Page 16 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Lykos

“I’m going to kill your brother,” Sira slurs, lilting unsteadily on her feet.

Her delicate fingers are like a vice on my forearm. I smile. It’s a good thing she’s stronger than she looks. She will need that strength before the night is through.

“You should know that. Before you help me escape.” She tugs on my arm, and I dare a glance down at her. Her pupils are blown, gaze unfocused, expression open. Something unpleasant twists behind my ribs at the sight of so much vulnerability. At so much guilelessness aimed at me.

She should not be so trusting. Certainly not of me.

Her brow dips, lips pursing. “You are helping me escape, aren’t you?”

Gods help me . I cast a panicked look around the darkened halls of Knossos, praying that no one has heard her.

“Silence, little bird,” I bend to whisper in her ear, then clasp a hand over her mouth when she looks like she’s going to protest. “Your song will get us killed.”

She narrows kohl-lined eyes at me. I half expect her to bite, but she merely shakes her head free with a huff, the metal and pearl beads weaved through her hair tinkling in warning. “You are not master over me.”

Still, she must be sober enough to comprehend my warning, because she falls silent. For a long time, it is only the sound of our footsteps on stone, the rustle of fabric, and Sira’s slightly labored breathing. Or perhaps she is simply too tired to argue. Either way, I am grateful for her silence. I do not plan to die tonight.

“Is it much farther,” Sira asks wearily, feet dragging against the stones. We have walked far enough that the corridors are no longer lit, the only light coming from the flickering oil lamp clasped in my free hand.

I lift my eyes to the heavens—or at least, to where the stars would be, if we weren’t trapped in this warren of a palace, with layers of stone above us and corridor after corridor winding ahead of us. Inanna told me to meet them at a small service entrance to the north, and I am almost certain this is the correct path, but what if I am wrong?

“I… I’m so tired,” Sira admits, leaning heavily against me, her head pressing against my shoulder. Some of her beads snag in the clasps of my leather armor and she whimpers, but doesn’t reach up to untangle them.

I reach between us, breaking the strand of useless beads, letting them scatter across the stones. Some servant will find them several days from now, when someone eventually wanders down this unused corridor, and thank the gods for their good fortune.

“It’s not long to go now,” I lie. “Keep walking.”

Sira whimpers.

“You should not have drunk so much blue lily wine,” I chide, then immediately shudder, because I sound just like my mother. Or one of my many older brothers.

“Oh, come here.” I give a resigned sigh, then haul her around to face me, holding the oil lamp carefully away from her. “I will carry you, if your legs cannot.”

“Ca- carry me?” Her eyes are wide in the firelight, glowing like amber. Her gaze tracks over my form, her lips turning down at the corners. “You cannot be serious.”

I bristle, straightening instinctively to my full height. True, I may not be as large as Atreus, but I am no weakling. And with twenty harsh summers behind me, I am certainly no youth.

“Would you rather stay behind with my brother?”

Her face pales, throat bobbing as she swallows, then shakes her head.

“Then set aside your pride, Keptui, and let me help you.”

Sira is heavier than she looks. I end up giving her the oil lamp to hold so I can use both arms to carry her. “Careful with that,” I warn, when the flame dances a little too close to my throat. “The men prefer my face as it is, thank you. I’d rather not change it.”

Sira chuckles, a breathy sound that makes the lamplight flicker, then tilts her head against my arm in an effort to study my face.

“Your face is not terrible, I suppose.”

Warm fingers trace the underside of my jaw, and I shiver. Perhaps it’s the exertion of carrying her, or the closeness of the lamp, but my cheeks flame at her blatant perusal of me, at that featherlight touch.

“So much hair,” she muses, speaking more to herself than to me. “And so many sharp angles. Nothing like a woman’s face.”

I huff. Of course it’s nothing like a woman’s face. Poteiden’s balls, I’m a man. And it took a lot of effort to grow the scruff she’s currently playing with.

“I’m glad you approve,” I deadpan.

“I didn’t say that,” she slurs. Her hand slips away, her eyelids fluttering shut as she settles her head against my chest.

I feel strangely bereft at the absence of her touch and narrow my eyes at her, even though she cannot see me. I have never craved a woman’s touch. Perhaps this is some sorcery of Astarte. Perhaps in working with Inanna, I have strayed to close to some magic wrought by Astarte’s servants.

“I would advise you not to compare my face to those of your lovers,” I tell her loftily. “Otherwise I might return the favor. And I prefer lovers who can carry me, not the other way around.”

Sira huffs against my chest, and I briefly find myself wondering what it would be like if I wasn’t wearing this thick leather armor, and what that breath would feel like on my skin. Her breath probably smells like blue lily wine , I remind myself.

“My lovers?” Sira’s words are half muffled against the leather. Her lips curve into a sad smile, her lashes fluttering as she attempts—and fails—to open her eyes. “Because I have had so many.” She snorts, and the lamp lilts dangerously in her grasp.

“Careful,” I hiss. “Mind the lamp, woman.”

“Should have taken more lovers,” she mutters. “Or visited Astarte’s temple. Theana could have taught me… something. Maybe then she would have stayed.”

“Who?” I ask, feeling curiosity pique at Sira’s words. “Did one of your lovers leave you?”

Sira glares at me through one half-open eye, then snuffles. “It matters not.”

My smile widens, my stride lengthening now that I’ve grown accustomed to the weight of this Keptui in my arms. Well. Now I have to know. “Tell me,” I urge. “Tell me what woman could possibly resist your many charms.”

Sira pouts. “You’re teasing me.”

Well, okay. I am. Except I am curious. After all, I’m risking my life for this woman. Betraying my brother and my people for her.

Well, not for her , specifically, but what she stands for. For the future she can give me.

Which is essentially the same thing.

“Teasing you? Never!” I reply with all the righteous indignation I can muster. “I’m helping you escape; I’d like to point out. I’m literally carrying you out of Knossos. Probably going to get scarred for life in the process, since you’re too drunk to hold a lamp.”

Actually, it’s entirely possible I might not survive the night at all, but there’s no point in bringing that up. I squint into the darkness ahead of us, searching for the outline of a door. For any indication that we are nearly at the north entrance.

“S’pose…” she sighs. “Though I don’t know why you’re helping me… Why are you-”

“So, this lover of yours…” I interrupt.

Because we don’t need to have the conversation about why I’m helping her now. No, that can wait. At least until I know whether or not Inanna is waiting for me with a knife’s blade in the darkness somewhere. Until we are free of these claustrophobic walls. Until my brother is far behind me.

“… I take it your lover was a servant of Astarte?”

That would explain, at least in part, why some at Astarte’s temple have broken rank. Why they are seeking to remove Xenodice from the throne and put this soft creature in her place.

“Astarte?” Sira barks out a mirthless laugh. “Curse Astarte. Curse her and all those pretending to be her.”

My eyebrows raise, and I cast a nervous glance around the darkened corridor, as if half expecting that goddess or one of her servants to strike us down now.

“Silence, Keptui,” I warn. Astarte is the last goddess I would ever seek to offend. Especially now, when battle is almost certainly in my future.

If I survive tonight.

“No. It was one of Potina’s women,” Sira sighs.

I wrinkle my nose, suppressing a shudder at that terrifying goddess’ name. The goddess who survives on blood and sorrow and chaos. I would rather she not be called upon in this current moment.

“Britomartis,” Sira breathes, the name scarcely more than a whisper.

“Britomartis?” I repeat, wondering for a moment why that name sounds so familiar and then… oh. Ohh . A slow grin spreads my lips, excitement bubbling behind my ribs. “Do you mean Britomartis of Thera?”

Half a moon cycle ago, I captured a carrier dove that had landed on my ship. The message had been short, addressed to the Minas Kos, demanding help with removing Xenodice from her throne. Saying that Xenodice had wrongfully usurped the place she claimed, and that her younger sister was the rightful heir. Asking all to meet at Zominthos. It had been sent from Thera, though not from the Minas Thera, as one would expect.

It had been sent from Britomartis.

Sira doesn’t reply, and I glance down at her impatiently. Her eyes are closed, her mouth half open, her chest rising and falling. The oil lamp is clutched in her hands, balancing precariously between us.

I smirk down at her. So, this Britomartis was your lover, little bird?

Several days ago, after my brother’s betrothal to Sira had first been announced, I had gotten lost in this gods’ forsaken palace and stumbled on Inanna speaking with one of her acolytes in hushed tones. Naturally, I had hidden and listened. And Zeus’ heart, had I been well rewarded.

They discussed how Xenodice had killed her own mother and sister to take the throne. How she planned to get rid of her younger sister now too, by shipping her off to live with barbarians—I’d been modestly offended by that. And how Sira was the true heir, the true Minas Crete.

‘War is coming to these shores,’ Inanna had whispered. ‘I received a dove—I cannot tell you who sent it, I will not betray them—but trust me. War is coming. Our sister islands are moving. They want Xenodice’s blood—probably her throne, if they can get it. And when they come, we will be ready. We will fight beside them, but we will have Sira, not them. We will have a new minas, the true minas, to put on the throne.’

Most mortals go their whole life without gaining the notice of the gods. Or, if they do gain the notice of a god, it is not the notice they would wish for. But sometimes the gods like to entertain themselves with testing a mortal. With placing the means for death and glory before them, if only they are brave enough to seize it.

That was one of those moments. I had known it without doubt. Could feel the meddling interference of some god as if he were standing beside me, as if he had led me to the very spot where Inanna and her acolyte were plotting.

Inanna had not been pleased to see me unfolding myself gracefully from my hiding place. And even less pleased with the terms of my offer. But she’d had no choice but to accept it.

I adjust Sira in my arms, and smile grimly into the darkness as the shadowed outline of a doorway comes into view. If their minas were not in my arms, I do not doubt I would be meeting my death on the other side. That Inanna or one of her women is waiting there, ready to slip a blade between my ribs, is almost a certainty.

I tap the door with one booted foot, cradling Sira’s lolling head carefully against my chest. Right over my heart.

I will not die today.