‘They’ll be back soon enough. Your brother is anxious to see you. The magi have spoken. Nikolas’s son is to be given a man’s name and a materia.’ Peithon opened his mouth and then he gave a slight smile. ‘I just realized I should have let him give you the news himself.’

‘Luni is to have a man’s name?’ Dion grinned. ‘Nikolas and Helena must be pleased. When is the ceremony?’

‘In a few days.’

The high stone walls of the palace loomed overhead; they were approaching the seaward side, where a guarded stairway provided a direct entrance to the middle floor. Even though he’d been gone only a short while Dion felt pleased to be home.

‘I must go,’ Peithon said. ‘If the narrows truly are clear, there are merchant ships waiting to set sail.’

Dion’s lips thinned. ‘The narrows are clear, as I said. Before you go, where is my mother?’

‘Balal knows,’ Peithon grunted. ‘Doing whatever it is she does. Until later, Dion. If I were you I’d prepare yourself for your father’s words.’ With a nod, the older man departed.

11

11

Two soldiers with spears made way for Dion as he approached the stairway. Climbing to the summit, he stopped for a moment on a wide terrace, a private retreat for the king’s family, and inhaled: the smell of citrus always reminded him of home.

This place, on the palace’s middle level, was called the Orange Terrace, named after the fruit-bearing trees growing out in the open air. Paved walkways weaved through the garden, spiraling from a central paved area in the balcony’s center, where stone benches in a semicircle clustered around a basin filled with clear water. The royal council – consisting of Dion’s family and Peithon – often met in the terrace’s heart to discuss issues affecting the realm. It was a place where one could sit and gaze out at the sea while thinking deep thoughts.

Walking along the path under branches heavy with bright fruit, Dion left behind the circle of seats and continued to the archway that led to the interior.

The wan light of sunset plunged to something near darkness as Dion found himself in his father’s high-ceilinged audience chamber, feeling the dry air pleasantly cool within the thick stone walls. A high-backed throne of polished oak stood on a dais at the far end, the only item of furniture in the room. Torches in sconces burned night and day, the flickering flames dancing on the tapestries lining both walls.

Dion glanced at the throne as he walked past; he’d never seen another chair that looked so uncomfortable. One day his brother would sit on that throne, looking down on his officers and courtiers. Try as he might, Dion couldn’t imagine anyone but his father up there.