Page 17 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Sira

“She’s not a very big thing, is she? I mean, she’s rather delicate…”

I groan at the too-loud sound of an unfamiliar voice, at the glare of sunlight through my closed lids. At the lurching movements that have my aching head thudding against something hard and damp.

“There’s enough weight to her.” A man’s voice rumbles against my ear. “Though you’re welcome to carry her if you think the burden easy.”

“I wouldn’t want to wake her.”

“Hmmphf.” The sound is something between a grumble and chuckle. “She could do with some waking.”

Strong arms tighten around me, followed by a grunting exhale. Realization slowly comes flooding in with all the unwelcome harshness of daylight.

I’m being carried. Somewhere outside the city, going by the scent of earth and foliage, and the noticeable absence of woodsmoke. A bird sings, its trilling song like a blade behind my eyes.

“I am awake,” I mutter, my lips half pressed against something. Armor, I realize. Hardened leather, damp with my own sweat and, quite possibly, my saliva.

I squirm, and the arms holding me loosen, until my feet have settled unsteadily on the ground.

“Thank Zeus.” Large hands grip my shoulders, keeping me upright. “I don’t think I could have carried you a moment longer.”

“Lykos?” I blink dazedly at the Achean in front of me. Last night, I had only seen him through the haze of poppy smoke, my vision tinged with blue-lily wine. He had been more wolf than man in my imagination, wild and strange and yet somehow promising to be my salvation.

Now, he looks almost ordinary. Young, too, with smooth rose-tinged cheeks above faint scruff, the corners of his eyes unlined, his brow unfurrowed.

He nods. “And your women,” his lips tilt up into a crooked smile. “Though none of them would deign to carry you as I did.”

My women?

I look around, gripping Lykos’ forearms to steady myself as my sluggish brain takes in the landscape, the rocky outcrops and low scrub, the winding shepherd’s trail… and the strange women staring back at me. Each of them armed more heavily than my sister’s guards, their eyes sharp as their sheathed blades, except where heavy hoods obscure their faces.

We are beneath the shadow of Mount Ida, Knossos obscured by distance and the rolling hills behind us. And I am surrounded by ten armed strangers. Eleven, counting Lykos.

“We would have carried you, had the brute released you,” one of the women argues, folding her arms over her chest. She shoots Lykos a glare. “And do not call on your gods here, Achean. They have no place on our sacred islands.”

She is one of Astarte’s servants, I realize, and no low-ranking one either, going by the glinting gold of the crescent moon pendant. There’s a familiarity to her face, in the way that most in Knossos are familiar to me, but I cannot recall her name.

“I thought… I thought Zeus was what they called Velchanos,” I say, feeling strangely defensive of this Achean. “Is that not the case? And what does it matter what gods he calls on?”

“It’s fine, Sira,” Lykos murmurs.

“Drania, do not be so harsh with him,” a familiar voice chides. I nearly sigh in relief as Inanna steps forward, slipping back the hood of her cloak to reveal a shock of silver against black curls. “Are you able to walk, my lady?”

I nod, releasing my hold on Lykos and willing strength into my trembling limbs. “Yes. Yes, I believe so.” I lick my lips, cringing at the dryness, at the taste of stale wine coating my tongue. “But who are you all? What happened?” I look between Inanna and Lykos, the only two I know, though they are barely more than strangers themselves. “Last night… the festival…”

Lykos grimaces. “You made it to the outer corridor before your legs gave way and I had to carry you.”

I blink at him in confusion. Made it to the outer corridor?

And then I remember.

“What happened to Theana?” I ask, searching the hooded faces for hers. For that pretty, sweet-faced girl from last night.

Inanna’s expression grows solemn. “She could not join us, though she sent her blessing.”

“But…” my brow dips, and I glance up at Lykos in silent question. I don’t like the thought of her left behind, with Atreus. And what will he think when he wakes up to find me and Lykos gone, and Inanna missing?

“She will be fine,” he says. “My brother has many faults, but I doubt even he is foolish enough to harm a servant of Astarte.”

“We must keep moving,” Drania interjects, frowning at the eastern horizon. “The sun rose long ago. They will be searching for her.” She gives me a cursory glance then adds, with a sigh, “I suppose one of us will have to carry her now.” As if I am no more than a burden they must shoulder. A prize to be stolen from Knossos.

Anger rises up in me at her words, at that dismissive look. I might not be the master of my own destiny, but I have never been a burden.

I straighten, shrugging free of Lykos’ grasp.

“I am perfectly capable of walking,” I lie, lifting my chin imperiously. The movement has my head aching, but I ignore the discomfort. Instead, I crane my neck to give Lykos a strained smile. “Thank you for your service, prince.”

Lykos gives a faint shudder. “Please don’t call me that.”

I frown. “What? A prince? But I thought…” I pause, wracking my muddled brain for what I can remember of Achean hierarchy and family structures. “King Atreus is your brother, is he not?”

“Half-brother. We share the same mother, but have a different father.”

I nod, if only to seem like I understand. Because I don’t. Only the gods know whether Xenodice and I share the same sire, though we had the same fathers. Yet I am still her sister, and an heir.

Lykos gives a thin smile, then nudges my shoulder, urging me along the rocky path. Inanna and Drania and all the others are already several paces ahead of us.

“We claim our lines through the father, not the mother,” he explains as we walk. “Atreus was sired by the late king. After his father’s death, he became king. My mother had me after, though I don’t know who sired me. It matters not.” He shrugs, making his leather armor creak. “Perhaps that’s why he never felt threatened by me as he did our other brothers.” A mirthless laugh. “What danger is a fatherless fifth brother, with no claim to anything but his own wit?”

I hum in understanding. Xenodice has never been threatened by me, either.

It’s probably the only reason I’m still alive.

We walk in silence long enough for the rising sun to warm my shoulders and draw the sleepy cicada out for a lazy song. My gaze drops to my booted feet stumbling against the rocky path. These are not the decorative slippers I’d been wearing last night, and though I’m still wearing the same thick wool skirt and fine linen tunic, my over cloak is new, too. I finger it, admiring the pale brown absently in the early morning light. Strawflower dyed-wool, worked in a simple flat weave, by the look. Not the more ornate styles preferred by women in Knossos.

My eyes flick up to the women on the path ahead of us. They’re wearing identical cloaks to my own, their figures nearly blending into the landscape. Most of them appear to be carrying satchels or bags, going by the odd lumps at shoulders and hips beneath the billowing fabric. The women move with purpose, one or two occasionally glancing back at me and Lykos, but never slowing their pace.

Realization slowly dawns, filtering like the pale winter light through my wine-muddled thoughts. I’m escaping Knossos. Escaping my sister. Escaping whatever fate lay across the sea with King Atreus.

I’m free.

I glance up at Lykos. At the only man among us. An Achean. The brother of the king who, only last night, I was certain would be my end, one way or another.

What is his motive?

“Where are we going?” I ask casually. “I recognize the path to Mount Ida, but surely you did not all steal away in the dead of night simply to take me to the Oracle.”

“No…” His mouth twists, and he gives the women ahead of us a rueful look. “We aren’t going to the Oracle. To tell the truth, I don’t know our exact destination. They didn’t trust me that far in their plot.”

“They?” I muse, though I already suspect who he means. The servants of Astarte. But when had my sister lost their loyalty? And what could they possibly hope to gain by stealing me away?

“The servants of Astarte,” he replies, confirming my suspicion. “Not that I blame them. I wouldn’t trust me either.” He gives a wry chuckle, then adds, with no small amount of smug satisfaction, “But they had little choice. No one else could have gotten close to you without raising my brother’s suspicions. He wouldn’t have trusted you with anyone but me. No doubt they had planned to leave me behind. Or kill me on the road, since I know enough of their plan to be a danger, I suppose...”

He scrubs the faint scruff on his jaw, cocking his head and studying the women ahead of us thoughtfully. “But then you very conveniently passed out, so of course I had to carry you. And they couldn’t exactly murder me while I held their minas in my arms, could they?” He flashes me a mischievous grin. “You won’t let them kill me, will you? I am rather useful, you know. Certainly more useful alive than dead.”

I blink at him, trying to make sense of everything he’s said, my mind finally snagging on one concept, like a twisted thread in a loom.

“Minas?” The word comes out in a croak.

Lykos gives me a look of sympathy, then pulls out a waterskin from beneath his cloak, unstopping it before passing it to me. “Apologies, my lady. You must be parched.”

I swallow the water gratefully, but it does little to ease the pounding in my head, or the growing panic tightening my throat.

“What do you mean, minas ?” I repeat, swiping a few water droplets from my chin before handing him back the waterskin. “My sister lives, does she not?”

“Unfortunately. A minor detail.” Lykos waves one hand dismissively. “One that can probably be rectified, if the gods favor our plans.”

“Then I am not the minas,” I retort, shaking my head in an attempt to hide my mirth. This youth—because, after listening to his ramblings, he can scarcely be anything else—clearly has no idea how our people do things. “I am just Sira, a third daughter. An heir, should my sister die without a daughter…”

He stops in his tracks, gripping my shoulders, turning me to face him. “You are not just an heir.” He lowers his face so that it’s level with my own. In the grey light, his eyes look like honey warmed in the sun. “Do you… do you truly not know?” His brow dips, long lashes fluttering as he scans my face, as if he expects some answer to be written there.

Further up the path, one of the women barks out a warning, followed by a few muttered curses and booted footfalls on gravel.

“Unhand her, Achean.”

It is Drania again, the sound of her voice quickly followed by the song of a blade drawing from its scabbard.

“You have taken enough liberties with her.”

Lykos lets out an irritated huff, drawing his own blade and stepping fluidly in front of me, placing his body between me and Drania.

“Drania,” Inanna warns.

“Stop overacting,” Lykos drawls. “I was merely talking to her -”

His words are cut short when Drania bares her teeth, lunging forward, and he’s forced to use his own sword to parry her blow. I gasp at the sound of bronze on bronze, at the abruptness and noise of it.

I’ve never been this close to fighting before. Not real fighting. Maybe not even sparring.

“You. Touched. Her.” Drania bites out, each word punctuated by the slash of her blade. I flinch back, pulling my cloak tight at my throat, as if the fabric can protect me. But of course, Drania’s violence isn’t aimed at me, but at Lykos. “I knew we should have killed you at Knossos. Dog.”

“So dramatic.” Lykos’ posture is almost relaxed as he fends off each attack. “I was merely talking to her. Besides,” he flashes Drania a wolfish grin, “she is a queen, not a child. She does not need some second-rate acolyte of Astarte to protect her honor.”

“Enough, Drania.” Inanna’s face is pale as she appears on the path beside Drania, rushing forward until she is practically between their shimmering blades. She looks between the pair, stern as a grandmother breaking up the squabble of two children. As if the two of them could not wound or kill her in a moment of anger or carelessness.

Lykos lowers his sword, and Drania does the same, shooting a sulky look at the back of Inanna’s head.

“Save your blades for our foes,” Inanna snaps. “Drania, Lykos is right. Sira is our minas. She is not a child to be coddled.” Inanna gives me a hard look, then adds, “If she dislikes Lykos’ presence, she has only to say.”

I swallow, stepping tentatively out from Lykos’ shadow, my hands trembling as they clutch my linen cloak.

Minas. Minas. Minas.

That word echoes in my wine-sick scull, like a death chant sung in Potina's temple. Alongside that barbaric Achean word Lykos used.

Queen .

“I do not mind his presence,” I finally manage to choke out, my cheeks burning against the icy wind from Mount Ida. “He has not offended me.”

“Good.” Inanna gives a curt nod, then turns on her heel, her own cloak fluttering in the wind. “Now, we have wasted enough time. We must move if we wish to bring the Minas Crete to Zominthos before nightfall.”

The Minas Crete.

For one sharply confused moment, I think they are speaking of my sister. Of Xenodice.

But no. No. They are speaking of me.