, begin,’ Markos said without preamble.
Dion’s mouth was suddenly dry as he prepared to address the gathering. Often away on trading voyages to the isles of the Maltherean Sea, he hadn’t attended one of these council meetings in quite some time.
‘First, the narrows. I discovered immediately that it was true. The tremor caused a piece of the cliff to break off, making the passage unusable.’
Markos scowled. ‘You should have returned immediately. Between the blocked narrows and the Shards we’re hemmed in, with no trade in or out.’
‘Actually—’ Peithon began.
Dion drew in a quick breath and interrupted. ‘I took the passage through the Shards, following the secret route. Cob helped, of course.’
Nikolas whistled. He raised a bushy eyebrow and grinned at Dion.
‘You went through the Shards?’ Markos demanded. ‘Why?’
‘I went to Phalesia. I spoke with First Consul Aristocles.’
The king underwent a transformation. His eyes bulged, and when he spoke, it was through gritted teeth.
‘Our alliance with Phalesia is fragile. Diplomacy must be handled with care. I’ve told you this before. You never listen, boy!’
‘Father,’ Nikolas said. ‘Please. Give him a chance to explain.’
Dion swallowed. ‘I know, Father. But I also know that we need the passage clear for trade to flourish. As you said – the sooner, the better. I’m sure Peithon will agree.’
Peithon spread his hands, the rings on his fingers reflecting the torchlight. ‘It’s not for me to say . . .’