Page 12 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Nearly one month later

Sira

“Sira? Sira? Are you up here?”

I glare at the top of the stairwell, open like a gaping mouth on the rooftop behind me, then adjust my sword and turn back to look at the rising sun.

It’s the twentieth sun that has risen since Britomartis’ departure .

I slash angrily at the fog-streaked sky before me, as if I can carve the thought from my mind with a dull bronze training sword and swordsmanship that would make any other second or third daughter cringe. My blade glints laughingly in the muted light, and I tighten my grip, as if I can overcome my own lack of skill by sheer force of will.

“Sira?” Malia’s voice is louder, echoing from the stairwell.

I lunge forward, the sword driving through air with an unsatisfying lack of resistance. Not that I’ve ever known anything different in the nineteen summers the gods have blessed me with. Or, more correctly, in the twenty days I have been attempting to practice. Not like Britomartis, who has known true battle. Who led her women to fight on Thera’s rooftops. Who felt Achean blood on her skin.

“Sira, I know you’re up there,” Malia whines. “Please, don’t make me climb up these steps.”

My lips quirk into the shadow of a smile as I twist, bringing my sword around as if shielding a mock offensive at my back. The move isn’t smooth, or fast, but at least my arms no longer tremble when I lift the blade over my head, bracing against a hit that will never come.

And hopefully one never will, because I would certainly be ill-equipped to defend it.

“Potina’s tits,” Malia curses, her own bare bosom heaving as she emerges from the stairwell. She lifts one hand, squinting against the glare of the newly risen sun lighting up the morning fog like Velchanos’ own flame. “What are you doing?”

I relax my stance, my sword dropping to my side. The dull tip scrapes against worn stone tiles, an irritating reminder that the blade is too big for me. That it was made for stronger women than myself. The sort of women who used to serve Potina, before my sister took them.

Women like Britomartis.

“Practicing,” I reply flatly. Though gods know it’s a useless endeavour with no natural skill and no one to train me.

“For what?” Malia’s face scrunches up in confusion, as if she truly can’t fathom a reality in which I would ever be called upon to fight.

I stare baldly back at her, but don’t answer. An icy breeze whips loose strands of hair across my face, sending a shiver down my spine that the faint warmth of the morning sun can’t counter. But Malia’s scrutiny has my face burning hot.

Malia gives me a pitying smile. “At least tell me you’ve broken your fast?” Dark eyes dart to the long-forgotten hearth of the bread ovens behind me, damp with morning dew, then away again. Her cheeks flush as if even she is ashamed that they have not seen a baker’s flame for so many seasons. “There is cold bread and dried fruit from the palace in the kitchen. Some dried fish as well.”

“I have eaten,” I tell her, before she can fret.

The bread had been dry and the fruit mealy—the sort of provisions I imagine my fathers would have eaten when they were at sea. Before Poteiden claimed them. Perhaps my brother is eating similar food somewhere, wherever he is on the endless blue with his lover and Britomartis.

I could be with them too, had I chosen.

“Good.” Malia wrings her hands. “Good.”

I narrow my eyes, but her own gaze is wandering, as if she would rather look anywhere but at me. She did not come up all those stairs just to chide me for training or tell me to eat my breakfast. My pulse ratchets up in anticipation, fingers tapping impatiently on the hilt of my sword.

“Your sister, the Minas Crete, has requested your presence.” Malia’s clasped hands work furiously, pulling at bracelets and rings. “This morning. To share a midday meal with her.” Malia’s words come out in a breathless tumble. “I was told to bring you without delay.”

I glance behind me to where the morning sun fights to burn away the sea fog, Poteiden and Appaliuna in their endless battle, then turn back to Malia with a frown. “The midday meal will not be for some time,” I point out. “And I haven’t lit the braziers in the entrance hall yet.”

Malia waves one trembling hand dismissively. “Someone else can do it today.”

Except she knows just as well as I do that there is no one left to light the fires. Not when my sister has called all Potina’s servants to her own halls, one by one. All of them, except for me. Me, and Malia, of course.

“A goddess comes before a minas,” I remind her gently, forcing my expression into the calm mask I’ve long learned how to wear when speaking of Xenodice. I tighten my grip on the hilt of my sword to hide the trembling of my hand.

“I will manage your duties here,” Malia assures me, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. A truth, if only because her fear of the gods is perhaps equal to her fear of my sister. “After I take you to the Minas Crete.”

My spine stiffens, nostrils flaring.

So. I am to be escorted through the streets of my own city. As if I am some accused being brought to the Minas Crete’s great hall for judgment. Not her own sister, the daughter of a minas, a servant of Potina. A freewoman of Knossos.

I could be halfway across the sea by now. I could be watching the shores of Thera approach, could be standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Britomartis, our fingers entwined, our skirts brushing.

“It is early for the midday meal,” I repeat, nodding to the early morning sun. “Surely Xenodice does not require me so soon.”

“The Minas Crete.” Malia throws her arms wide in exasperation, bracelets clattering. “You must address her as the Minas Crete, Sira. Please. I beg you.”

I give her a practiced smile, and incline my head. “Of course.” And yet the words don’t come.

“The Minas Crete has requested your presence early so that you can be made ready…”

She trails off, her gaze tracking down my sweat-damp form, faltering on the threadbare linen shift I usually wear when training, on my naked feet, then sweeping back up to my hair, half tied back with a leather cord.

I lift my chin, daring her to comment.

“The Minas Crete will have her women attend you. There are new clothes for you too, ready-made from the latest fabrics. And pearls for your hair—not just painted beads, but real pearls, brought in by Perses himself on his last trade.”

Malia claps her hands together at this proclamation, eyes sparkling, perhaps expecting me to squeal in excitement like some common acolyte. But I am not some newly blooded girl, growing out the short-cropped hairstyle of youth. Nor am I a stranger to luxury.

I stare at her unblinking, the sword hilt warm beneath my palm.

A year ago, I was my mother’s favorite. A year ago, I would have started my morning surrounded by beautiful women eager for the chance to weave pearls and gems into my hair. Women who giggled and blushed as their warm fingers skated across my skin, whose hands would linger teasingly at my waist as they tied on the layers of wool and linen skirts.

Women who, once my mother died, could not be bothered to spend a few moments walking from the palace to Potina’s temple to ask after me.

“I see,” I say, if only to hide the pounding of my heart.

Because this is the first time my sister has asked for me since our mother and eldest sister’s deaths. This is first time in a year that my feet will tread the well-known path between Potina’s temple and my childhood home.

She has requested your presence early so that you can be made ready.

I repress a shiver and will my feet to follow Malia down the steps. But I can’t move. It is as if my bare feet have rooted themselves to the smooth tiles. As if I am one of the prized heifers being led to Potina’s altar for slaughter—wise enough to know that danger lies ahead, but helpless to change the course of my fate.