Page 15 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Sira

“You look beautiful.”

“Like a goddess.”

“Doesn’t she look lovely, Naunet.”

“Oh yes, very.” A simpering smile, a dark eye flashing with mischief. The brush of a hand at my waist, supposedly straightening my tunic where it rests beneath the band of my heavy layered skirt. “Like Pasiphae herself. So sweet and innocent.”

I stare blankly ahead, eyes fixed on one of the many flickering oil lamps as I studiously avoid meeting any of their eyes, smiling and nodding at the appropriate places. Thankfully, no one expects me to speak. I am just a doll for them, to be dressed and maneuvered.

And, when they tire of me, forgotten.

Everyone forgets me, eventually.

After that guard whispered to me, after I had asked to see the Oracle, I had hoped. Hoped that someone would come to take me away. Rescue me. But, despite publicly voicing her agreement that I should see the Oracle, it seems my sister has changed none of her plans.

It seems a request to see the Oracle is no longer as sacred as it once was.

It seems my sister will not let anything delay sending me away with the Acheans.

“She looks just as she should.” My sister’s voice sends ice down my spine. I school my features, suppressing the instinctive shiver. “After all, she has the blood of a minas in her veins.” Cool fingers brush the exposed skin of my arm, just above my elbow, the nails sharp with a warning that mirrors her words.

I wonder if it’s a warning that she means to give. If she means to tell me that—even still, even after everything—she sees me as a threat. She shouldn’t. After all, what threat could I possibly be, friendless and barely able to lift a sword?

“Do not spoil this for me, Sira.” Her voice is low, brushing against the shell of my ear. “You must obey me on this.”

I nod, then shake my head, my throat tightening. “I won’t,” I rasp. “I mean, I will. Obey you, that is.”

She gives an amused huff, then brusquely pats the back of my arm. “Yes. You will, won’t you?”

She rounds to face me, eyes sharp, red painted lips curved in a smile. I meet her eyes briefly, then look away.

“You always were such a good girl. Complacent. Eager to please. I can see why you were mother’s favorite.” Her smile widens, and she turns to the women around us, as if inviting them to join in her mirth. “So you see, there is no one else who would be so well suited to bind themselves to King Atreus. The Acheans—they are not like us, you know.” A dry chuckle. “They like their women soft and weak.”

A few women titter at Xenodice’s words and I feel my cheeks heat. Perhaps I am soft and weak, and foolish too, because until thirteen months ago, I hadn’t felt any shame in it. Not all hands were made to lift a blade , my mother had said, and a reed that bends does not easily break.

“And I’m sure King Atreus won’t mind if you take a woman or two as your lover, you know,” my sister continues cheerfully, the laughter of the lawagetas-daughters fueling her on. “They don’t seem to count that sort of thing. Just don’t take a man—not that you would, though, would you? You never did care for them.”

I shrug, flinching when one of the doulos reaches between me and my sister to brush fine red paint over one nipple, and then the next. It’s the same paint I can feel thick on my lips, a cloying, smothering sort of sensation.

“You really don’t know what you’re missing,” one of the women sighs. I forget her name, a first daughter of some lawagetas too unimportant to remember.

Naunet scoffs. “It’s not that great.” She smirks in my direction. “It certainly won’t be that great for her if she’s with an Achean, even if he is a king.”

A few of the women shudder, whispering among themselves in agreement, but my sister cuts them off with a half-hearted wave of her hand. “Enough. You’ll frighten the poor girl. Besides...” white teeth flash between red lips, reminding me momentarily of a shark I saw pulled from the sea once at Amnisos. “It’s not like you have to do it tonight. Indeed, I would recommend waiting until you are bound to him. Apparently, the Acheans prefer it that way.” She wrinkles her nose in distaste.

It's a feeling we share, though probably for entirely different reasons. Will I be able to do it, when it comes down to it? Will I really be able to open my body up to a man like him?

Will I have a choice?

I stare at the flickering flame, ignoring the tugging at my scalp as one of the doulos weaves strands of pearls into place. Someone presses a cup into my hand and I take it with a murmured thanks, then lift it to my lips. It’s strong—red fermented grape infused with blue lily, the favorite wine of the festival that marks the heart of winter. The first mouthful burns pleasantly on the way down, a warning of the heat it will soon have coursing through my limbs.

One cup for life. Two cups for love. Three cups for death .

I had heard the old high priestess say that once, the one who served alongside my mother. I doubt there is much truth in it, since many drink more than three cups of blue lily and live to see the next day.

Perhaps she was just referring to the oblivion that too much blue lily can bring.

I take another drink, this one longer, deep enough to drain half the cup, and stare at the flame dancing at the end of the oil lamp.

I want that oblivion now.

“Welcome, my beloved people…”

I stare at the crowd filling the courtyard, the upturned faces glowing pale in moonlight and firelight. From where I stand, up on the open balcony with Xenodice, they are all as indiscernible from one another as petals on a flowering olive tree.

Had there always been so many people in my city?

“… heralds a new era for Knossos…”

My legs tremble, my sister’s words disappearing beneath the roaring in my ears. I press one hand to the smooth column beside me. The stone is cold beneath my touch and steadying.

“… our greatest ally in these turbulent times…”

My sister’s grip on my arm tightens, and I am almost thankful for the pain. For anything that isn’t the sensation of thousands of eyes on me, crawling like ants over a carcass.

Do not spoil this for me, Sira, her grip seems to say. I am not sure I could, even if I knew how. Does a doe fend off a lioness? Does a sheep defeat a wolf?

No, their only chance of survival is to flee. That might have been an option, once. When Britomartis came bursting into Potina’s temple in the dead of night, begging me to run away with her.

I’d been a fool to refuse. A fool to think I could serve my people by staying. That I had anything of use to offer them.

“…and so I present Sira, the jewel of our family, my very own heir…”

As if by design, Aletheia’s face appears in the crowd, her wrinkles smoothed by moonlight, those unseeing grey eyes lined with kohl and staring right at me. I frown at the sight of her, recalling the last words she spoke to me. Words that I had held on to as prophesy.

Where do you stand when the storm comes?

I squeeze my eyes shut. Here. I stand here , I want to scream. I stayed when I should have fled and look what that has gotten me .

“… an honor to have her betrothed to King Atreus…”

Xenodice grips my hand and I start, turning to stare at her, to watch in horror as she places my hand into King Atreus’ outstretched palm. His fingers fold over mine, engulfing it entirely.

Below us, the crowd erupts with the sound of cheers and the tinkling song of women shaking their bracelets. I stare at them in disbelief, at my people, the people who I have sought to serve, celebrating my sacrifice.

They are not all smiling, though. Aletheia isn’t. Some of the guards—the ones who should have been serving Astarte or Diktynna or Potina—stare implacably at the crowd, at my sister, at anything but me.

Atreus’ hand tightens around my own.

I should have drunk more blue lily wine.

“You look beautiful.”

I wrinkle my nose at the feel of hot breath and the brush of a beard at my ear, but manage not to flinch away. Instead, I smile, thinking of how his words echo the empty praise of my sister’s followers earlier that evening.

Beautiful. Sweet. Lovely .

Like one of the crocus flowers clinging to the rocks, waiting to be plucked or trampled. I suppose that is an apt description of me.

Though beautiful flowers can be deadly too.

I turn to stare baldly up at King Atreus, and take another long sip of blue lily wine. He looks like he could trample me. He’s dressed in armor, as if he thinks that battle will touch him even here, in the heart of my sister’s city, in the midst of our most sacred festival. When he stoops to whisper in my ear again, I can smell stale wine on his lips.

I can only hope my breath smells just as strongly as his.

“I wish tonight were the night you were bound to me,” he murmurs. I feel a droplet of moisture land on my neck as he speaks. “The things I would do with you…”

My eyes drop to his waist, to the pair of daggers strapped there. I bet they’re sharp. I bet they’ve seen battle. I wonder if they could pierce his bone armor. It seems like that would be… difficult. Britomartis could probably do it, but somehow I doubt I could.

Would he leave them close to the bed when he undressed? When he slept? Would I be able to kill a sleeping man, even if he is an Achean?

Atreus chuckles. “You like the look of me, don’t you little Keptui?”

“Oh.”

I tear my gaze away from his blades and stare back up at his face, my cheeks heating as his words slowly registers in the confusion of my thoughts.

“I… I don’t know,” I stammer.

I don’t suppose I can tell him the truth—that I was staring at his blades and not the outline of his cock beneath his kilt. That I was fantasizing about killing him, not making love to him.

For some reason, my flustered stammering seems to please him. A broad smile spreads across his bearded face, his pupils flaring wide as he steps closer. Close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to look up at him.

“You’re quite big,” I observe. He really is a giant. Almost as tall as my brother Asterion. “Though I think my brother is taller.”

Atreus scoffs. “Your brother is part bull, if the stories are true. More beast than man.”

“They say he is the son of the Starry One,” I agree, nodding slowly. I’m not sure I ever believed it, or gave it much thought. My mother’s lovers were never of much interest to me.

I look down at Atreus’ hair-covered forearm. This close, it really does look like the pelt of some animal. Perhaps a wolf. Without thinking, I reach out, brushing the fur with my fingertips.

Atreus let’s out a hiss, but doesn’t move away. The hair is course and unpleasant to touch, not at all like the wolf pelt Asterion brought home for me once. Perhaps more like the hair of a boar.

“Are you part wolf or part boar?” I ask, the words feeling heavy on my tongue.

The ground shifts beneath my feet, and I find myself grasping Atreus’ thick, hair-coated forearm to steady myself. It is good my sister has already announced our betrothal. I’m not sure I would trust myself to stand in front of all the lawagetas now, not with three cups of blue lily wine in my belly and one clutched in my hand.

“Am I… what?” Atreus chokes out.

“Part wolf or part boar?” I repeat, tilting my head back to look at him.

In the dancing light of the lamps and braziers, he really is a harsh looking man, all hard angles and hair and coarse skin. Not even the light of the full moon above us is enough to soften his features.

“Boar. Without a doubt. At least, according to our mother.”

I spin at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, at the heat of a steadying hand at my back, and come face to chest with another set of Achean armor. Though the face that is grinning down at me is marginally less jarring and not covered in hair.

“Lykos,” Atreus growls out. The name is as much a curse as a warning.

“Brother,” Lykos replies, his grin widening. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your betrothed?”

I blink up at this newcomer. Lykos . Had he been on my sister’s rooftop three days ago? I do not recall seeing him there, but that day is a blur to me.

“Sira, this is Lykos. The youngest of my siblings. And if any of us is descended from a wolf, it is he.” Atreus sounds strangely proud as he announces this. I tilt my head, observing this newcomer. There is something wolf-like in his smile, in the cunning watchfulness of his eyes.

I am not sure if I like it.

“Oh,” I say, because Lykos is looking at me in that way that says he expects an answer. I feel myself sway a bit on my feet, blinking rapidly as the poppy smoke rises around us from a nearby brazier, making my head spin. Lykos’ hand is still on my back and, while I should be annoyed, I am momentarily grateful for it.

Lykos’ gaze sharpens, his smile becoming brittle as the cheaply made wine cup in my hand. “I think your betrothed has had enough wine, brother.”

Atreus snorts, a boar-like sound that has a poorly stifled laugh bubbling up. I press my fingertips to my lips to muffle the sound, then remember my painted face and my sister’s insistence that I don’t ruin this for her.

“And what if she has?” Atreus rumbles, stepping closer to me. Close enough that I can feel the fur of his arm and his smooth, hard leather armor against my skin. “What if I like her like this? Soft and compliant and mine.”

His .

My stomach lurches at that declaration. Perhaps I have had too much blue-lily wine. His . It’s an absurd notion. No, more than absurd. Sacrilegious. His . Everyone knows men cannot own women. Women are the makers of men.

We do not even allow men to own women doulos.

And I am not a doulos. I am the daughter of a minas.

“I am not yours,” I say softly, turning away from Lykos’ piercing stare to blink up at Atreus.

The words feel dry, my tongue swollen, and Atreus’ bearded face swims before me, half obscured by rising smoke. His eyes widen in surprise, his lips curving down in disapproval.

“I am not yours,” I repeat, more firmly. Loud enough that I’m vaguely aware of the sudden silence of our neighbors, followed by a few nervous titters of laughter. “I am Sira. The daughter of the old Minas. Heir to Knossos.”

It is a dangerous proclamation. A moon-cycle ago, I wouldn’t have dared to make it. Dangerous to declare myself the heir, without any mention of my sister. But wine and desperation have me feeling reckless.

“So you are.” The Achean smiles, but it is not a nice smile. His hand grasps my arm, thick fingers so large they wrap entirely around my upper arm. I shiver at the power in his hold, at the subtle reminder of my own comparative weakness.

“But I will make you mine nonetheless. Perhaps not tonight…” he pauses, shooting Lykos a glare, then adds, “But eventually. You will be mine, and I will plough you and break you like we plough the wild, untamed fields outside our city. You will be filled with my seed and grow ripe with the fruit of our union. And all will know the value of what I have conquered.”

I stare at him, wordless. Stunned. And yet, I shouldn’t be surprised. Not when the stories we hear of Acheans paint them as barely more than beasts.

And this is who my sister would trade with.

“Such a romantic declaration,” Lykos deadpans, though his hand trembles against my back. “It’s hardly a wonder that every woman in this city is throwing themselves at your feet.”

“The women here will spread their legs for anyone,” Atreus snorts, releasing my arm. “It is hardly an honor. Not that you would know about it.” He claps Lykos roughly on the shoulder, and the steadying hand that had been pressed to my spine drops away. “Eh? Have you even sampled the women at Astarte’s temple?” He lifts two fingers, kissing them, then raising them, in a mocking tribute to the gods. “Divine. Absolutely divine.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Lykos says tightly, and for some reason that makes Atreus laugh, a booming laugh that is brusque and out of place, even at a festival.

“Speaking of women—isn’t that Inanna, one of Astarte’s servants? And who is that with her? Some young, pretty thing—is she one of your favorites?”

“Stop trying to make my betrothed jealous,” Atreus chides, but he turns to look nonetheless.

I follow his gaze, squinting blearily through the smoke, then blink in surprise. It is the silver-haired guard from before. The one who whispered to me before I went to meet my sister on the rooftop. The crescent moon pendant at her breast marks her as a servant of Astarte and a doe-eyed acolyte trails at her side. The pair are heading towards us, weaving effortlessly through the crowd.

“Inanna,” Atreus dips his head, his ears pinking slightly. “This is a surprise.”

“A welcome one, I hope.” Inanna, the silver-haired guard singsongs. She is all smooth honey and languid smiles, nothing like the guard who whispered caution in my ear. Who bade me to ask to see the Oracle.

It has done no good to me, her advice. But it was kind of her to try.

“Ah. Yes. This is Theana. She is our newest acolyte. Not yet tried, but eager to learn. Eager to serve Astarte.” Inanna sighs, giving the girl beside her a look full of indulgent superiority.

I study the girl, her full figure and sweet face. There is intelligence in her eyes, a subtle sharpness, a watchfulness. And her hair is long. Full, thick waves that curl down to the center of her back.

It is not the hair of a new acolyte, but a woman fully grown.

“Is that so?” Atreus drawls, releasing his hold on my arm and stepping closer to Inanna and her sweet companion. I let out a shaky breath, grateful to be momentarily forgotten. “A new acolyte?”

Theana dips her head, coyly peering up at Atreus through lowered lashes as Inanna smiles on. “Is it too much to ask? To want to learn pleasure from someone as skilled as you?”

Her voice dances like smoke and silk, and for the briefest moment, I do feel a flash of jealousy. Only, it’s not aimed at her, it’s aimed at him. Why does he have someone like her falling at his feet? He’s an Achean—I’m one of her own people.

I’m certainly more attractive than he is. Why can’t she flirt with me instead?

“Come,” Lykos murmurs against my ear.

I shrug away from the feel of it. From the unwanted closeness of yet another Achean. He steps closer, his hand gently gripping my upper arm to keep me in place. I ignore him, and keep watching the servants of Astarte.

Inanna is standing behind Atreus now, her hands rubbing his arms as she guides him towards Theana. Towards a darkened corner, out of reach of the braziers’ dancing light. I think longingly of that day with Britomartis. Of the feel of her lips and her tongue.

Perhaps I should have visited Astarte’s temple when I had the chance. Perhaps then there wouldn’t be this lonely ache deep in the pit of my stomach. Perhaps I would know what the touch of someone like Theana feels like.

“Quickly. Quietly. While he’s distracted. You must trust me.”

I wrinkle my nose at that. Why would I trust him? An Achean I’ve never met. The brother of a man who, only moments ago, said he wanted to plough me like a field?

“Please, Sira.” There’s a desperation in his voice that has me softening despite myself. Wanting to yield. Britomartis would not yield. She would probably have run the pair of them through with her blade already.

But I have no blade, and if I did, I don’t think I’d have the skill to use it.

Inanna turns, casting me a look over one shoulder as she shoves Atreus into the darkness. It’s brief, barely more than a glance, and over before I can take a second breath. But there is no mistaking the meaning in it, even in the wine-soaked haze.

Go. Go now. We are doing this for you .

I swallow. Lykos is tense beside me, his biceps and forearms nearly trembling with the effort of waiting. Sweat glistens on his brow, in the short scruff of his upper lip. My heart thunders, a painful thudding behind my ribs that echoes the drumming in my ears.

Freedom. This is my chance at freedom. I turned it down once, and have regretted it ever since.

I will not make the same mistake twice.