Golden Age (The Shifting Tides Book 1) (8 page)

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 . . .’

‘You had better explain yourself more convincingly than you have so far,’ Markos interrupted, staring into Dion’s eyes until he looked down uncomfortably.

‘Perhaps he will, husband,’ Thea said softly, smiling. ‘If you let him.’

‘After I saw the blockage, I had an idea,’ Dion continued. ‘I thought that perhaps an eldran might clear the passage. Knowing the first consul has friends among them, and would want the passage cleared also, I sought his help.’

‘And what does he demand in return?’ Markos growled.

‘Nothing,’ Dion said. ‘He had other things on his mind. I assured him it wasn’t a state visit; I made that very clear. I explained I had come of my own accord.’

‘So he demands nothing?’ Markos asked.

‘He agreed to help,’ said Dion. ‘It worked. It’s done. The passage is now clear.’

He leaned back, waiting for his father’s reaction to the news, but the scowl didn’t leave the king’s face. Dion looked at his mother.

There was silence for a time.

‘You did well,’ Thea said.

‘You sailed the Shards?’ Nikolas murmured, shaking his head.

‘Well, there we have it,’ Markos finally said, half standing. ‘I’m sure Aristocles will let us know the price of his help. I will think on it.’

‘Father,’ Dion said, holding out a hand. ‘There’s more.’

‘What now?’ Markos growled as he sat back down again.

‘Is it Phalesia?’ Nikolas asked. ‘Did the tremor strike them badly? Do they need our help?’

‘No,’ Dion said. ‘It struck them hard, much harder than it hit us here, but the eldren helped the city in its time of need.’

Peithon frowned and lifted his head to glare at Thea, who refused to meet his eyes. Both had endured tragedies from attacks by wildren, but Thea’s equanimity and Peithon’s rage were at complete odds.

‘So you passed through Phalesia long enough to see that they don’t need our help,’ the king said. ‘You incurred a debt with Aristocles. If you have a point, Dion, I suggest you make it. You said you had important news.’

‘I do.’ Dion took a deep breath. ‘There was a strange ship, damaged in the tremor. It came to Phalesia for repairs.’

‘Go on.’

‘A foreign warship,’ Dion said. ‘But like no warship I’ve ever seen. It was eighty feet long, with two banks of oars, one above the other. It had a sharpened bronze ram, as long as a tree is tall.’

King Markos scratched at a small white scar on his cheek, looking pensive.

‘Father, this ship makes the Phalesian ships look primitive, and we rely on their navy to protect us from attacks by sea. Aristocles met with the captain, a man named Kargan, who says he has many more vessels under his command.’

‘Did Aristocles say where this ship was from?’ Nikolas asked.

‘Ilea, from the capital Lamara, where the sun king Solon rules.’

Nikolas spoke again. ‘Did Aristocles reveal anything of the sun king’s intentions? Is he looking to open up trade?’

‘Aristocles is worried. This man, Kargan, gave his rank as admiral. He’s arrogant and contemptuous of Phalesia. He expressed interest in the Ark of Revelation.’

Peithon’s eyes widened. ‘Interest?’

Dion hesitated. ‘By interest, I mean desire.’

‘But it is sacred!’ Peithon exclaimed.

‘That was explained to Kargan. Yet he persisted.’

‘Do you think he’s planning to return?’ Nikolas asked.

Dion felt honored that his brother was asking for his opinion, rather than that of Aristocles. ‘There’s no way to say. They may return for trade, for war, or they may never return at all. The Salesian continent is far away.’

‘Hmm,’ King Markos said. He hadn’t spoken in some time. ‘I’ve heard rumors of this sun king and his growing power. Word is that he has subdued his neighbors. It’s unclear whether he has his eyes on our side of the Maltherean Sea.’

Dion leaned forward. ‘You and Nikolas have been building up the army. We’re strong on land. But if Phalesia falls or becomes a satrap, subservient to the sun king’s power, we’ll be next, and we can’t stand alone. We must develop a navy.’

The king put his hands on his knees and also leaned forward, jutting out his chin. ‘Do you have any idea how much coin we would need to build a navy? With skills we don’t have? How much time it would take?’

‘The army requires a great deal of our resources—’

‘All necessary,’ Markos bit off the words. ‘Our army is our strength. We are a warrior nation. A nation of the sword, the shield, and the spear. We worship Balal, the god of war, not Silex, the god of the sea. Bah!’ He clenched his fists. ‘Perhaps we were better off with the narrows blocked. Perhaps you have done us no service after all.’

‘Father,’ Nikolas urged. ‘That wouldn’t help our alliance with Phalesia. Nor would it help Peithon. We need trade, which means we need the sea.’

‘What we truly need is knowledge,’ Dion said. ‘We are a smaller nation than Phalesia, and smaller by far than Ilea, but our future could be determined by the tide of events between them. Kargan of Ilea now has an insider’s view of Phalesia’s harbor, defenses, and governing Assembly. Whatever Aristocles and the other consuls learned from him in return, little was shared with me.’ He looked from face to face. ‘I think someone from Xanthos, one of us, should return to Phalesia so we may learn what we can, before the warship leaves.’

Markos grunted. ‘And my guess is you think that someone should be you.’

‘Nikolas is busy at the training ground, you have the kingdom to run, and Peithon sees to our trade. I want to be useful, and I truly believe this warship heralds danger.’

‘What if the Ileans have departed?’ Nikolas asked, scratching at his thick black beard.

Dion was prepared for the question. ‘Father, you always said a good leader maintains initiative and acts decisively. A good warrior makes actions rather than reactions. If the warship has left Phalesia, I could follow in its wake. I could visit Ilea, posing as a trader. We need knowledge.’

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.’

‘Then you have done all you can.’

‘Listen, Dion. When I am king I will help you build your navy.’

Dion smiled. ‘You’re drunk,’ he said again.

‘Truly,’ Nikolas insisted. ‘Peithon agrees that we need one. You have a place here, and a part to play. I will give you—’

‘Hush!’ someone called out. ‘The magus is here!’

Gradually all conversation came to a halt, and the musicians in the corner ceased playing. Those standing near the stairs to the ground level parted.

A withered old man in a black robe came into view.

As the people around him drew back in sudden awe, he walked with slow footsteps taken laboriously, one after the other. All eyes were on him but his head was down and the cowl of his robe was over his head, so that only his sharp nose could be seen. His hands were clasped together, the white skin contrasting with the long black sleeves.

His breath rasped as he walked and shuffled. Finally, he came to stand in the cleared area in the center of the room and lifted his head. He pulled back the hood of his robe.

The magus wore a heavy black chain made of thick rings around his neck from which hung an iron medallion, the size of a dinner plate, displaying an embossed flame in a circle. Wisps of white hair crowned his wrinkled scalp and when he turned to cast his eyes over the assembled gathering his stare was intent.

The rug that usually covered the floor was gone, leaving the dark stone bare. The magus began to hum, a singsong chant that rose in volume as he took a piece of pale chalk and started to draw.

He drew a long white line, five paces in length, and then turned at a sharp angle to draw another, connected to the first. His chant now formed words, but they were in a strange language that caused the hairs to rise on the back of Dion’s neck. The magus chalked a third line and then a fourth, until he had drawn a diamond in the middle of the banqueting hall.

Dion glanced at his brother, who now looked completely sober as he sat bolt upright and watched the magus at work. The magus moved to stand inside the diamond and lifted his arms.

His voice never ceased as his chant increased still further in volume. Dion heard the names of the gods interspersed in the chant: Balal, the god of war; Edra, the goddess of fertility and children; Aldus, the god of justice; Helios, the sun god; Silex, the god of fortune and the sea; Aeris, the goddess of music and healing; Charys, the goddess of wisdom.

The magus ceased his singing, and silence filled the room as he slowly let his arms fall at his sides. All eyes were on the stooped figure in black robes.

‘I place the materia of gold,’ the magus called.

Dion saw that in his hand he had a nugget of solid gold. He turned so that everyone in the room could see it, before taking five steps. He placed the gold on one of the diamond’s four points, farthest from Dion and Nikolas. He then returned to the center of the room.

‘I place the materia of silver,’ he intoned.

The magus held up a piece of silver, the same shape and size as the gold. After displaying it to the crowd, he crossed the diamond and his knees cracked as he bent down to place the silver at the intersection opposite the gold, closest to Dion.

He returned to the center and called out again. ‘I place the materia of copper.’

The magus reached into his robe and withdrew a lump of pure copper, the red color reflecting the flickering light as he showed it to the assembled gathering. He placed the copper at the intersection of lines on the diamond’s right-hand side.

‘I place the materia of iron.’

Dion sensed his brother tense beside him. The magus held out a nugget of black iron that matched the color of his robe, for he was a priest of Balal. He spent a little longer showing the iron to the group, before setting down the final piece of pure metal at the last intersection of points, on Dion and Nikolas’s left.

Even though he was the boy’s father, Nikolas wasn’t allowed to participate in the ceremony in any way. Of course, over the last days, he had taken counsel with the priests, and given counsel to his young son. But anything might happen: Dion’s experience at his own naming ceremony was proof of that.

The magus stood once more in the center of the diamond with the four materia at each point. The gold and silver were deliberately far from the center, whereas if the magus stretched out his arms, he could almost touch the more common copper and iron, at the diamond’s closer points.

He turned slowly until he was facing Nikolas’s son. ‘Boy, I will now use your child name for the last time. Come to me, Luni.’

The onlookers held their breath as they waited for the boy to move. Dion smiled as he saw Helena give her son a slight push from behind.

Luni struggled with his costume but began to walk to the magus, staring the entire time in captivated fear at the old priest, who never ceased to appear stern and unyielding. The boy crossed the floor with hesitant steps as his parents urged him on with their eyes. Even Dion breathed a sigh of relief when Luni reached the center of the diamond and came to a halt beside the old man. Occasionally a parent had to intervene to take their child to the magus, but this wasn’t considered a good omen.

‘Child,’ the magus called. ‘We magi have called on the gods to choose for you the path that you will take in life.’

He looked at the tip of the diamond farthest from Dion. ‘Gold will lead you to a life of leadership, nobility, charisma, and power.’

Dion couldn’t help but wonder how often the magi chose gold for a peasant boy, whose parents would never be able to afford his necklace, let alone his round medallion.

‘Silver is the materia of the winds of fortune and the tides of commerce.’ The magus gazed at the nugget of silver.

‘Copper stands for music and beauty, craftsmanship, and the arts of healing.’ Dion could see why the copper and iron were closest to the magus and the boy beside him, for they were by far the most common metals chosen.

‘Finally’—the magus turned again—‘iron leads to the path of the warrior and the farmer, the mason, the smith, and the miner.’

Luni looked fearfully at his mother and then turned again to stare with confusion at his father. Nikolas struggled to keep his face impassive.

‘The gods have made their choice,’ the magus intoned.

He left the boy standing in the middle of the diamond and then stepped outside the lines of white chalk.

Walking with his slow shuffling steps, the magus now circled the diamond three times. The seven-year-old child now watched the magus; everyone else in the room was utterly still.

The magus stopped. He was standing outside the lump of iron.

‘The gods have chosen iron,’ the magus said, his thin lips creasing in a smile.

Nikolas was unable to hide a sigh of relief. Glancing across the room, Dion saw that the king was now standing, fists clenched at his sides, but he was beaming.

Yet the ceremony wasn’t over. There was one final part for the child to play.

‘I name you Lukas,’ the magus said. His parents would have supplied the name, but it was the first time anyone else in the room had heard it.

‘Lukas,’ Dion mouthed. His nephew. He decided he liked the name.

‘Come, Lukas,’ the magus said, still standing near the lump of iron. ‘Come to claim iron.’

The smile fell from Nikolas’s face and he tensed once more. But his son knew what to do, and he walked to the magus, knelt at the corner of the diamond, and picked up the lump of iron.

Nikolas whooped as a resounding cheer filled the room. Helena wiped her eyes as she and Thea embraced. King Markos shook hands with the men around him.

‘Lukas is a fitting name. The gods chose rightly,’ Dion said as he turned and clapped his brother on the back.

‘Thank you, brother.’ Nikolas pulled him into an embrace. Dion felt prickly hair on his face as his older brother planted a kiss on his cheek.

‘Go.’ Dion laughed, pushing him away. ‘Go to your wife and son.’

Nikolas lurched across the room to join Helena, who was impatiently waving a hand for him to come over. She had a necklace of tiny iron rings in her hands and together she and Nikolas fastened the chain around Lukas’s neck; soon a circular amulet imprinted with the bull of Balal was proudly displayed for all to see.

As the parents united around the boy, Dion smiled. But then he felt a gaze on him and saw the magus’s dark eyes looking at him from the very center of the hall. Their eyes met before the old man nodded.

Dion’s smile faded as he reflected on his own naming ceremony.

He was now old enough to know that the magi and his family would have been discussing him behind closed doors. Even at the tender age of seven it was already clear that Dion wasn’t a natural warrior like Nikolas. He’d somehow managed to cut himself on the dull edge of a child’s sword and he’d always been afraid of large groups of hoplites, with their sharp spears ready to kill and steel helmets hiding their faces. He did have skills: he was good with horses and liked to ride; he was clever with numbers and could add, subtract, and multiply better than his much older brother.

Gold wouldn’t have been appropriate, for it was Nikolas who was heir to the throne, and Dion didn’t exhibit the natural charisma that would have made him the leader of other boys his age. Copper was out of the question: the last thing King Markos wanted was a musician or a craftsman for a son.

So the magi chose silver.

But when the magus circled the diamond and gave Dion his name, calling him to the silver, Dion wouldn’t come.

It had been an awkward moment. Eventually, King Markos had picked up the newly named Dion and taken him to the magus.

With loud conversation now filling the banqueting hall as the musicians took up their instruments and the festivities resumed, the magus continued to stare. The silver chain, with its amulet bearing the symbol of Silex, felt uncomfortable on Dion’s skin, as if it didn’t belong.