Page 19 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Lykos

A star. A gods-damned star.

I can’t help but grin into the darkness as Inanna and the other servants of Astarte approach. They are running now, some of them drawing their own swords at the sight of my blade.

“Move away from her,” Inanna commands. “Move away from the Minas Crete.”

My grin widens, becoming more a feral grimace than anything else. “Try to make me,” I challenge, adjusting my grip.

When I betrayed my brother and carried Sira out of Knossos, she was no more than a name to me. A title. The sliver of a chance at a future I could never have in Mycenae under my brother’s shadow. A fool’s gamble, really. One that was more likely to see me dead than rising up as king.

That was before the starry god himself struck Sira’s enemy down. Before the gods themselves gave proof that the threads of fate are woven in this woman’s favor—and therefore in mine, if I stand by her.

I will not only stand by her, I will die before I leave this woman’s side.

“Lower your weapons.” Sira steps out from behind me, her voice carrying with so much force, it’s almost unrecognizable. “That is an order.”

A few of the women running towards us falter, swords lowering. Inanna gives Sira a concerned frown, but raises one hand and repeats Sira’s order to her women. They lower their swords.

“You too, Lykos.” Sira gives me a sharp look. “Put away your sword.” Then, to the others. “He will not harm me.

I obey her. Of course I obey her. Only a fool would do anything else after seeing what I have seen.

“Stop there,” Sira orders when Inanna and the rest are a few paces from us. “That’s close enough for now.”

Amazingly, her voice doesn’t tremble. If she is shocked from seeing her enemy struck dead, or pained from the many wounds inflicted on her, she doesn’t show it.

My chest swells with pride at the sight of her, standing unbent and strong in the moonlight, her chin raised.

“One of your own attacked me.” Her voice cuts through the waiting silence like a blade. “Drania.”

Her throat bobs, voice thickening, a hint of vulnerability showing through as she says that name. I shiver in surprise at the sudden urge to wrap my arm around her, cover her with my cloak. To pull her aside and inspect her wounds.

“She’s dead now.” Sira says this without ceremony. Without smugness too, which amazes me. If a god had struck my enemy down, I would tell everyone until they were sick of hearing of it. “Drania made it very clear she didn’t support me. That she didn’t support my claim as… minas…”

Sira’s breath hitches on that last word, then trails off, as if she is reluctant to claim the title as her own.

I frown. That will not do. She will claim it. It is hers. She cannot be seen to hesitate.

Sira falls silent, as if thinking of what to say next.

I hate silence. Hate the tension crackling in the space between us and those servants of Astarte. The uncertainty of it hums under my skin until it feels like I must move, or speak, or die.

“The question is,” I snap. “Which of you feels the same way that Drania does? Or did.” Since she is dead now. “How many more of you are waiting to attack our minas, like cowards, with smiles on your faces in the sunlight and your blades unsheathed in the dark? Did you really take her from Knossos to put her on the throne, or did you bring her out here to kill her? How does she know she can trust any of you?”

Inanna drops to one knee, the color draining from her face until it’s nearly as pale as the moon. “My lady. My lady. I swear…” she clutches the crescent moon pendant at her chest, her eyes wide with alarm as she addresses Sira. “I swear I had no idea. Drania said… she was a servant of Astarte. She said… she knew… Britomartis wrote to us. Told us that Thera had called for aid, that the Minas Zakros and Minas Phaistos and many others were on their way to remove Xenodice from the throne. But, even if they weren’t—even if they weren’t meeting us at Zominthos like she promised, Astarte lives. The woman who they all believed drowned—she was pulled from the sea by the son of Poteiden himself. Britomartis saw it. She lives, and she has called on us to act.”

“You- do you mean Adrienne?” Sira’s voice is laced with skepticism. “The woman who traveled here with Britomartis? My sister had her thrown into the sea. There were hundreds of witnesses. No one saw her come up again.”

“She lives,” Inanna assures her, rising to her feet. “The dove Britomartis sent, the letter, it said so.”

“And Britomartis would not lie,” Sira says, with only the faintest hint of sarcasm.

“Indeed, she would not.” Inanna looks almost affronted at the suggestion. “She is the daughter of a minas.”

“So is my sister,” Sira counters.

“She is the first acolyte to a goddess,” Inanna argues.

“So are many who would follow Xenodice.”

“But we have felt Astarte’s calling,” Inanna continues, oblivious to the brittle fragility in Sira’s voice, to the faint trembling of her arms beneath her dark cloak.

I see it though.

My jaw ticks with irritation. We have stood in the cold wind long enough. My lady needs rest. She needs tending.

She needs me.

“Nearly half a moon-cycle ago,” Inanna continues, wringing her hands. “Our goddess’ call rang out, loud enough for those who follow her, strong enough that there is no denying it. Please, Sira, please, you must believe me. As truly as I serve her, I serve you.”

Sira sighs, her shoulders slumping with exhaustion. I have an idea of what she is feeling, of the way pain and cold will be starting to seep into her tired limbs now that the danger of battle is over.

“Enough of this.” I glare at Inanna. “Sira needs rest. Her wounds need tending, and you keep her out in the wind telling tales of Astarte across the sea? You want to speak of gods? Come. Look at this.”

I wave one hand to where Drania is laying, half obscured by the boulders behind us.

“Sira said Drania was dead, and that is the truth, but what she failed to say…” here, I give Sira an attempt at a teasing smile, but I’m too full of anger now to really manage it… “what she failed to say is that the Starry One himself struck Drania down, sent the cold, hard heart of one of his own stars to protect Sira in her time of need.”

A few of the women gasp, and even Inanna opens her mouth, then closes it again, one trembling hand going to her throat.

“Go,” I say again. “See for yourself—but do not touch it,” I add as an afterthought.

Because that stone, that star, it is not for the hands of ordinary mortals. Certainly not for these so-called servants of Astarte who may or may not be trying to kill my queen.

“That stone is for Sira alone.”

They file past us, their gasps and cries signaling when Drania comes into sight. A few of the women actually have the audacity to cry, as if mourning the loss of one of their own. I curl my lip at the sound, then, since none of them are looking at Sira, take the liberty of wrapping one arm carefully around her shoulders.

“You are hurt,” I whisper, lowering my lips close enough to her ear that her soft, curling locks brush against my cheek. “Lean on me, if you need. There is no shame in it—I would ask any one of my men to do the same. Or, better yet, let me carry you…”

Sira gives me a wry smile, though the look doesn’t quite match the hollow, exhausted expression in her eyes. This close, I can see her smooth skin is flecked with blood. A frisson of renewed rage rushes through me.

It had better be Drania’s blood.

“I shouldn’t,” she argues, but still she links her slender arm through my own, her eyelids fluttering shut momentarily. A small sigh escapes her lips. “They have seen enough of my weakness. It almost cost me my life.”

Sira shudders as if rousing herself, then straightens, releasing my arm just as Inanna and the rest of Astarte’s servants start making their way back towards us. I feel strangely bereft at the loss of her touch, at that small distance between us.

Inanna dips her head, bowing low to Sira, then turns to address the women behind her, voice quavering. “There can be no doubt. The gods are making their will known. First, Astarte herself comes to walk among us…” I almost roll my eyes at that. These acolytes are nothing if not fervently obsessed with their goddess. “And then, this… the Great Bull. Defending our minas in her time of need.”

The other women murmur their agreement, but it doesn’t escape me that a few are swiping tears from their eyes with the backs of their hands, casting Sira glances that are more distrusting than awe-filled.

I grind my molars, fingers flexing around the hilt of my sword. I don’t trust any of them. Not even Inanna. Which means, of course, I can’t let Sira out of my sight. I almost lost her for doing just that. I will not be making the same mistake twice. I would like to say I won’t be letting any of them near her, except…

“Which of you has healing skills? We need to get to shelter, and see to Sira’s wounds.”

There’s a long silence. A few of the women wring their hands, looking anywhere but at Sira’s wounds—either because they feel guilt at their complicity, or shame at not being to help.

“Zeus’ cock,” I curse under my breath. “Why couldn’t you have been servants of Diktynna instead of Astarte?” At least then they would be trained to heal instead of… whatever it is that Astarte’s servants do. Fuck and fight, presumably.

Inanna lifts her chin, staring down the length of her nose at me. “The gods clearly foresaw that their chosen minas would require fighters more than healers.”

I snort at that. Fighters . Anyone can fight. And from what I have seen of Drania, I would wager that these particular servants of Astarte spent more time training for their temple’s softer duties.

“Fine,” I snap. “I’ll see to her wounds myself if none of you have the skill to do it.”

I’m no healer, but I’ve tended my men at sea, and I can dress a battle wound as well as any Achean. That will have to be enough for Sira, at least until we can get her to Zominthos.

“Come, show me what little hovel you have built your queen for the night.”