Page 14 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Britomartis

The steps from the dock to my mother’s house shine like old bones in the nearly full moon. Every muscle and sinew in my body screams in protest as I climb them, legs trembling beneath the salt-crusted fabric of my skirt.

I should be walking toward the baths. To the peaceful walls of Potina’s temple. To my bed.

The butt of a wooden spear thudding on stone has my gaze snapping upwards and I turn all my irritation on the unfortunate holder.

“Really, Andrus? Is this how you greet the daughter of the Minas Thera? The second priestess to Potina?”

Andrus’ face pales in the moonlight, and he clears his throat. “Forgive me, my lady. I… I did not know you at first.”

I snort, then sweep a coil of unwashed hair back from my shoulder. I’d taken to braiding it and tying it back while we were at sea. A futile attempt to stop it from tangling.

“We have just arrived from Knossos,” I say by way of explanation, though that hardly does justice to the ordeal we’ve suffered to get here. An ordeal designed entirely by Poteiden, for his own mischievous purpose, apparently.

I swipe my hands along my skirt, wincing at the feel of my ragged palms against rough fabric.

“We?” Andrus asks dumbly. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“Yes, we,” I say impatiently, tilting my chin pointedly at the door still closed behind him, then gesturing to the men coming up the steps behind me. To Kitanetos, who looks more rested than he has a right to look, and Kinusi, Asterion’s oldest seafarer, who looks as exhausted as I feel.

“Asterion brought us here on his ships.” I say shortly, bringing the guard’s attention back to myself. “With all respect, Andrus, I have not sailed without ceasing for nearly a full moon cycle to trade words with my mother’s guard. Open the door, or I will open it myself.”

I grip the pommel of my blade for emphasis, drawing myself up to my full height. Andrus cringes, a flush spreading over his cheeks, and he ducks his head.

“Apologies, my lady. Of course. This way, if you please.”

Wood creaks as the double doors swing open, warm lamplight flooding the moonlit steps. I blink against it and stride forward, momentarily blind.

Warmth greets me, thick with the scent of perfume and bodies and smoke from the braziers. I feel more than see Kit pushing past, hear his eager footsteps as he comes to walk beside me, hear the door swing shut behind us.

When my vision finally clears, it’s to see my mother staring implacably at my brother, her smile thinning.

“Kitanetos. Son. What an unexpected surprise. I had thought you would be at Knossos all winter. Great Potina—what have you done?”

She leaps to her feet, linen skirt whispering against her stone chair. My sister Ariana stands at her side, steady and quiet as a sentinel, expression unreadable. The voices of the others fall away until the entrance hall is as quiet as a becalmed sea. I turn to follow my mother’s alarmed stare, to see what has transformed her from the indolent minas to the warrior she once was.

His scar , I realize, my mouth suddenly dry.

By chance or foolishness, my brother has cast his cloak aside. There, on his otherwise flawless flesh, is the ugly mark, the cross-hatched scar showing his dishonor. Telling all that he has broken his oath to Poteiden.

“He did what the gods required of him,” I say firmly, silently cursing my brother. Why could he not leave this until after the first meeting? Until I’d at least had a chance to clear his name in my mother’s eyes?

“He has dishonored himself.”

Kit hangs his head, looking so much like a penitent child, that I find my anger at him quickly redirected. I glare at my mother. At the woman I have always respected, if not loved. At the woman whose fairness of judgment made up for any lack of warmth.

There is no fairness now.

“He has broken his oath to one god to serve a goddess.”

I force my voice to remain steady, falling back on my years of training at the temple, seeking to emulate Eniocha. She is here, among a handful of older lawagetas, and I wonder briefly what meeting we interrupted. But whatever it is, it can wait. I did not sail for nearly a full moon cycle to speak of festival plans or the installation of new water pipes or preparations for next year’s harvest.

“He serves Astarte now.” I say by way of explanation, though the words hardly describe what I’ve witnessed. What Adrienne truly is. I think even I would have doubted it had I not seen it for myself.

“Is that so? I don’t see any mark of her favor on his skin. Besides, it’s not the place of the son of the Minas Thera to serve in a temple.”

Anger rises up at her words. They feel like a brusque dismissal of all I have done. Of the years of service I’ve offered to Potina at her bidding—the endless days and nights burying the dead and training acolytes and planning festivals and defending Thera.

“You forget yourself mother,” I grit out. “There is no greater honor than to serve the gods.”

“Enough, child.”

My mother’s lips curve with an almost indulgent warmth. As if my standing up to her for my younger brother is sweet, like it was when we were children. Such the protector , she’d always say. If you defend Thera like you defend your brother, this city will be blessed to have you.

But I am not a child. I am a woman grown who has already bled for her city. And I will bleed for my brother too, if need be.

“You are not high priestess yet,” my mother adds, waving one hand in dismissal, her gold bracelets singing in reply. “And you are a daughter.”

I swallow, unable for a moment to form any reply.

Yes. Yes, I am a daughter. And Kit is a son. We are as divided in our mother’s mind as the land is from the sea, inseparable, but never interchangeable.

And yet…

My eyelids flutter shut, exhaustion and anger and hopelessness momentarily stealing over me. I remember what it felt like to be on Asterion’s ship. To have the rough wood decking beneath bare feet. To work shoulder-to-shoulder with his men, arms and hands burning against the hemp rope as we fought to harness the power of the wind.

A goddess given wind.

I’d never been more tired in my life and yet I’d never been happier.

If I had been born a man…

“She may not be Potina’s high priestess, but I am.” Eniocha’s voice is like a balm, and I turn to give her a grateful smile as she shuffles across the room. “And it is not for a mortal—not even a minas—to question the will of the gods.”

“He was promised to the Minas Crete,” my mother argues, one sandalled foot tapping the stone tiles with impatience. “We had an agreement. A bargain. What greater honor could there be for a man than to be pledged to a woman such as that? How can he throw it away?”

Eniocha’s hand settles on my shoulder, thin and gnarled and light as a bird. I instantly relax under it.

“Welcome home, child,” she murmurs, and for some reason her calling me child does not grate the way it did when my mother called me that. Perhaps because, ancient as Eniocha is, we are all children in comparison. “I suspect you have much to tell me.”

I take a deep breath, almost overwhelmed with gratitude at her simple words. At her easy way of reminding my mother to listen.

“I want to know why my son has broken his oath,” my mother grumbles. “Why he stands here, bringing dishonor to himself and to Thera.”

That I can answer.

Sending a silent prayer up to Potina for wisdom, I let out a breath, square my shoulders, and force myself to face this woman. Not like a daughter facing a mother, but like the future high priestess facing a minas.

“Kitanetos has broken no oath to the Minas Crete. He has been chosen by the gods themselves for Astarte—not as an acolyte or servant, but as a consort.”

At least, I hope that will be the case. I hope Adrienne has started to forgive him. At the very least, she does seem to claim him as belonging to her, pledged or not.

“The Oracle has prophesied about it, and Astarte herself has accepted his courtship. You should be congratulating him on winning the affections of a goddess,” I add curtly. “Not mourning the loss of favor of some mortal.”

Especially when that mortal is a murderous, treacherous oath breaker.

My mother does not look convinced. Her face pales, eyes narrowing as she looks pointedly around the hall. “Where is this goddess? Where is this so-called-Astarte?”

Having a bath and probably basking in the pleasure of her lovers , I think bitterly, though I know it’s foolish to be jealous of a goddess.

In my defense, despite seeing Adrienne take on Poteiden, despite seeing her glow like the freshly-risen moon and watching her fill our sails with wind, sometimes I still think of her as she was that first day she came to us. Scowling and petulant, barely able to hit the side of a tree with her arrow, parroting our words with her strange accent.

“You’ve met her.” I tap the side of my layered skirt, bracelets clinking against my sword hilt. “She was the girl called Adrienne. The girl Kitanetos pulled from the sea. The pale, fair-haired creature with the mark of Astarte on her flesh and the power of a goddess in her veins.”

My mother’s glare darkens. Beside her, my oldest sister Ariana gives me a knowing smile.

“I remember her. She was on the rooftop with us, when the Acheans attacked. Didn’t she save your life? Shot that Achean right in the eye—an incredible shot. I don’t think even I could have done that.”

Relief floods me at my sister’s words, and the hall fills with murmurs of interest. My sister does not throw away praise easily, and she is known for her prowess with bow and sword.

“Didn’t she faint at the sight of blood?” Ariana asks. “She did, didn’t she?”

I nod in agreement, smiling in acknowledgement even as I grit my teeth in irritation.

Gods, but I wish my brother had kept his cloak over his chest. Or worn a tunic. Would it have killed him to have worn a tunic? This is not what I wanted to discuss with my mother—not first, at least. There are more important things than my brother’s honor, than which deity he serves, and how. More important things than his betrothal to the Minas Crete.

Like Sira.

I glare unseeingly at my mother’s feet as she and Kit argue about whether or not Adrienne is Astarte made flesh. As Kit regales the room with stories of miracles at sea, of Adrienne facing the great ketos, of bringing forth rain and wind.

Of how the only way he could save her was to break his oath to Poteiden.

“And you expect me to believe this?” My mother practically snarls her disbelief, though it is me who receives her stony glare, not Kit. “Really?”

I hold her gaze and take a deep breath. This is not the time to debate the will of the gods. There are more important things at stake.

“There’s more,” I tell her steadily. “You recall the Acheans who attacked? How we wondered why they had so many bronze weapons?”

I address this question to Ariana rather than my mother. Not just because she is the one standing calmly while my mother is red-faced and trembling, but because it was she who tasked Kit with inquiring into the Achean’s source of bronze.

“I remember.” Ariana’s jaw ticks. “The men we questioned said the copper used to make them had come from Crete.”

“It was the Minas Crete who has been trading with them,” I explain hurriedly. Because this is only the preamble, the opening to what it is I need to tell them about.

Sira. My sweet, sweet Sira.

The hall erupts into an uproar at my words, and I tap my foot against the stone in frustration.

“It gets worse,” I continue, raising my voice to be heard above their voices. Eniocha lifts one hand, and the room falls silent. “There is evidence—strong evidence—that Xenodice killed her own mother and older sister to rise to power. To put herself on the throne. To make herself minas.”

The lawagetas murmur angrily amongst themselves as I lay the Minas Crete’s wrongs before them—though I keep the worst of them to myself.

Sira. She has locked up Sira. Her own sister .

“There are many who would share your anger,” I tell them instead. “Many who would seek to right this wrong.”

I stride forward, moving to stand in front of my mother, putting my back to her so that I can address the lawagetas instead of her. They are the women who hold the power here, who I need to convince. My mother only speaks for them—I need them to speak for me. For Sira.

“I ask for Thera’s aid, in the name of Potina.”

I’m vibrating with nerves, with anger, but my voice is steady. Strong. A priestess’ voice, they might think, but I only ever learnt to use it at sea, calling to the men beside me as we battled the storm.

“Let us send help to Knossos, and take this false minas from her throne.”

I press my first to my chest, against the double headed axe pendant I wear that marks the burden I never asked for. The role I was born into.

“Let us write to the Minas Malia, the Minas Phaistos. Let us write to the Minas Karpathos. Let us come together, with shield and blade. Let us show the people of Knossos that we will protect them. That we will hold every minas to their oaths.”

Low murmurs rise up, like a stream trickling, like the feathering of a spring wind through trees. Many of the lawagetas stare back at me with bald disinterest. Disappointment twists, tightening my throat before sinking low in my belly, like the ballast stones of a downed ship.

“You have given us much to discuss.” Eniocha offers me a reassuring smile, but I cannot meet her eyes. It feels like pity. Like protection, when I want victory.

“Let us reconvene in three days’ time,” Eniocha suggests.

My mother agrees, if only because she respects Eniocha too much to deny the request. But I can tell she isn’t taking it seriously, especially when she proposes a feast in three days’ time as well.

A feast to welcome Astarte , she says, but I know she means it as a test. A way to challenge my brother’s claims about Adrienne.

I scrub one hand over my face, exhaustion seeping into my very bones, and pray to the gods that three days will be enough time to make my mother listen.

“We will not go.”

My mother’s words drop with the heft of a double-headed axe, weighing heavier than the exhaustion pressing against my shoulders. I press my hands against my skirt, the palms raw and rough from nearly a moon cycle at sea.

“This is Crete’s problem, not ours. Enough of our women have died at the hands of foreigners. I will not send more to perish on foreign shores.”

“The Keptui are not foreigners…” My voice is a rasp, worn from yelling over waves, from salt and wind. I lick my lips, conscious of the dry cracks from those long days without enough drinking water.

“I said no.”

My mother rises to stand, her voice echoing against the walls of the palace. My childhood home. Though it has felt like an ill-fitting garment ever since I left to serve at Potina’s temple. Perhaps, even before that.

Now, with the memory of endless sky and sea stretching out around me, the stucco walls feel claustrophobic.

“It is not simply my will that I am voicing, you understand, but the decision of the lawagetas.” Her expression softens, but that softness is not aimed at me, but them. Her friends. Her cousins. The weathered and painted women who once fought by her side. “Have not the mothers and grandmothers of this island lost enough? Why should they send their daughters to solve Crete’s problems if the Keptui cannot manage it themselves?”

Because Sira is there, I want to scream. Sweet Sira, with eyes as deep and open as Poteiden’s depths when the sea is becalmed. Sweet Sira, who watches pigeons taking flight with patient longing etched on every soft feature.

But my mother doesn’t care about Xenodice sending copper ore to the Acheans. She doesn’t care that Xenodice has taken her throne in violation of all the laws of gods and mortals.

She will not care about Sira.

“And what of our men?” I rasp instead, my jaw ticking as a lump forms in my throat. “What of Kitanetos’ ships? Do we just leave them to Xenodice to do what she will with them? Do the mothers care so little for their sons?”

A hushed whispering fills the sun-stained room, and hope flickers through me, dancing like a freshly-lit oil lamp.

My mother sighs, her lips turning down, her head dipping in a show of sorrow. “That is a serious matter. And every mother’s heart aches for her sons. But…” she throws back her shoulders, then gracefully runs her hands down the sides of her skirt, as if she is brushing away any inconvenient concern for our lost men. “A mother’s heart aches each time a son leaves to trade at some foreign shore. What would become of us if we sent our daughters after them every time they ran into trouble? Who would tend our herds and grow our crops? Who would build our towns? Who would create all the treasures our people are famed for—medicines and weapons, pottery and art? Who would raise our children?” She gives a cold, mirthless laugh. “No, my daughter, I will not impoverish our people. Not even for the sons of Thera.” She pauses, giving me a look that I don’t quite understand, then adds, “Not even for you.”

“But mother…”

“Minas,” she retorts, her eyes flaming with the silent reminder of a lesson she taught me many times, years ago. I am not just your mother; I am mother to all our people. I cannot put your needs first. “And it is decided.” She lifts one arm, her hand quivering with a barely perceptible tremble that likely only I notice. “Return to your duties, priestess. Serve your goddess. Serve your people. Worry no more about distant people on distant shores.”

Priestess .

I swallow, throat burning, an unfamiliar ache pressing behind my sternum.

Priestess .

It is what I was born to be. I had forgotten it. For a moment, for a lifetime, for those blessed but painful moments at sea, I had just been Brita. Not even Britomartis of Thera. Not even a second daughter. I had just been Brita.

I had been free.

Serve your goddess.

My feet move of their own accord as I blink unseeingly, every fibre of my being burning at keeping my expression blank, as I will my lips not to tremble.

Serve your people.

They move out of my way, murmured words of blessing and gratitude, though I know not what for. I have done nothing more than bring back news of broken oaths and my brother.

“Let me walk with you, sister,” a familiar voice murmurs, a bare shoulder brushing against my own.

I turn to give Ariana a scathing look, but don’t trust my voice to reply. Of all the people on this island, she is the last I would like to match my stride with her own. Well, the last beside my mother.

No, not mother. Minas .

“You knew that’s how it would go.” I squint against the sun scorched streets, lengthening my stride in my eagerness to get back to Potina’s temple. “You knew that’s how it would go and yet you did not warn me.”

Ariana ignores my complaints, just as she always did when we were children. Practice, I suppose for when she becomes minas after our mother.

“Do you know what I endured to get back here?” I hiss.

I hold my palms out for her to see, the calluses earned from training with the sword ripped from hemp rope, my usually creamy skin dark as any man’s. Leathery, almost, as if nearly a moon cycle at sea has aged me years.

“Do you know what I gave up to bring back our brother? To bring you the information that you had asked for? And what was it all for? Why in all the gods’ names did you care who was sending copper ore to the Acheans if we aren’t prepared to do anything about it?”

Ariana dips her head in an infuriating impression of our mother. “It must have been an exhausting journey,” she says evenly. “I certainly wouldn’t have chosen to sail this time of the year. It really is the worst time to be at sea.”

My nostrils flare and I shoot her a disbelieving glare. She keeps her eyes ahead, smiling softly at the few people still milling about the streets. Most are inside though, taking their sleep in the middle of the day in preparation for tonight’s festivities.

“Pity you’ll have to set sail again so soon. And when you’ve only just returned home.” She sighs dramatically, a sound that is completely at odds with the smile she’s giving me—cunning and sharkish and secretive. “Though there’s no getting out of it now. Not when the birds have already flown.”

I stop short, nearly stumbling on a loose paving stone in the process. “What do you mean?” I grip her elbow, turning her to face me. “What in Potina’s underworld are you speaking of?”

Her grin widens, dark eyes sparkling with… not quite amusement. Something darker. It’s the same look I saw her wear when the Acheans landed on our shores all those moon cycles ago. When the stones of the rooftop were bathed in Achean blood and the air was thick with the smell of copper and sweat and smoke.

Ariana glances carefully around us, then wraps one arm around my shoulder, as if pulling me in for a sisterly confidence. It is almost a laughable thought. We have not shared confidences since she first started growing her hair out, a full three years before Potina’s blessing came to me.

“You will go tonight,” she murmurs, her voice whispering against my ear. “I have sent messages to all our allies. To the Minas Phaistos and the Minas Malia. To the Minas Galatas and even the Minas Zakros. The Minas Kastri too. The pigeons took flight yesterday at dawn.”

Yesterday at dawn.

I stare at Ariana, completely at a loss for words.

“I… but… I don’t understand,” I stammer.

A cunning smile curves her lips, but her eyes are as hard and sharp as onyx in the sunlight.

“I will not let our mother squander my birthright,” she whispers through smiling teeth. “I will not be a ruler over rubble and bones. She might be Minas Thera but this is my future.”

She presses her forehead against my own, like a loving sister rejoicing in my return, but I can feel the battle rage trembling through her as she grips my shoulders.

“You will make Xenodice honor the oath. Or you will put someone at Knossos who will.”