‘Time away from ships,’ he said. ‘Just a short stint. Why don’t you take the Calypso, sail to Fort Liberty, and surprise Cob? He’d be happy to see you.’

Roxana’s eyebrows shot up. ‘The Calypso?’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘No, I couldn’t. She’s your personal—’

‘She’s a pleasure to sail, and don’t tell me you haven’t had your eye on her. Tell Cob I asked him to show you the view from the cliffs. I’m thinking of installing a lookout and I want your opinion.’

‘Well’—she tilted her head, frowning—‘as long as it’s important.’

‘It is.’ Dion fought to keep mirth from his expression. ‘I’ll keep an eye on things here.’

‘Sire!’

Turning, Dion saw a steward hurrying over from the direction of the palace, getting sand on his sandals as he approached. ‘Lord Finn . . . He’s asked to see you. He said it cannot wait.’

‘Some matter of trade, no doubt.’ Dion clasped Roxana’s shoulder. ‘Give Cobrim my best.’

‘Well?’

Finn jumped as Dion found him in the banqueting hall, not far from the Flower Terrace, a place where colorful blooms were tended with more care than anywhere else in Xanthos. Dion’s mother and father had met their end there, and the fragrant flowers dispelled the dark memories that clung to the terrace like foul odors from the grave.

Finn’s long hair was brushed and parted in the middle and he wore an orange tunic fastened with a bright-blue sash that hugged his slender frame. Standing over a door-sized slab of wood, he turned, blocking Dion’s view, and his expression was deadly serious.

‘Finn?’ Dion frowned. ‘What is it?’

‘Dion . . . Do you remember when we returned from Malakai? You asked me to find anything I could about ancient Aleuthea: relics, statues, anything.’

‘And?’ Dion felt worry sink into his gut.

‘All manner of dross came my way, and I was thinking of asking you if I could call off the search.’

‘Go on.’

‘And then this arrived.’ Finn nodded at the wooden panel, but he was still obstructing it with his body. ‘One of my agents found it in the Oracle’s temple in Myana. Well . . . found it . . . stole it?’ He shrugged. ‘Be careful with it. It takes eons for solid teak to decay, but it’s still delicate.’

‘It’s authentic?’

‘The glossy red color comes from Aleuthean Crimson, an indigenous dye. It is genuine . . . I’d stake my life on it . . .’

‘Finn,’ Dion said in a low voice. ‘Let me see it.’

Finn stood aside and Dion looked down.

It was an ancient panel painting, the artwork covering the entire piece of framed timber. It had faded, but the colors were still vibrant, the lines between the shapes distinct.