Page 20 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Sira

The naked arms of trees dance wildly above us, creaking ominously in the wind rushing off Mount Ida. A few fallen branches have been thatched together to form a sort of shelter—more to camouflage us from any who might be hunting us than to keep us warm. It blocks some of the wind, but isn’t enough to stop the solitary flame in the oil lamp from flickering. Or to stop the biting cold.

“That lamp will be visible from the road,” one of the women hisses. “We will be found.”

“We will be found anyway, flame or not,” another argues. “A dog does not require light to find its prey.” A pause, then, more snidely, “Just ask the Achean there. He seems to have found his prey with impeccable accuracy.”

I stiffen, anger on Lykos’ behalf rushing through me at their words.

“Easy,” Lykos murmurs, mistaking the movement for pain. He’s rifling through his pack, brow pinched and lips pursed with concentration. “I’ll be as quick as I can, I promise.”

He pauses to cast a worried look in my direction, eyeing the blankets and cloaks he’s piled on top of me with a frown. He’s placed me nearest to the lean-to, where leaves and dried grasses have been built up the most.

“Ah. Here.” He pulls out a small bundle, carefully unwrapping it and spreading it on top of his bag before giving me an apologetic grimace. “It’s only the basics. Some bandages and a healing salve, nothing more. May I… could you…” He clears his throat. “I suspect we should look at that one first, my lady.”

His throat bobs as his eyes drop to my hip, to where my white linen tunic and even the thick waistband of my skirt are now soaked with blood.

I bite back a pitying smile at the flash of uncertainty that makes him seem younger, less experienced, than he first appeared. Despite all his bravado, despite his skill with the sword—at least, he seemed skilled when he was fighting Drania—perhaps he’s never seen battle. Perhaps he’s never tended to the wounds of another. Not that I have either, of course. The only wounds I have tended are those of the dead.

“Here,” I say, wincing as I reach to untie where my skirt is knotted at my waist. “You’re right. I think this one is the worst of them. I don’t think it’s that deep though.”

But blood has soaked the ties, and my hands are so numb from cold and shock that it’s nearly impossible to unknot them.

“Let me,” he rasps, warm fingers brushing my own aside. “Don’t move. It’s making the bleeding worse.”

That observation has my mouth going dry, the blood draining from my face until my cheeks tingle with cold. Now that I am laying still, now that the urgency of the fight has passed, the pain of all the wounds Drania inflicted on me is beginning to make itself known. The slice along the back of my hand, and the other running along the inside of my arm, those are the ones that hurt the most.

I scarcely feel the deep cut on my hip at all.

I can feel the blood though.

“There.”

Cool air kisses my upper thighs as the sides of my skirt come away, pooling around my bare legs. Lykos clears his throat again, his fingers lingering at the edge of my tunic, as if he is not quite certain he should lift it. Pity sluices through me. Perhaps he’s squeamish at the sight of blood.

Well, I’m not, and I want to see what the damage is.

I lift to my elbows, my breath coming in short, quick pants as pain rushes through me. The moment I look, I wish I hadn’t. Alarm blares through me at the sight and I claw frantically at my tunic, until the bloodied hem is at my navel, exposing me from the waist down.

“Potina’s tits,” I gasp, collapsing back on the ground. “Oh.” I press my hands to my face and try not to think about the fact that they’re now soaked with my own blood. “That’s… that’s not good, is it?”

“Let me see.” Inanna’s voice is sharp. “Move over.”

“You can see from there,” Lykos retorts irritably. “Only wait—let me cover her first.” He tugs at one of the layers of my skirt, bringing a section of dry fabric to rest over my uninjured thigh, covering my sex from view.

I feel a surge of gratitude rush over me at the gesture because, while I’ve never been shy of my body, it’s certainly unpleasant to be so exposed, so vulnerable, in front of strangers. Especially when I’m still not sure which—if any—of Astarte’s servants I can trust.

“Don’t block my light. The cut needs to be cleaned,” Lykos snaps. “If you want to help, boil some water.”

“We can’t risk a fire.”

“Get me some clean water then.”

Strong hands press dry fabric against my hip, and I bite back a whimper. Because now that I’ve seen the cut, it does hurt. Worse than anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s a deep, sickening pain that goes to my very bones. Wrong, wrong, wrong , it screams.

“Don’t use anything from a drinking flask. Fill a bowl with water from the stream, where it runs the fastest and coldest off Mount Ida. At least then it will have Diktynna’s blessing.”

It’s hard to tell from Lykos’ tone whether he’s being serious, or mocking our gods. I decide it doesn’t matter. Inanna must too, because she mutters something under her breath but moves to obey.

I blink at Lykos, my eyelids heavy, limbs languid despite the panic pressing against my ribs. “So you do know about healing.”

Lykos shoots me a mirthless smile and shakes his head. “I’ve seen the effects of Keptui blades before, that’s all. A man doesn’t send his men into battle without being able to patch them up at the end.”

Keptui blades .

The words echo alongside the thundering in my ears. He’s fought my people, then. Does that mean he’s killed my people too?

I think of all the times my fathers, when they still lived, would come home for the winter and tell my mother of how they were attacked by Acheans at such-and-such a port. Always laughingly, smiling, as if it were some great adventure, a game.

The scars told a different story, though.

And then one winter, they never returned.

Lykos must come to a similar realization because his smile falters, a look of grim determination stealing over his features. “I haven’t lost one of my men yet,” he tells me simply, his eyes fixed resolutely on my hip. On the wound I don’t dare look at again. “I will not lose you.”

There is so much truth in his words, I can feel it settling over my skin like a blanket. Like a balm. Or perhaps my thoughts are merely going hazy from the blood loss.

I blink up at him, and try not to think of my fathers.

“If that is the case, then we are allies, Lykos of Mycenae. Since I don’t plan to die.”

“Here is the water. Fresh, like you asked.” Inanna settles the bowl of water beside me, her brow pinched with worry as her eyes travel over my body. “I am sorry, my lady. I am so, so incredibly sorry.”

Lykos peels the dry cloth away, then carefully, slowly, starts to wash the wound. I squeeze my eyes shut, gritting my teeth at the burn of icy water, at the deep, unsettling pain radiating through me as my muscles tense. I don’t speak, can’t give Inanna an answer. It’s all I can do to keep from crying out, from being sick.

I think of my mother. Not of how she was to me, soft and gentle and protective as the wing of a swan around its chick, but as she was to everyone else. Hard as sculpted marble, sharp as a freshly whetted blade.

I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe through my teeth. I must be like that now.

“Well done,” Lykos rumbles soothingly. “It’s clean.” Then, more sharply, “Pass me those linen strips. No, not those ones. Only hold them by the edges. They can’t be soiled. Yes, that’s it.”

I wince at the feel of fresh linen, at the press of hands, but remain silent.

“We have to wrap it now,” Lykos says, presumably to Inanna. “Give me some of those longer strips, the white ones. We’ll use the dark ones last.”

He keeps his hands pressed against my hip, holding the linen in place over my wound, the pressure at once painful and strangely satisfying.

“My lady,” his voice is low, gentle, and I dare to let my eyelids flutter open. “My lady, I’m going to have to touch you.” He dips his chin, and though the only light is from starlight filtering through the branches and the solitary flickering lamp, I swear a blush rises to his cheeks. “I’’ll - uh - I’ll need to uncover you and move your hips. To get tie the bandage in place.”

I stare at him blankly, not quite comprehending what he’s asking me—if he’s asking me anything at all.

“You’re already touching me,” I point out, but the words feel thick and heavy on my tongue.

“Yes, but…”

“Just lift her, Achean,” Inanna says sharply, but there’s the bite of amusement in her voice. “This is not the time for your misplaced propriety.”

Lykos grumbles something in reply, but I don’t hear it because strong hands are moving me, fabric wrapping low across my hips, and all I can hear is the thud of my own heart, the rushing of blood in my ears, the grunting breaths as I hold back my cries.

“Done,” he says, tying the bandage in place, then sitting back on his heels with a satisfied smile, looking for all the world like a child expecting praise. “That should last us until we get to Zominthos.” His hands brush the lengths of my legs, as if he’s inspecting them for any further injuries, and then he’s wrapping my skirt back around me, tying it slightly lower than usual so that the waistband presses against the bandages. I hiss in dismay, but he ignores me, sounding almost gleeful as he says, “Now, for your other wounds…”

Fatigue settles over me like winter sea fog. I flit in and out of consciousness while Lykos and Inanna clean the rest of my wounds. All the while, my thoughts tangle like threads in a loom, memories and stories twining with the wild imaginings of dreams.

At first, I’m fighting Drania, desperately fending off her attacks with my borrowed sword. But then the sword turns into one of the flowers painted on the walls of Potina’s temple, and Drania’s face is replaced with Britomartis’, the sneer of disgust becoming a soft, pitying smile.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I cry, brandishing the flower as if it is a real weapon. “All those days we spent together—I told you everything. I gave you each of my secrets. Why didn’t you tell me I was the rightful heir?”

“Oh, sweet, sweet Sira.” Britomartis brushes the flower aside with one hand, stepping into my space as if it belongs to her. As if I belong to her. “You should have known.” One calloused hand strokes my cheek, and I lean into her touch despite myself. “Your mother should have taught you that, at the very least.”

“Yes,” I agree, because the scent of her is sweeter than I remember, almost drugging. Like poppy seed and sweet herbs burning in braziers, or freshly picked fruit. “But you should have told me.”

Britomartis pulls back, giving me another pitying smile. “You should have come with me,” she counters, her hair whipping around her face in a swirl of wind and sea spray. She holds one hand out to me, and I reach for it, but she’s too far. There’s an ocean between us now, wild and dangerous. “I would have kept you safe.”

She doesn’t look safe though.

“Where do you stand?” Britomartis is gone, and old Aletheia is in her place. “Where do you stand when the storm comes?”

“Here,” I say, but I can barely hear my own voice over the howling wind. “Here.” I’m shouting now, screaming in that way that happens sometimes in dreams, where you scream with everything you have, but only silence greets you. “Here, here, here.”

Aletheia gives an approving smile, then disappears. I’m back on Mount Ida, standing over Drania’s fallen form in the moonlight. Only this time, I’m not alone. This time, my brother is there standing beside me, his brow creased as he stares down at Drania. At the stone.

“Take it,” he says, and though it’s been a year since I’ve seen him, his voice is lower than I remember. “It is a gift for you.”

“A gift,” I echo, and suddenly I’m remembering all the other gifts he brought back for me when I was a child. Treasures from distant shores. Each one of them would carry a story, and I’d curl up on his knee, as eager for the rumble of his voice taking me on adventure as for the trinket itself.

Except this is not a wolf pelt or a finely carved ornament. This is a stone, imbedded in the heart of my enemy, dark and bloody and terrifying.

“What would you have me do with it?” I ask, turning to look up at him.

Starlight dances in his hair, in his eyes, across his skin. He smiles, a soft, gentle smile that I haven’t seen since Clio died all those years ago. Before he became a silent and empty shell who reluctantly haunted our home each winter. He wraps one arm around my shoulders, and I grunt at the weight of it, then grumble in protest when he ruffles my hair, as if I am still the little girl who would spend those happier winters traipsing after him.

“You should use it, of course,” he says laughingly, then bends to pick it up for me.

Only now, it’s no longer a stone, but a sword, the metal bright as starlight. He runs one finger along the sharp edge, then winces, pulling his hand back with a self-deprecating chuckle before handing me the weapon, hilt first.

I stare at it. It is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Beautiful and deadly. A blade wrought of silver starlight instead of bronze. A blade from and for the gods.

It was not made for a mortal like me.

Asterion gives me a solemn, sad sort of look, his face shifting and changing, his body growing, until he is no longer my brother, but the Great Bull himself. Not Asterion my brother, but Asterion, the god of the stars.

“Take it, my child,” he urges, “It is a gift.”

I obey, and he sighs, bringing one hand to rest on the crown of my head. The weight of his hand and the weight of the blade are almost too much to bear.

“Take it,” he says again, and now Knossos is before me, sprawling and beautiful in the sunlight. “Use it. Call it Astraea, for that is the name I would have given you, if I had chosen it. It will be your blade, just as you will be mine. And we will see justice done.”

I barely register his words though, because now I see more than the rooftops, more than the stucco walls. I see the little children, running barefoot in the street, carefree smiles on their faces, their bellies and faces round with health. I see men and women laughing over their craft—stone work and fresco painting, weaving and pottery. I see women kissing their lovers and holding their children.

“Mine,” I whisper, but there’s a tightness in my throat, a longing that cuts through me sharper than Drania’s blade. Because it is not mine. Not really. Not yet.

But it should be.