Page 13 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Sira

“You look absolutely stunning.”

The doulos gives me a satisfied smile as she stands back, hands at her hips, head canted, admiring her handiwork. “Soft and sweet, like Pasiphae come to life.”

“Thank you.” I give the doulos a flat smile and resist the urge to roll my eyes. Never insult a doulos , I can practically hear my mother’s voice echoing down these familiar halls. If you cannot accept their gifts with gratitude, you do not deserve them. “You have a real talent.”

The girl blushes, reaching up to brush a strand of shoulder-length hair out of her face. She looks about sixteen—old enough to have made her first offering to Potina, but young enough that her hair hasn’t grown from the close-cropped style of girlhood.

“You’re very kind, my lady.” Her bare feet scuffle against the painted tiles, easily visible beneath the hem of a skirt that barely drops to mid-calf.

“How many years have you been in service?” I ask, frowning at that too-short skirt. It looks as if it was made for a girl three years younger.

“Two years, my lady.” The girl’s gaze rises, bright intelligence blinking from a face still marked with the spots of adolescence. “But I…” her voice falters at the sight of my frown, and I quickly paste on another smile. “I was originally with Pasiphae’s temple, until about six moon cycles ago.” She tilts her head. “Perhaps… perhaps I will return there? When the Minas Crete no longer has need of me?”

“Perhaps,” I murmur, swallowing back the lump in my throat, suddenly more aware than ever of the weight of the pearls and gems twined among my curls. “Goddess willing.”

“Goddess willing,” she echoes, full of conviction.

The words feel like a lie though. Because what goddess would concern herself with the fate of some young doulos?

Footsteps whisper outside the doorway, the brush of soft-soled sandals, the rustle of layered skirts. I look over to see Malia flanked by two tall guards, crescent moon pendants marking them as servants of Astarte. Or at least, they would have belonged to Astarte once, before my sister took them.

“Come,” I say, straightening my shoulders. “I should not keep my sister waiting.”

It is an odd thing, to feel like a stranger in your own home. To see the once familiar frescoes staring back at you with lifeless eyes and laughing mouths. Even odder to see the winding halls so empty, when I know so many have been called to the palace since my sister took the throne.

“It is quiet at Knossos today,” I observe, when we pass yet another empty corridor. I can hear voices in the distance though, echoing from somewhere, just out of sight.

The two guards flanking me exchange a look, and I hear Malia huff with irritation at my back.

“Many are readying for the upcoming festivities, my lady,” the younger guard offers, her expression carefully blank.

“The festivities?” I echo, ignoring the heat creeping down my neck, though whether it is anger or embarrassment, I can’t quite tell. How is it that I—the daughter of a minas, the servant of Potina—have come to be so ignorant?

“It is the first full moon after the winter solstice. It is in three days’ time.” The younger guard gives me a pitying look and I fix my gaze on the empty corridor ahead. On the flickering lamplight dancing across empty halls, the sconces spaced far enough apart that there is more shadow than light. We are deep in the belly of Knossos now, far from the sunlit outer rooms. “Everyone will be there.”

“Oh.” The word comes out breathless, echoing softly off the painted stone walls. “Of course.”

I had watched the moon rise last night, full and golden in the sea haze, and wondered if Britomartis was staring up at it, too. If her feet were planted firmly on Theran soil. If her hands—strong and callused and never trembling—were waving an open-palmed blessing over freshly planted crocus bulbs.

Light filters down the corridor ahead, the warm glow of sunlight telling me we’re approaching one of the many sets of stairs that lead up to the rooftop. These aren’t the main stairs though, not the ones honored guests would traverse on their way to an exclusive midday meal with the Minas Crete. These aren’t even the stairs for doulos, close to the kitchens and food stores—those would be singing with the sounds of dishes clattering and footsteps pattering and whispered orders.

“I’ll go ahead,” Malia whispers, her usually boisterous voice subdued. “And check that she’s ready for her.” She addresses this to the oldest guard, the one with broad shoulders and silver streaked like precious metal through her black hair. It takes me a moment to realize that Malia is talking about me.

The guard dips her head, her lined face an expressionless mask. I watch in silent trepidation as Malia’s sandalled feet disappear up the stone steps, the sounds of her labored breathing echoing down to us even when she is out of sight.

And then silence.

I stare ahead, my right hand clasping the fabric of my dress, as if I would find a sword there instead of finely woven wool. Because now I realize what stairs these are. Why the corridors are so quiet. Why the lamps so sparse.

This is the ceremonial entrance. With stairs wide enough to lead some sacrificial beast—provided it had been sufficiently drugged for the event—this entrance would open up to the front of my sister’s tables, like a stage with all of Knossos as its backdrop.

“Ask to visit the Oracle.”

The silver-haired guard’s voice is barely more than a whisper, brushing against the shell of my ear. I flinch at the feel of it, turning to look at her in surprise.

When had she moved so close?

The expressionless mask is gone, replaced by a look of urgency. “The Oracle,” she says again. “The Minas Crete will not refuse you that—it’s the one thing she can’t refuse you. Not here, at least. Not with all of them watching her.”

My heart thunders, a painful rhythm behind my ribs, making my breath stutter.

“Why?” I ask, the word a stilted whisper.

Why would I need to ask to see the Oracle? It was never needed before. I am not my brother, the offspring of some god. Nor am I an eldest daughter, born to inherit, to rule, to lead. I am not even a second daughter, born to serve some hungry god or goddess—although that is my role, now.

I was a third daughter, before Xenodice cut the threads of fate. I was destined to hold my sister’s children, to care for them. To love them. If I had been stronger, braver, less coddled by my mother, I might have been destined to hold a spear for my sister as well, like the guards beside me.

The silver-haired guard opens her mouth, then quickly steps back, her jaw snapping shut, the unreadable mask falling over her features. Malia’s footsteps sound on the stairs above us, heavy and labored.

“They are ready,” Malia pants, bracing herself against the stairwell. “They are ready.” She gives me an encouraging smile, stepping aside and plastering her back to the wall to give me room to pass. “You can go up, Sira. The Minas Crete is waiting for you.”

Xenodice , I want to say. Her name is Xenodice. She is not my minas. I dip my head, clasp my hands against my stomach to hide their trembling, and give Malia a bland smile.

I climb the stairs alone, the soft soles of my sandals muted against stone, the guard’s words echoing in my head. Ask to visit the Oracle. But why? What waits for me at the top of these stairs that would make such a treacherous journey preferable?

Your sister. Your sister waits for you at the top, you fool.

For some reason, that internal voice sounds like Britomartis did that first day I met her, full of self-assured condescension, trying and failing to be patient. I shiver, the cool from the lightless stairwell sinking into my bones.

She killed your mother. She killed your eldest sister. And yet you walk up these steps unaided, as docile as a fattened calf, ready for the slaughter.

I lift my chin, squaring my shoulders. “That may be true,” I whisper to Britomartis’ echo. “But she didn’t kill me .”

The thought has my steps steadying, my breath calming, the wild flutter behind my ribs subsiding. My sister needed me alive—still needs me alive, presumably, since I am not dead. She will not kill me now.

But she will hear me. For the first time since I laid my mother’s bones under Knossos, my sister has asked to see me. And I will make her hear me.

I squint against the midday sun, low on the horizon, and almost smile at the warmth settling through me, coursing through my blood like Velchanos’ own flame. I blink, turning to face where I know my sister’s table will be, a hundred demands and questions rushing through my head, like waves over the pebbled beach at Amnisos.

When can the servants of Potina return to the temple? What of those who serve Astarte and Diktynna? The servants of Eluthai and Melissus? Why do the fires burn so brightly at Velchanos’ temple when there is only me to light them at Potina’s? Why have we not been given more silphium to give to the women who need it—is not Appaliuna’s gift meant for all? Why did the doulos who dressed me have a skirt that barely fell below her calves when Knossos has the world’s finest weavers? Why do so many guards fill the halls at Knossos, when they should be serving the people instead?

My people.

This is my chance to serve my people. The first I’ve had in thirteen moon cycles.

I will not waste it.

My vision clears, and the words die on my tongue, dissipating like sea fog under the midday sun. My sister stares at me from her table, smile cool and calculating, but she is not alone. At least twenty lawagetas watch me, some at my sister’s table, most at the tables flanking hers. Their daughters too—the eldest ones, at least—watch me with sharp interest from beside their mothers.

It's not the sight of them that gives me pause, though it is certainly unexpected. I had thought to meet my sister, perhaps that man pledged to her—Perses—and a handful of lawagetas. Not all of Knossos’ most powerful landowners.

But what has every thought fleeing is the sight of the two men seated next her. Their dark, loose curls, wild and untamed and framing skin the color of Amnisos’ dun-colored cliffs. Their pale brown eyes, glinting like amber in the sun. Their rough-spun tunics, billowing fabric covered with leather and boar tusk armor, as if they expect to be met with battle on Knossos’ own rooftops.

Acheans .

“King Atreus,” my sister’s red painted lips curve up in a smirk, her kohl-lined eyes sparkling with dark excitement. “Let me present my sister and heir, Sira.”

The Achean’s eyes rove over me, tracking down the length of my body, feeling like too much oil poured on skin after a bath. Lingering on the tops of my exposed breasts, on my nipples, on my naval. As if he has never seen a woman in the flesh before.

He leans forward, one elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand. The billowing fabric slips back, revealing an arm so covered in dark hair, it’s as if he’s wearing the pelt of some animal.

I swallow, schooling my features, resisting the urge to curl my lip in disgust as I turn my gaze back to my sister. To Xenodice.

“And you say she is untouched?” The Achean asks, directing the question at my sister. I can still feel his eyes on me though, even if I am no longer looking at him.

My stomach dips, a sickening sort of dread. Is this how the heifer feels, when it stands here before my sister’s table, ready to bleed for Potina?

“Untouched by man, yes.” My sister shares a knowing smirk with me. “She has never been alone with a man that wasn’t her brother or one of her fathers. I can vouch for it.”

Around her, a few of the lawagetas’ daughters titter into their shoulders, into the backs of their hands, eyes dancing with mirth. I recognize most of them—beautiful women my age or a few years older. Women who, only last year, would have looked at me through lowered lashes, their hands brushing against my own as we stood head-to-head at some festival, only our wine cups clasped between us.

One of them—Naunet, the eldest daughter of Khepri, even dared to kiss me at one of those festivals. Her lips had been dry and tasted of blue lily wine. I had kissed her back for a moment, until I remembered who she was. I had not been so lonely, so hungry for a woman’s touch as to forget that .

Now, her laughter seems the loudest. The tips of my ears burn.

“Good,” the Achean who calls himself a king murmurs. As if whether I have been touched by a man is somehow of great importance. As if it matters to him, strange barbarian that he is.

I force myself to look at him again. To meet his stare with my own, even if there is something unsettling in the way he is looking at me.

The corners of his lips curve beneath his beard. “Yes, I think she will do very well.”

Do well for what?

I remain silent. Waiting. Not wanting to seem the fool in front of these powerful women who I know already see me as barely out of girlhood. The coddled baby of the late Minas Crete. All the while, this Achean’s gaze tracks over my body, my face, my hair, my clothes. Seeing me, but not seeing me.

It is a strange way to look at a person. Especially when that person is the heir to the Minas Crete, forgotten though I may be.

“Of course she will.” My sister sounds almost peevish, as if the mere thought of my falling short of this Achean’s standards is preposterous. Which it is. Even if my sister does not love me, she knows just like the rest of us that the Acheans are an uncivilized race. Many of them barely better than animals.

My sister rises to her feet, bracelets jangling at her wrists, her wooden stool scraping against tile behind her.

“Brothers and sisters. People of Crete.” Her voice carries across the open rooftop, silencing the whispers of the lawagetas. “Today marks a momentous occasion. A coming together of two peoples, separated by the sea but bound together by trade and prosperity.”

The answering silence is heavy with anticipation. Some of the lawagetas—older women, who once flanked my mother with unfailing support—eye my sister with unmasked skepticism.

“Though different to us, the Acheans are a worthy people.” A few lawagetas bite back a smile at my sister’s words, but remain silent. “They have earned our respect in trade, and our ties to King Atreus and his people have made Knossos the most prosperous it has ever been. Stronger, wealthier than our neighbors.”

Many of the lawagetas nod in agreement. Many more than I would have expected.

“…which is why it give me great pleasure to announce the betrothal of my sister, Sira of Knossos, to the King Atreus of Mycenae.”

A murmur rises up from the lawagetas, but the sound is quickly drowned out by the roaring in my ears. The tiles beneath my feet seem to lilt and shift, my vision momentarily blurring until the Achean and my sister are no more than colorful blurs against the sand-colored rooftop.

Betrothed. I cannot be betrothed.

A woman cannot be betrothed, just as a woman cannot make a pledge. After all, how can we make an oath to a man, bleed for a man, when Potina claims our blood each month for herself?

And I am a third daughter. I will inherit no land. My voice will never carry the weight of a lawagetas. I could never provide a home to a man, give him a place to come to when the winter storms make sailing too dangerous.

“I… I do not understand.” It comes out barely more than a whisper, catching in my throat. The lawagetas fall silent, their eyes turning expectantly to my sister. “How… how can I be betrothed?”

“You will be betrothed because your Minas demands it of you.” My sister’s voice is cold as Mount Ida’s ice-kissed winds. “Because it is the best thing for your people. The best thing for Knossos, for Crete.”

“But… I am a third daughter.” Though as soon as the words are out, I realize they aren’t true. Our eldest sister died years before our mother did. “I cannot accept a man’s pledge…”

To my surprise, it is the Achean who answers, his voice deep and heavily accented. “Then it is a good thing I will not be pledging myself to you, little Keptui.” He chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners, as if this is some great jest. “I merely require you to tie yourself to me.”

My brow dips. Tie myself to him? Surely this must be some sort of mistranslation.

“You mean, as an alliance?” I ask cautiously, daring a step towards my sister’s table.

The Achean nods vehemently. “Yes. Yes. An alliance. Between Knossos and Mycenae. You will return to Mycenae with me, sit at my table, bear my children.”

I blink at him, then turn to my sister, gaping at her in silent question. Because surely what he is saying cannot be true. Send me across the sea? To Mycenae? Away from all civilization? And… bear children? His children? The children of this barbarian king?

A year ago, I would have laughed at the suggestion. Now? I have seen what my sister has accomplished in one year as minas. I do not doubt she would accomplish this as well.

Xenodice dips her head, folding her hands neatly in front of her on the table. “We will formalize your betrothal at the festival in three days’ time, under the full moon. You will leave on the next new moon and be bound together in Mycenae, in the custom of King Atreus’ people.” She turns to the women around her, to the lawagetas who are stunned into silence. “My sisters, we will see our people prosper. We will see Knossos grow beyond all other cities.”

I step forward, the ringing in my ears reaching a fevered pitch, screaming alongside the hammering of my heart. My footsteps are soft but steady, bringing me a few paces from my sister’s table.

“I will not go.”

The words are out before I can stop them, tumbling into the space between us like bronze fighting blades tossed to the flagstones.

My sister’s fist tightens around her eating knife, eyes narrowing to slits. It is a look I know well. It is the look she gave me as a child when our mother gave me some trinket that Xenodice wanted, or when one of our fathers brought home some treasure from a distant shore, only to place it in my outstretched hand and not hers.

“I will not go to Mycenae.”

Xenodice rises to her feet, her jaw working furiously. “You will…”

“There are other ways I can serve my people,” I say hurriedly, holding my hands out to her, palms up, as if I am some doulos pleading for the scraps off her table. “My people need me here. In the temple. They need…”

“You will go.” Her voice is sharp as Potina’s axe, heavy as bronze echoing across the rooftop with finality. “It has been decided, and you will obey.”

And I know, in that moment, I know what the price will be if I don’t obey her on this. I will die, or I will be locked in Potina’s temple forever, or some other place. Either my life or my freedom is at stake. And I am not my mother, who could match even the goddess Eluthai for wit, nor am I Britomartis, with strength of sword and shield to protect me.

I am Sira, with hands newly-callused and no sword at my side and thoughts fluttering like petals of the crocus flower caught in the wind.

It is then I remember the guard’s warning, whispered against my ear at the base of the stairs.

“I would ask to seek the Oracle,” I rasp.