With a growing sense of dread, he watched the crowd, still as statues, and realized he was witnessing a funeral service. Necropolis had no timber to make pyres, and at this time of year the ocean was frozen for miles in every direction. When one of Palemon’s people journeyed to the next life, his or her body was carried deep within these frozen tombs. Snow was packed around the pale corpse, eventually to harden into ice.
Palemon started striding toward the crowd. Squinting into the mist as he approached, he could now see the cavern’s wide mouth, as well as the sad faces of the people staring down at the ground. They were only a stone’s throw away, but even as he lifted one foot and then the other, struggling to walk more briskly, the sinking ground underfoot kept slowing him down. He looked at his feet and found that with every step he was plummeting deep into the snow, forcing him to lift his boots ever higher. The quicker he tried to walk, the more he sank.
His heart hammered in his chest as he tried to call out, but he was robbed of breath, barely managing a choking croak. Instead he looked at the scrawny women, still and silent, the marks of tears cutting through the grime on their cheeks. He saw children standing alone, looking numb and pale. Strong men trembled, faces filled with anguish. Where there should have been people in groups, they instead stood in ones and twos: husbands without wives, parents without children, few of the elderly at all.
He clenched his fists and pushed relentlessly through the snow, but now when he looked down at his feet, the snow was melting around them, turning the frozen water into slush. Under his heavy clothing, he suddenly found himself sweating, and his forehead felt burning hot. Liquid trickled down the back of his neck, and moisture made his palms clammy. He stopped, slumped with exhaustion, and gazed at the rows of bodies laid out in front of the cave.
They were the corpses of young boys and girls, old men and women. Deprivation and exposure always took the weakest first. The bodies were frozen solid, lips blue and hair brittle. Seeing the babes was the worst, but he forced himself to look at them.
Palemon again tried to call to his people, but still no sound would come out of his mouth. The sweat now poured from his brow, streaming down his cheeks like tears. Finally, with a great effort of will, he managed to make a moaning sound, and the people standing and looking at the bodies all turned as one.
Their faces were skeletal and their cheeks were sunken. Their limbs were as thin as sticks.
Horror sank into his stomach. ‘I’m coming!’ he cried. ‘I’m coming!’
‘—coming!’
Palemon choked the word as he woke gasping. He was covered in sweat and tangled in the bed sheets. The dream was always the same, but experiencing it over and over didn’t make it any easier. Each time, he came nearer to the corpses laid out in front of the cave. Each time, he screamed at the people he’d left behind that he was coming.
He didn’t know if what he was dreaming was a vision sent by the gods, or simply his own nagging conscience.
He shoved the sheets aside, glancing out the window to see that the sun was up. Heat rolled in from outside; despite the thick stone walls he felt like he was in an oven. The fierce temperature in this land was relentless; he didn’t know if he would ever get used to it.
Perhaps his years were starting to tell. He shook his head. No, he refused to allow this climate to weaken him. His people were strong, and he was their king. Compared to the faraway lands in the frozen north, this was nothing. Once, they’d ruled the world, and would do so again.
As he dressed – pulling on dark trousers, a bleached leather vest, and finally his high black boots – he tried to banish the nightmare, but the lingering sense of desperation stayed with him. He splashed water from a basin over his face and looked at himself in the polished silver mirror. Seeing his familiar features steadied him: his eyes were dark and determined; his long, graying hair and braided beard ensured no one could mistake who he was.
Palemon straightened, standing tall. He set his jaw, took a deep breath, and then left the bedchamber, which until a few weeks ago had been occupied by Malakai’s viceroy, Agathon.
Striding along the palace corridors, Palemon ignored the slaves who shrank against the walls and climbed a short series of steps until he came to the palace’s audience chamber. A huge, rectangular room with a high ceiling held up by evenly spaced columns, it was high enough to afford a direct view of the sea as well as most of the city’s districts. The windows were all without curtains, and as Palemon began to pace, he glanced out at the circular Sky Tower, the city’s tallest structure, lit up by the rays of the rising sun.
Palemon’s gaze took in a city both grand and old, with marble facing on some of the oldest walls and broad avenues built at perpendicular angles. Every square had a central fountain or statue and every street was paved, with gutters on both sides. Hanging guardens draped from the balconies of the three-storied houses, built one against the other in long terraces. Sections of the city were in disrepair, and the newest architecture was ugly and functional, basalt and alabaster giving way to reddish structures made of mud brick, but it was clear that Malakai’s long-dead builders possessed far more skill than today’s. Palemon was looking at a city constructed by his ancestors, who had once ruled the world from the island nation of Aleuthea.
His pacing took him past the oversized wooden throne – rarely used; he wasn’t a man who liked to sit still – and to the end of the chamber before he turned on his heel and strode in the opposite direction. He furrowed his brow as he thought, tugging on his beard and occasionally murmuring to himself.
Working with Kyphos, he’d determined that to make the journey to Necropolis they would need a dozen ocean-going vessels, with skilled crews and plenty of supplies. At least finding the way wouldn’t be difficult, for Zara said any of the dozen sorcerers they’d brought with them could find their way back to their brethren left behind. The golden light of their sun staffs would guide them, but unlike when they’d followed the pull of the ark, there would be no chance of the path becoming lost.
From the captives taken during the conquest of Malakai he knew that the king of Ilea had more than enough ships for their purposes. The king of Xanthos also had a sizeable fleet. The vessels he needed would have to come from one or the other.
‘So it must be war,’ Palemon muttered. ‘And despite capturing this city, we are weak.’
He was interrupted by a clatter of footsteps as Kyphos burst into the room, together with another warrior from Necropolis. The soldier was red-faced and panting, sweating in his chain mail. The armor had come from the hold of the Solaris, the ship that had brought them to these lands, and Palemon’s cold bloods now wore it always. When combined with the skills learned fighting battles against the warlike kona, harpooning orcas, and hunting white bears, their equipment made them gods compared to the locals.
Shorter than the soldier, Kyphos’s shaggy black eyebrows came together over his eyes as he looked up at his king. ‘King Palemon,’ he said. ‘Sire . . . You need to hear what he has to say.’ He nodded at his companion. ‘Tell him.’
Out of breath, the soldier bowed to the king before speaking. ‘Sire’—his chest heaved—‘I’ve come from the northern tower. Facing the harbor. You need to see. There’s a ship.’
‘A ship?’ Palemon frowned, looking from face to face. ‘Who are they?’
‘I’m guessing they’re merchants,’ Kyphos said. ‘Since our conquest, the city is desperate for supplies. They’ll be able to name their price.’
‘Merchants?’
‘It’s a big ship, sire,’ the red-faced soldier said.
‘Have you sent word to Zara?’ Palemon asked Kyphos.
‘I’ve barely seen her since she started her search for artifacts.’
Palemon turned to the soldier. ‘See if you can find her.’ The soldier nodded and swiftly left. Palemon then jerked his chin. ‘Kyphos. The roof.’
Taking long strides Palemon crossed the audience chamber, heading toward the stairs with
Kyphos just behind him. Palemon climbed the steps two at a time before reaching the landing and exiting through the door leading onto the palace roof.
Now out in the open, Palemon immediately made his way to the edge facing the harbor and peered out to sea. Kyphos came up beside him, hands on his hips and panting: the hunchback was one of the strongest men Palemon knew, but he had little stamina. Together they stared, eyes narrowed, watching the blue horizon.
At first Palemon couldn’t see anything, but then, in the far distance, a tiny square of white sail appeared, growing larger with every passing moment. Despite the fact that it was just a speck on the horizon, it was so far away that he knew it was big, bigger even than the Solaris.
Together the two men watched for a long time as the vessel grew larger. It had recently left behind the Lost Souls, the peaks jutting above the water that had once been the hills of Aleuthea, and was clearly headed for Malakai. Soon Palemon saw that the ship had a multitude of oars jutting out of its sides like the legs of an insect.
The vessel traveled with surprising speed under the power of so many oarsmen, and was soon close enough that tiny figures could be seen rushing about on the top deck. Fluttering multicolored pennants trailed from the top of the mast, snapping in the breeze.
‘You’ve been learning about their vessels. What manner of ship is that?’ Palemon asked.
Kyphos rubbed his chin and squinted for a time. ‘A bireme. Wait’—he shielded his eyes—‘no . . . It has three banks of oars. A trireme, then.’ He made a sound of surprise. ‘I didn’t know such a thing existed.’
‘Are they here for war?’
‘No,’ Kyphos said. ‘See the multicolored pennants? It’s here for trade.’
Palemon met Kyphos’s eyes. ‘You say we need a dozen ships? We might have found our first.’
‘I suggest we lure them in,’ Kyphos said. ‘No soldiers to greet them. We’ll summon the captain and give him a choice. Either surrender or we’ll seize his ship by force.’
‘Why not seize the ship immediately?’
‘Despite its colors, it’s a warship. There could be armed men on board. If there’s fighting, we could damage the ship or lose crewmen, and we need skilled sailors.’
Palemon scratched his chin and nodded. ‘All right then. We’ll do it your way.’
5
Crossing the deck of his flagship, the Liberty, Dion, king of Xanthos, glanced apprehensively at the sharp islands that jutted out of the water, some several miles away, others flanking the trireme on both sides, almost close enough to reach out and touch.
The Lost Souls reminded him of the Shards near Xanthos, but on a much larger scale. There were fewer of them, but some dwarfed even his warship in size. At least, he hoped there were fewer of them. It was impossible to say what lurked beneath the surface of the water.
Approaching the helm, he glanced at Cob, who growled at him as he guided them through.
‘Do we really have to do this, lad?’ The old man scowled.
‘I want to see the sunken city for myself. Just keep us away from the peaks.’
‘Don’t tell me how to do my job,’ Cob said.
Dion smiled at his old sailing master, and behind his smile was gratitude that the short, bald, round-faced man who had been like a second father to him still never called him by his title. Now that Dion was king, he could truly appreciate how separate from everyone else it made him.
Since Nikolas’s death and the peace accord with Ilea, Dion had slowly become accustomed to his new role. With his uncle’s help, he’d found homes for many of the Free Men in Xanthos, and he’d built a new settlement at the isle of Fort Liberty, even larger than the one before it, for those who wanted to live free from the governance of kings. Once home to feared pirates, Fort Liberty now had a charter as a semi-autonomous trading outpost, and with light taxes and loose rules, wealth poured in. With the Maltherean Sea at peace, Dion had decided to venture to a new sea: the Aleuthean.
He lifted his gaze to inspect the largest of the Lost Souls: a tall island with a sharp precipice plummeting to the sea, the remnant of some mountain the ancient Aleutheans would have looked up at as they went about their daily business. Despite trusting Cob implicitly, he couldn’t help glancing back at the helm.
‘Don’t worry,’ Cob said, his eyes always on the sea. ‘Roxana will skin me alive if I harm her pride and joy.’
‘From what I hear, you’ve got nothing to fear from her.’ Dion smiled. ‘Don’t think you can hide from me where those honey cakes you’ve been eating all voyage came from.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe she cooked for you.’
Cob reddened. ‘She was returning a favor—’
‘A favor, or a gift? I’ve seen the hand-carved sailboat she keeps in her workroom. It’s fine indeed; you should be proud.’
Cob’s face turned even redder, and with a grin Dion left the old man behind, walking along the rail and staring down into the sea, smooth and shining like a polished gemstone. The water was becoming paler, a lighter shade of blue as the depth became shallower. A boulder, covered in a fur of ocean growth, took form far below before the ship left it behind. More dark shapes became clear in ones and twos, contrasting with the lighter color of the sea floor. Soon there were more darker patches than anything else.
Spurred into action, Dion glanced at the sail, nodding to himself when he saw it was already lowered. He strode to the hatchway leading to the lower rowing decks.
‘On my mark,’ he called down to the oarsmen. He checked that they were well clear of the peaked islands before bellowing, ‘Now!’
The oars suddenly went still, the three tiers of rowers all stopping as one. Leaving the hatchway to scan both flanks of the vessel, Dion nodded to himself, pleased with their precision: the sailors of Xanthos had learned their skills, and were now good enough to rival any Ilean crew.
And, he reminded himself, the Ileans didn’t have triremes, which made this ship the most powerful vessel on the water.
Dion returned to Cob as the Liberty now glided over the still water, oars hovering above the surface, everything carefully controlled to create as few ripples as possible. It was far from a windy day, which was fortunate because there was little to disturb the sea, but it also meant that the heat radiating down from the rising sun was already searing hot. As they came closer to Malakai, he vowed to never again complain about a summer’s day in Xanthos.
The ship became quiet, slipping over the surface of the sea with the smooth sound of flowing water. Along with the crew, Dion stared down into the sea, but despite discerning a maze of light and dark patches, the ocean floor was still too deep to make out what he was seeing. Then he heard a sailor shout from the other side of the vessel. ‘Look!’
Dion, along with almost everyone on the top deck, crossed to the opposite side, gripping the rail and peering down into the water. The ocean was clear and still. Until now he’d been seeing little more than murky shadows, but suddenly he could make out distinct forms.
‘By Silex,’ Dion breathed.
Down below, resting on the ocean floor, were the long, curved walls of an immense, oval-shaped structure. Dion wondered for a moment what it was before he realized.
They were sailing over a crumbled amphitheatre.
Its shape made it clear what it was. But the sheer scale of it was baffling, almost disturbing. The Liberty passed over it for long minutes, each onlooker trying to imagine how many people had once been seated far below. They were all ghosts now, every one of them killed when Aleuthea sank long ago.
Unless, of course, the rumors about Malakai’s conqueror were true.
Dion glanced at Cob, and then at the crewmen, seeing that they were all gazing down into the water.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Cob said.
‘I thought you said you’ve traveled to the Aleuthean Sea before.’
‘It was rough the last time, and we had to keep clear of the Lost Souls.’
The great ship
continued to glide; her momentum would carry her forward for a long time before power was needed. After the amphitheatre, Dion saw hills and winding paths, broken houses and fallen towers. He looked out at the sea. The Lost Souls covered a huge area. The sunken city was immense.
‘How far below do you think it is?’
‘Thirty feet? Fifty? It’s hard to tell.’
Cob’s head snapped forward when a youth at the bow called out. The old man shoved the helm hard, and with a spike of fear Dion realized they’d been heading straight for a tower of some kind, with just a few flat stones showing above the surface. If the tide had been just a little higher, they might not have seen it at all.
‘This is dangerous,’ Cob said. ‘I’m taking us out.’
‘Understood.’
Cob set a course to steer them away from the Lost Souls and toward Malakai, the capital of Imakale. The drum sounded below as the oarsmen resumed their labors. The square sail made a sound like the crack of a whip when it climbed to the top of the mast.
Dion stayed beside Cob and continued to gaze at the jagged island peaks. There had once been a powerful civilization here, a civilization that ruled the world, even warring with the eldren and conquering their homeland, Sindara.
‘They all have their names,’ Cob said. ‘I only remember a few.’ He nodded at one of the craggy islands. ‘That’s the Shrine. See the small building just above the water? One of the only structures above the surface. That round peak is the Dome.’
Cob pointed at the mainland, where a narrow strait separated a promontory from the Lost Souls. Dion followed the old man’s gaze to a large island, a lopsided hill with a cliff on the far side sloping down to a shore.
‘Widow’s Peak is the closest to the mainland,’ Cob said.
‘Widow?’ Dion frowned.
‘People dive off and search for treasure. They say that below Widow’s Peak is a tower, far bigger than the one we just left behind. You can see the top from the surface. I’ve heard more than one story about a man finding gold down there. Not that I’d try it. Dangerous work. And you’d think any treasure would have been discovered long ago.’
Copper Chain (The Shifting Tides Book 3) Page 4
