Page 26 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Sira

We reach Zominthos at midday, when the winter sun sits just above Mount Ida’s peak. The village is larger than I would have thought, with one central compound clustered between buildings that would rival Potina’s temple at Knossos for size and, behind it, a sprawling valley surrounded by rising mountains.

In the summertime, I imagine that valley would look like Diktynna’s bounty come to life, green and plentiful, with her mountains like arms holding it in. A gift for her beloved people. Now, the valley is brown and grey, full of dried stalks left over from whatever grains were harvested. Beyond the valley, the mountains are white with snow.

Zominthos is alive though. Smoke spirals up from rooftops and, as we get closer, I can hear the distinctive sound of metal clanging, of stones grinding, of wood creaking and voices chattering. The wind blows, bringing with it the scent of fermented barley and herbs, perfume and metal. I rub at my nose with the back of my hand.

Asil notices the gesture and gives me a tentative smile over her shoulder. “It’s always like this in winter,” she says, tilting her chin towards the village that sounds more like a city. We are in the buildings’ shadow now, close enough that I can see the wooden shutters at the windows, most of them open to let in the sunlight. “The workshops will be full of the region’s brightest crafters. Once everything is harvested, that is when the work begins.”

“They… they make perfume, right?” I am certain I recall my mother ordering scented oils from Zominthos.

Asil slows her stride so that she is walking beside Lykos’ horse—though she gives the beast a wary glance and takes care to keep distance between her and it.

“Perfume, yes,” Asil says with a nod. “Barley zythos too—not the heavy kind some farmers brew for their festivals, but a light drink sweetened with honey. Sometimes erontas is added—that is Diktynna’s sacred herb, the one with little round leaves covered in fur soft as a lamb’s nose.” She purses her lips, considering, then adds, “Though usually that is made into an ointment for injuries, I think. It’s difficult to collect. Many a youth has broken a limb climbing too high for it.”

She gestures to the snow-covered mountains. To where, I presume, this herb must grow. I stare at the imposing rock faces for a long moment, then shiver.

“You’re from here,” I surmise, when Asil leads us away from the larger, central building, and to an elegant two-story villa, set far enough away from the main complex so as not to be completely bathed in smoke.

“From Zominthos?” Asil pauses, striding ahead to the double wooden doors of the villa, then turning to give me a confused look. “Of course not. I’m from Cyrene.”

I blink in surprise, my eyes fixing on Asil’s features in earnest for perhaps the first time, then blush. Her skin is several shades darker than my own—darker even than my brother’s was after he’d spent a summer at sea. Her hair, previously hidden behind her hood, is dark too, with a tight, sleek curl wherever it has come free from the intricate knot at the back of her head.

“Oh,” I say stupidly.

There’s a flash of white even teeth as she gives me an understanding smile, then raps loudly at the door. “It’s okay, my lady,” she murmurs. “You’re probably exhausted.”

“We can see to your wounds soon,” Inanna adds, coming to stand at Asil’s side. Lykos’ horse snorts as she passes, then stretches out his neck, clacking his teeth together as if he means to bite her. Inanna’s eyes widen, and she shoots Lykos an accusatory glare. “I thought you could control that creature.”

Lykos shrugs. “Cyllarus is trained for battle. Perhaps he still sees you as the enemy.” He wraps the leather reins around one fist, then slides effortlessly to the ground, before turning up to me with a smile, his arms outstretched. “Come, my lady.”

I take his hand, my thighs aching and trembling as I swing one leg over and attempt to slide gracefully to my feet. Cyllarus huffs in annoyance and dances away, sending me tumbling into Lykos’ arms and crashing against his chest so hard the breath whooshes out of me.

I’m in the midst of untangling myself from Lykos’ embrace and muttering some apology when the doors swing open, and a sharp-eyed face with an elegant beaked nose peers down at us. My heart flips, a gasp of disbelief escaping my parched lips as I stumble forward, my hair catching on the clasp of Lykos’ cloak in the process.

I know this woman. It’s been years since I’ve seen her, years since she visited Knossos with her daughter, Caria, and their ward, Clio. She’d argued with my mother that time. I can’t recall what it had been about, but I’ll never forget seeing her staring down my mother as if she was a minas herself and not a visiting lawagetas.

My mother had embraced her afterwards, and there had been wine. I’d asked Asterion about it, but he’d merely wrapped one arm around my shoulders and smiled like a fool because Clio had just walked into the room.

He’d been pledged to Clio days later.

“Andricia,” I breathe, relief mingling with the aching longing for a past I can never reclaim. Clio is gone. My mother and oldest sister too. And yet seeing this woman, I almost expect to see them again too.

Andricia’s gaze lands on me, her expression softening into a melancholy smile, her arms going wide, as if she means to embrace me. The change is so stark, it’s like watching spring come over the valley behind Zominthos, like watching the grain come up green and the snow melt.

“Sira.” Andricia pulls me into an embrace, drawing a gasp from me and a grumbled protest from Lykos. “You are safe. Thank the gods, you are safe, child.”

She releases me, looking me over, her eyes widening at the dried blood staining my tunic and skirt. “I hope whoever did that is dead,” Andricia says, giving Lykos a questioning look, then turning to scowl accusingly at Inanna. “You said your women could be trusted, that you could keep her safe…”

I feel a surge of protectiveness flare up on Inanna’s behalf, and sudden irritation at Andricia. Perhaps not at her, but at how everyone has treated me since I left Knossos—as if I am some child to be coddled, a thing to be delivered, a piece in a game to be moved about. A minas for others to place on a throne.

“With respect,” Lykos interrupts, his voice full of sharp irritation. “We have traveled through two nights. Your minas requires a bath, food and a bed. And a healer, if this place has such a thing.” He wrinkles his nose, glaring disdainfully at the cluster of buildings, then adds, “And my horse requires stabling, preferably by someone who has cared for creatures more advanced than just sheep and cattle. Can you provide these things, or have these servants of Astarte brought us to the wrong house?”

Andricia pales, her lips thinning and nostrils flaring at being spoken to in such a manner. Something dangerous dances in her eyes, as if the colors themselves are changing like Diktynna’s seasons. “You… you dare… who do you think you are, to speak to me like that?”

“Mother.” A round, gentle face appears in the doorway behind Andricia. “Let our honored guest in, mother.” She pushes past Andricia, pulling the door wide and extending one hand in welcome.

“I am Lykos,” Lykos says in response to Andricia’s question, his eyes fixed challengingly on the older woman. “Brother to the king at Mycenae, head of five ships docked at Amnisos…”

“An Achean,” Andricia hisses in dismay.

“…and pledged to Sira, the true Minas Crete.”

“If you will not let me send for a healer, at least let me look at it,” Lykos calls from the other side of the door. “Or let Inanna help you.”

My eyes widen in alarm, my hands fluttering in the warm lavender scented bath water. Is Lykos going to just come in here? One of our men wouldn’t dare it—but one of our men wouldn’t have spoken to a lawagetas the way he spoke to Andricia either.

“I’m fine, Lykos. Don’t you need to tend to your horse or something?” Though, I suppose he’s already done that by now. Possibly already bathed too. I press my fingertips lightly against my hip, where Drania’s sword cut me, an icy shudder making my skin pebble with cold despite the warm water.

This isn’t right. This cannot be right.

“What’s going on?” Andricia’s voice filters through the steam, instantly negating any calming effects the lavender oil might have had. “Why are you yelling at the door while your minas bathes, Achean? Are you so lacking in decorum?”

I press one hand to my face and bite back a groan of dismay. Lykos and Andricia have barely spoken since we arrived, yet when they have, it is only to throw words like poisoned barbs at one another. I wouldn’t be surprised if Andricia turns us out before night arrives, her alliance with my late mother and Asterion notwithstanding.

“What’s going on is that our minas took a dangerous sword wound last night and now she’s refusing to let anyone look at it.” I swear I can hear Lykos stomp his foot against the tiles, even through the wooden door. “I would call for a healer, but she won’t let me do that either. It’s madness. Utter foolishness. We could barely even clean the wound last night.”

“Diktynna help me,” Andricia mutters—though it’s quite loud muttering, which means she clearly means for me to hear it. “Why am I not surprised. Just as bad as her brother.” This last bit is said with fond exasperation and followed by a dramatic sigh. Then, raising her voice, she adds, “Sira, you might be a minas but I am still old enough to be your grandmother. And there isn’t a doulos in here who won’t answer to me instead of you. You will let me look at your injury, or I will order them to haul you from that bath for my inspection. Is that understood?”

I gape at the closed door, then scramble from the now tepid bath, water sloshing over the sides of the stone basin as I reach for the thick linen drying cloth. “You wouldn’t,” I gasp. “Lykos, are you agreeing with her?”

“I’m just an Achean, my lady,” Lykos says, and I can hear the amusement in his tone. “I’m still so new to the ways of your people, I wouldn’t dream of overstepping or contradicting our host.”

I let out a strangled growl of disbelief, then wrap the damp linen sheet around my body like a cloak. Or rather, given the circumstances, like a shield. You wouldn’t dream of overstepping? I glare at the door. You’re overstepping right now, you barbarian. In fact, Lykos has done nothing but overstep since I met him, since he carried me out of Knossos and killed his own brother before my very eyes.

“Fine,” I grit out, pulling the door open with more force than necessary, then turning to glare between Lykos and Andricia. The pair of them are standing side-by-side, identical looks of smug vindication on their faces. “But let us go to my room, if you please.”

By my room, I mean the guest room that Caria, Andricia’s daughter, showed me to when we arrived. Which Lykos promptly informed her he’d be sharing, presumably because he still thinks one of Astarte’s servants might try to kill me in my sleep.

I hurry through the corridors, the linen cloth wrapped around me, Lykos and Andricia at my heels. As we walk, Andricia peppers Lykos with questions about my injuries, about how I was attacked, and Lykos regales her with what sounds like an overly dramatized account of my injuries.

“… the cut was this deep…” I glance back in time to see him holding his thumb and forefinger apart “…I could see the white of bone.”

I shudder at his description, and push open the door to my room. It’s a strange but delightful thing to be greeted by white linen, by warm lamplight and colorful floral frescos after two nights spent in Diktynna’s wilds.

“It was only by the gods’ mercy that she didn’t bleed to death,” Lykos continues with excitable moroseness.

The door snicks shut behind us and I turn to fix Andricia and Lykos with what I hope is an imperious look befitting a minas. “Lykos exaggerates,” I say airily. “It was hardly more than a scratch.”

I sit on the edge of the mattress, my body practically melting with relief at the feel of it, at the delight of being clean and fed and warm and no longer having to walk.

“See,” I carefully peel back the edge of the cloth wrapped around me, exposing one leg all the way to my injured hip. “It is nothing.”

I glance down at the injury, my voice trembling despite myself. Pink skin shines in a long, crescent moon shape, matching the width of Drania’s blade. It had been coated in dried blood when I’d stepped into the bath—most of my body had been, actually. My clothes had been completely ruined, torn and stained with blood and dirt. And yet, there is barely any trace of the cuts that had decorated my arms and hands.

It’s as if my fight with Drania had been no more than a dream.

“That… that cannot be right…” Lykos drops to his knees before me, his hands hovering over my exposed thigh, his eyes fixed in disbelief on the scar at my hip. For that is all it is now, really. A scar.

He lifts his face, eyes so wide I can see the whites around the irises. “What… how…”

Andricia leans forward, bending over Lykos and eyeing the pink line with lifted brow. “Hmm,” she rifles through a pouch tied low on her waist, “it could use some healing balm, I suppose. We do make the best there is. It’s what Zominthos is known for, after all.” She pulls out a small pot, the kind that is so finely made, it’s difficult to see where the lid and container join, and places it in my hands. “This should do the trick.”

Lykos gives a disbelieving snort, rising to round on Andricia, his arms going wide, palms up. “I swear to Zeus, it was a deep, dangerous wound last night. Even in the lamplight, there would have been no mistaking it.” He waves one hand to the closed door. “Go. Ask Inanna if you don’t believe me. Ask any of the women who were with us last night. They saw. They all saw.”

Andricia straightens, her expression suddenly turning stony, implacable. “You will speak to no one of this. Not if you value your life and hers. Not until she is sitting safely on the throne at Knossos—and even then, it might be a secret worth guarding.”

I feel the blood drain from my face, my hands growing suddenly cold. I clutch the small container. Lykos blinks at Andricia in confusion, then looks down at me, his brow furrowed in question.

“What is she speaking of, Sira? Zeus’ hand, what is she speaking of?”

I lick my lips, my gaze dropping to my knees.

Take it, my child. Take it, it is a gift.

I had thought it was only a dream, a whispered hope of my imagination. Perhaps it had been. But the cut is healed and the starry god’s words sit heavy on my shoulders.

“The night Drania attacked me…” I begin, looking up at Lykos. Gods, was it only last night? It seems like a lifetime ago. “That night, I had a dream.”

Lykos’ cheeks darken, and he looks away, his throat working. “I… I remember. You called for Britomartis. You said her name.”

Heat rushes through me at Lykos’ words, as the memory of that first dream hits me. Britomartis had been there, beautiful and graceful and terrifying. I lift one hand to my cheek, as if I can still feel the memory of her touch. Sweet, sweet, Sira, she had said, and that voice had cut through me sharper than Drania’s blade.

Andricia’s eyes widen, but she has the grace to stay silent.

“No. I mean, yes. But, no.” I shake my head, blinking rapidly to clear the unwelcome image of Britomartis, and the longing her memory always leaves me with. “I dreamt of Asterion. Not my brother, but the god he’s named after. He… he told me to take the stone.”

I tilt my chin to where Lykos’ pack sits on the floor, dirty and stained and out of place against the pale tiles and freshly painted walls. The stone is in there, Lykos told me as much. I’d been too frightened to ask him to take it out.

“Only, when Asterion gave it to me in the dream it had been forged into a blade. A blade as silver as starlight and deadly as the night.” I dare a glance at Andricia, then look back at Lykos as I add, “He told me to take it. To use it. He… he showed me Knossos. My city. And…”

My cheeks burn at the mere thought of repeating those words. They cannot be true. It seems sacrilegious to even think them. But I saw the stars fall, saw Drania fall at that god’s hand. Meanwhile, the wound she gave me is healed, writing the truth as clearly as any script across my skin.

“He called me his child,” I rasp.