Page 24 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)
Sira
Lykos gapes at me, his lips parted in wordless surprise.
I want to give him a reassuring smile, to reach up and brush my fingertips over the sparse stubble of his cheeks, to take his roughened, blood-stained hands in my own. But this is not the time. That is not the role I must play.
“Lykos of Mycenae, chosen leader of your people on our sacred shores, would you pledge yourself to me?”
Behind me, one of Astarte’s acolytes draws in a hissing breath of dismay. I understand her concern. I am taking a risk. He could say no. He could turn me over to his people, use me as a bargaining chip with my sister.
That would probably be the wisest move for him to make.
After all, I’m not likely to keep supplying the Acheans with copper ore, not when it would anger all our neighbors—the same neighbors who are currently sailing to support me, if Inanna is to be believed. I am not so naive as to think that they care who governs Knossos, so long as that person keeps the oath. And if I fail to honor it, they will find someone else to sit on my sister’s throne.
Surely Lykos must know that. Surely he knows that to pledge himself to me would be to deny his people the riches they covet. He should say no.
But I don’t think he will.
Lykos drops to his knees, his eyes glinting like pale amber in the morning sun, a broad smile tugging at his cheeks. It takes everything in me not to smile back.
“I would be honored, my lady.”
He draws a short, thin blade from one of the leather cuffs adorning his forearms. I lift my brow in momentary surprise. I hadn’t noticed it there. I wonder what other weapons he has hidden on his person.
Without preamble, he strips off his cloak, then fumbles at the straps along the sides of his leather armor. His fingers are still stained with the blood of King Atreus and red from Mount Ida’s relentless wind. He struggles with the buckles, frowning in irritation.
“Let me help you.” One of the Acheans dismounts, throwing the reins of his horse to his neighbor before scrambling towards Lykos. “My lord, let me help you.
That Achean is one of his men, I remind myself. Soon to be one of my men, under the laws of gods and mortals of our sacred islands. The thought has smug satisfaction blooming behind my ribs, a smile threatening the corners of my lips.
My heart thunders wildly as Lykos strips off his armor then tugs away his linen tunic, revealing skin several shades paler than his brown arms and neck. It’s smooth and unblemished except for soft swathes of hair on his chest and stomach, with not even a scar marking his oath to Poteiden.
My brow furrows, and I dart a questioning look at Lykos, momentarily concerned. Among my people, a man is not yet fully-blooded until he has made that oath to Poteiden, given his blood to the sea just as women give their blood to Potina. And yet, for all his youthful smiles, Lykos looks every bit a man.
“You have not pledged yourself to Poteiden?” I ask cautiously.
I cannot accept a pledge from a youth, however much he might appear to be a man.
“That isn’t a custom among my people. We mark our entry into manhood by the blood of our first kill, and I made mine many years ago.” Lykos’ lips quirk as he attempts to hide his smile, his eyes gleaming with something that looks a lot like greed. “Your mark will be the first and only to adorn my skin.”
Warmth coils low in my belly at his words, spreading through my veins with all the power of blue-lily wine, heating my blood against Mount Ida’s cold.
The only mark.
I like the sound of that.
“Very well.” I dip my head in acquiescence, willing my voice not to tremble with excitement. “Proceed.”
If he does this, I will have all of King Atreus’ ships, all of his men. It won’t be enough to defeat my sister. But it will be enough that, when I met the others at Zominthos—the Minas Phaistos and the Minas Zakros—when I meet Britomartis, I will be more than just a piece for them to use in their game. I will be the senet player, not the piece. I will have the power to write my own destiny.
Lykos’ throat bobs, his bare skin pebbling in the cold. Amber eyes meet my own, searching, though only the gods know what he is searching for.
I stare back at him. Does he know this is the first time I have dared to play at senet, rather than letting myself be a piece in it? Does he know his men may hate him for this in the end?
“Sira of Knossos, Minas Crete…” He rolls the small blade in his hands, his eyes never leaving my own. “Protected by the gods…”
My throat tightens at those last words. Protected by the gods. What if it is more than that? What if I am more than that? Should I have told him, before asking for his pledge? It seems like something he should know…
“I come to you with my hands coated in the blood of your enemies.”
His gaze drops momentarily to his hands. They are trembling. His jaw ticks, his eyes meeting mine again, something sharp and vulnerable flitting across his features.
“I offer the alliance of my people with your own. I offer you my ships and my men. I offer you my blade...”
The pulse at his throat flutters wildly. Something sweet and hot and terrifying tightens low in my belly in response. He licks his lips, then draws in a shuddering breath.
“Sira of Knossos, do you accept my pledge?”
Blood thunders in my ears, wild as the sea against the cliffs at Amnisos. For brief moment, it’s just us on the mountain. Just us and the icy wind and the winter sun and the smell of blood and earth.
“I accept.”
Something flashes in Lykos’ heavy lidded eyes, though whether it is relief, victory, or satisfaction, I can’t be sure. Hands still shaking, he lifts the blade to his bare chest, bronze glinting against pale flesh, his muscle tensing in anticipation of pain.
“I am yours.” His eyes never leave my own, even when blood wells in the freshly-made cut, coating the sharp tip of his blade. “Before gods and men.”
It’s not quite how one of our men would have said it. A Keptui man would have made flowery declarations, woven his words into a wreath of poetic promises of love and adoration and loyalty.
But Lykos is an Achean. Allowances must be made.
He holds the blade out, letting his blood drop to the earth in offering. If he were one of our men, I would say it was in offering to Potina, but I’m not sure the Acheans recognize her. She drinks it up all the same, thirsty as the dry earth beneath our feet.
The women behind me give a collective sigh. It is done. In barely more than the cycle of the sun, I have gone from the would-be captive bride of a barbarian to a minas. King Atreus is dead. His brother is pledged to me. His men, his ships, even the alliance which would have belonged to my sister—they are all mine.
“Rise, Lykos.”
He obeys, coming to his feet with the practiced grace of a fighter until he’s staring down at me with what can only be described as a triumphant grin. He’s beautiful, a mixture of soft lines and hard muscle, the blood of his oath stark against creamy skin. Powerful, lethal, like a lion ready to pounce. The men behind him must see this too, because even they stare at him with reverence, their cheeks flushed with excitement and cold.
“My queen.” His voice is a low rasp that sends a shiver racing up my spine.
“Minas,” I correct him gently, and feel my lips curve with amusement despite myself. “And you are mine.”