Dion reached the audience chamber just as his father and brother entered. They stood close, side by side, as Nikolas enthused about his latest training methods.

‘With the additional cavalry on the wings, the longer pikes in the center, and small groups of archers arranged behind each phalanx, we would be able to prevent being outflanked while at the same time protecting our center,’ Nikolas was saying.

‘But we would need more horses,’ Markos grumbled.

‘I know. And horses are expensive. I’ll speak with Peithon.’

Dion stood a dozen paces from the throne and waited for them to notice him. His older brother was the first to glance up and see him.

Nikolas was a burly man, six years older than Dion, with a thick torso and muscled arms and shoulders, his body sculpted by years of training with shield, sword, and spear. He had curly black hair and dark eyes framed by bristling black eyebrows. Half of his round face was obscured by his bushy beard and he was several inches taller than Dion. When he spoke his voice could carry to men standing at the far end of the training ground.

‘Dion!’ Nikolas cried. He opened his arms wide as he approached. ‘Brother, did you hear? The magi have spoken. My son is to be named.’

‘Congratulations,’ Dion said, grinning at his brother’s excitement. The two men embraced and Dion winced at the pounding on his back. ‘I’m sure he’ll make a fine warrior.’

‘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—’