Page 29 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Sira

I wake wrapped in Lykos’ arms, the morning sun beaming in through the high lattice window, soft linen bedding tangled around my bare legs.

I smile, squeezing my eyes shut and burrowing against Lykos’ side, grateful for his warmth. We might not be on Mount Ida, but we are still high up in Diktynna’s territory. Even here, safe in Andricia’s house, I can feel that goddess’ icy breath on my skin.

“You should eat something,” Lykos murmurs, the words muffled when he presses his face against the top of my head. “You need your strength. There should be some food for you…”

I’m about to argue, but the mention of food has my stomach panging with hunger. I press a kiss to his chest, right above the healing pledge-mark, and force myself to sit up.

The moment I do, I know I’ve slept too long, and too deeply. A platter of food rests on a side table, a jug of what I hope is water perched beside it. I don’t recall anyone coming in, never even stirred at the sound of the latch opening.

I shiver at the thought of someone coming in while I slept, even one of Andricia’s doulos. Even one of Astarte’s women. Even Inanna herself, though I trust her more than the others.

Lykos sits up, tugging at the bedding until one of the covers pulls free from the tangle, then wrapping it around my shoulders.

“You’re cold,” he chides.

“I just can’t believe I didn’t hear anyone come in,” I tell him honestly, but I tighten the fabric around me, grateful for the warmth. Beside me, Lykos is completely naked, his kilt still strewn across the floor alongside his tunic. If he feels the cold like I do, he doesn’t show it.

“I heard them.” He wraps one arm around me, holding me to him for a moment before urging me off the bed. “Eat, Sira. Please. And it was only Asil. I don’t think she would hurt you.”

I hum noncommittally, sweeping up the platter and shuffling back to the bed with it, the bedding still wrapped around me like a cloak. Lykos needs to eat too, and sleep more, probably. I study his face, noting the dark circles under his eyes. His lashes are so long, his eyes so bright with mischief, that it would be easy not to notice them. But I do.

“It’s hard to know who to trust,” I admit, my gaze dropping to the platter.

Yesterday’s bread, dried fruit, some little cakes made of a dark, earthy colored grain, a small round of cheese and honey. My mouth waters at the sight of that golden sweetness and I dip some of the dried fruit into it, then spread it across the bread.

“Because of Drania?” Lykos hazards, tearing off a too-small section of bread, then using a knife—which he’s procured from gods know where—to slice into the cheese.

I take another bite, and ponder his question. Perhaps she is to blame. There is something about being slashed with a sword by someone you thought was protecting you that makes you a bit distrustful. But it’s not just her. It’s all of them. All of it.

Britomartis not telling me that I had a claim to Knossos. Inanna and her women stealing me away from Knossos—but only after receiving a message informing them that all of my mother’s old allies were sailing to Crete’s shores. If Inanna hadn’t received that message, would she have been content to leave me to rot in Potina’s temple, spending my life dressing the dead?

And even my mother’s allies, the Minas Phaistos and Minas Zakros and all the other minases coming to my aid. I am not so foolish as to think they are coming to my aid at all. They come to get rid of Xenodice. They come to protect their own interests, the interests of their people. And they would as soon as slaughter me like a sacrificial heifer if that is what was required.

“I am not a piece in a game to you, am I Lykos?” The question comes out before I can stop it, weak and trembling sounding.

Lykos stills, his strong hands hovering over the platter for a long moment before he drops them to his lap, the food forgotten. Silence stretches between us for so long, I don’t think he’s going to answer. Long enough that I decide I don’t want him to answer, after all.

“You… you were.”

Lykos’ words strike me like a hit from Drania’s blade, and I flinch back. But the pain stays, a sharp, cutting wound behind my ribs that steals my breath.

Lykos shakes his head, amber eyes going round, making him look almost wild. “No. No, listen.”

He moves the platter aside, scrambling across the bed to me, his knees pressing against my own as he takes my hand in his, his eyes flicking between mine in silent entreaty.

“I am a fifth son. A bastard. When I stole you from Knossos—because stole you I did—I had no ships, no men, not even my own horse. I have lived…”

His voice catches, and he pauses, scrubbing roughly at his face.

“I have spent my life serving my brother. Doing his bidding and taking the scraps off his table. Like a loyal dog. Like a doulos—only worse, because all envied me and told me how blessed I was to have the King Atreus’ favor.” He gives a ragged laugh, then shakes his head. “Can you imagine what that is like—to be a caged bird, and feel shame for wanting to fly?”

My chest tightens uncomfortably at his words. How well I know that feeling. Did I not sit once, on the rooftop of Potina’s temple, and envy the pigeon that had the power to take flight?

“And then you appeared. No, not just appeared.” He gives an almost manic sounding laugh, then pulls back, bending to rifle through his discarded clothes for his belt, then drawing something small and white from a little pouch.

He thrusts it into my hands and I take it instinctively. It’s a parchment, a little scroll of paper. The same scroll he showed to one of his men, when we stood talking in Diktynna’s territory yesterday, I realize.

“A pigeon brought that to me as we sailed from Mycenae. At first, I thought it was just an ordinary bird, until I saw the note. It landed in the dead of night, Sira. Right beside me. Practically let me take the parchment. And then it disappeared. I swear to all the gods, Sira. And the wind came—we’d been becalmed for days—and the wind came, sure as Astarte’s own breath, driving us all the way to Knossos.”

Ice runs down my spine at the sound of that goddess’ name on his lips. Astarte . The goddess my brother has supposedly pledged himself to. The goddess who all said died, but who Britomartis believed lived. The goddess who Britomartis abandoned me to follow.

If one could ever admit to hating a deity, I think I could hate Astarte.

Hands trembling, I unfurl the thin parchment and read.

At first, all I can see is the name signed at the end, paint so stark against the parchment that it reminds me of blood on snow. Britomartis . This is her writing, these are her words—and Lykos plucked them out of the sky.

I’m so struck by the sight of her name that I have to I read the message three times before words take shape, before the meaning sinks in. When it does, I drop the parchment to my lap and stare in silent bewilderment at the man in front of me.

“You were my key to freedom,” Lykos admits, and though I hear his words, I barely feel them.

Because Britomartis is the one who has called up all my allies. Not my own people, not the servants of Astarte’s temple or any of those I knew at Knossos. Not Andricia or Inanna. Not my mother’s allies, not even my own brother.

They had abandoned me, but not Britomartis.

No, Britomartis is sailing here. To me. With ships and warriors. Perhaps even with her own brother, who refused to pledge himself to Xenodice.

Perhaps… perhaps I had not been wrong to trust her with my secrets after all. Blind and trusting though I was, perhaps I judged true.

My heart races, a thundering staccato that sounds like war-drums in my ears.

Britomartis is coming.

“Will you forgive me?” Lykos’ words cut through the wild racing of my thoughts, like a ship breaking through waves. “You are not a piece in a game to me now,” he adds hurriedly. “I swear it. Before Zeus himself. Before your goddess, even.”

I blink at him, fighting the urge to smile despite the maelstrom of emotions ripping through me.

His face is not made for sorrow, his full lips and large eyes making him look almost pitiful as he stares at me. His big hands are clutched in his lap, not quite covering his nakedness. For all his size and undeniable masculinity, sometimes he seems more like an unblooded youth than a man.

It’s hard to imagine that this is the man who carried me from Knossos, who killed his own brother, who was ready to face his own men.

For me , a little hopeful voice whispers. He did that all for me . Which is ridiculous, because he has just finished telling me he did it for himself.

“My pledge to you was no empty thing, Sira,” he adds, his voice low, his gaze dropping to his lap. “I will not pretend it was a selfless thing. That I pledged myself to you without any thought of what you are. I stole you with every intention of pledging myself to a minas, even before I had seen you. I stole you with the hopes that your star would rise, and mine alongside it. But when I knelt before you beneath Mount Ida…” his voice breaks, and he pauses, drawing in a deep breath to steady himself. “When I gave you my pledge, I was giving you more than my ships, more than my men. You have my loyalty, Sira. I swear it. I am yours.”

His words settle over me, heavy as the sword he lay in my hands in the early dawn. Every pledge my mother accepted was one made for policy, to form some alliance, or strengthen Knossos’ wealth. For ships or trade routes or promises. That did not mean she loved my fathers any less.

I furrow my brow at the thought. Is that what I want from Lykos? Love? It certainly isn’t why I asked him to pledge himself to me. Then, I had been seeking safety from the men pursuing us. I had been seeking ships and blades. I had been seeking claws to use against a sister who would hold me captive and sell me to a foreign king.

I had been seeking freedom.

I sigh, lifting the linen bedspread and wrapping it around his shoulders, so that it’s draped over both of us. Cocooning us together. Because—whatever our motives were to begin with—we are bound together now, he and I, the threads of our fates intertwined.

“There is nothing to forgive,” I tell him simply, and it’s the truth. I press my face against his shoulder, breathing in the sweet, masculine scent of him. “You only did what I myself would have done, had I been brave enough to fight against my sister’s hold over me. You have never betrayed me.”

Perhaps I was naive to trust him. And yet, as with Britomartis, I judged true. You should trust your own judgement, Sira, and no one else’s. Trust your eyes and ears. Trust the sword in your hand.

I did, blindly and foolishly, and he saved my life. He may even help me save my kingdom.

Lykos lets out a shuddering breath, then wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me so tight against him that I can scarcely breathe. “Thank you,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the top of my head. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

I smile, a warm, satisfied smile that I’m grateful he can’t see, my gaze wandering to the blade he had forged for me. A steadying sense of peace settles behind my ribs at the sight of it, at the feel of Lykos beside me, at the name scrawled on the parchment still resting on my knees.

I am not a piece, but a player. I have a sword gifted to me by the god Asterion himself. I have the loyalty of an Achean, and his ships and men at my command. And Britomartis is returning to me, bringing with her blades and ships and allies.

For me. She is coming back for me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and think of Knossos. Not sad and dark and empty like I remember it, but bright and shining and full of life, like it was in my dream.

Take it, that starry god had said. And for the first time in my life, I feel like I could.