Page 3 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

One month earlier

Britomartis

“They are going to kill her, Kitanetos. Xenodice is sending twenty men. Twenty men. And you sent one to protect her? Fool.”

My brother flinches, but to his credit, does not look away. He works his jaw, eyes blazing bright as Velchanos’ own embers. “I did not send just any man.” He lifts his chin, a shadow of our mother’s imperiousness visible in the arch of his brow. “I sent the Death Bringer. I sent Jadikira.”

“A doulos. The Bull of Crete’s lover,” I scoff, but my voice trembles.

A few days ago, I sent Adrienne out into the wilderness with Asterion to meet the Oracle. I sent her, my own pack on her shoulders, my own boots on her feet, with every hope of finding some answers in that sacred cave on Mount Ida. I sent her with the hope of avoiding Xenodice’s jealousy too, though I did not say as much.

I did not imagine this.

“This is your fault,” I hiss, fixing a glare on my foolish brother’s face. It’s a pretty face, to be sure—if one enjoys the rough edges of male beauty, carved like cold stone, with nothing more behind it. “What sort of man asks their betrothed if they can take a lover—publicly, no less, and at the festival celebrating your betrothal? What were you thinking?”

Kitanetos’ cheeks color, his gaze dropping momentarily to his feet. If I didn’t know him as well as I do, I would almost think he was ashamed.

“I thought it better to be honest.” He scrubs the back of his neck, the thick metal cuff he’s wearing around his wrist catching in his long hair, tangling it. He doesn’t attempt to smooth it. “I thought Xenodice would understand.” His eyes lift to mine, pleading. “I thought, if she just saw Adrienne, just saw how incredible she is, that she would know why I must have her.”

I shake my head, at a loss for words. For a man whose experience with women has become almost synonymous with his name, he really is no more than a foolish child.

“She is going to die,” I tell him flatly. “Adrienne is going to die because of you.”

Twenty men. Acheans, true, but men, nonetheless. And if Xenodice does fail? If Adrienne returns to Knossos, to these walls that house hundreds of Xenodice’s own guards?

I feel sick just thinking about it. The first true friend I have had since Molpadia. A sister, in heart if not in blood. A woman who stood beside me in battle, who saved my life with one goddess-blessed shot from her bow.

My brother shakes his head. “Jadikira will warn them. He will protect them.”

“He is one man,” I remind him.

“I was one man, too,” he admits softly, giving me a look that is so full of shame, it has me recalling when we were children and he broke my favorite toy sword. No, not broke. Burnt. Incinerated completely, though he never did tell me how. “I was one man, and yet I destroyed hundreds of Acheans that morning on Thera.”

A moon cycle ago, Thera’s streets and rooftops had been bathed with the blood of Acheans. I can still recall the smell of it, rising and mingling with the sea air. I can still recall the smell of the Achean himself too—one of their leaders, no doubt—and the weight of him against my shield before Adrienne’s arrow slew him.

“The fires killed them. Not you.” The Achean’s ships had burned, lighting up with a glow to rival the dawn. The women on the rooftops had cheered at the sight of it, had clapped sword against shield at the sight of our men’s ships emerging from the smoke after. At our seafaring brothers returned. “It was all our men who lit those fires. Not just you.”

My brother gives a slow shake of his head. “It was me. Just me.”

I stare at him for a long moment, my mind picturing the fires, the rows and rows of ships, lighting up one after another. At our own ships behind them, at a safe enough distance away to avoid the risk of stray embers.

“How?” I breathe, not trusting my voice enough to raise it above a whisper. “How?”

“You know how.”

Ice rushes through my veins, cold as Potina’s own lightless underworld.

I stare at my brother. At those thick-lashed eyes downcast, at the downturned lips and the straight, proud nose that matches my own. I used to hold him in my arms and pretend he was my baby — though at three years older than him, I had been scarcely more than a baby myself. Still, it was I who first showed him how to hold a sword. It was I who soothed him when he was hurt, or when he woke in the night.

“No.” The word bursts out of me, louder than I intend. His eyes flash open in surprise, meeting my own with a mixture of confidence and apology.

“It is the truth. I swear it.” He looks just as frightened as myself, and maybe that is what has the truth of his words settling over me like ash. That, and that he doesn’t dare say it. Doesn’t dare name the god whose blood runs in his veins.

“Velchanos,” I whisper, and he shudders.

Oh, I have heard the rumors. Of course I have. I doubt there is a soul on Thera who hasn’t heard that Kitanetos is the son of Velchanos. I had thought it nothing more than prideful boasting from our mother. After all, the Minas Crete had claimed Asterion, our starry god, had fathered her own son a few years earlier. She even named her son Asterion in an attempt to solidify that claim—though he has since become known as the Bull of Crete. So why shouldn’t the Minas Thera have a son fathered by a god too?

Silence runs between us. My eyes travel the painted walls of our guest chambers, the winter sun streaming in through lattice windows, the unlit oil lamps resting in their sconces. Adrienne should be reaching the Oracle’s cave tomorrow. Jadikira will have barely left Knossos’ walls. At least two days’ travel stretches between them. Two days of rocky mountain paths, of exposed hillside and cold nights. And he is just one man. Though one man can travel faster than twenty, if the gods are on his side…

Except Jadikira is not my brother. He is not even the Bull of Crete. He is not the son of a minas or god, but the son of a doulos. A doulos himself, with nothing more than stories of bloodshed to recommend him.

“Even if it is true,” I say carefully, “even if you are what our mother says, Jadikira is just a man…”

My brother gives a mirthless laugh. “Is he? Are you certain?” His lashes are wet with unshed tears, a rueful smile splitting his features. “Tell me, my wise older sister. You serve Potina. You know the ways of the gods. Do you think it chance that Adrienne came to us? That of all the people in Poteiden’s great domain, I was the one to find her, to pull her from the sea? Do you think it chance that the Bull of Crete himself is serving as Adrienne’s guide to Mount Ida, however reluctant he may be? And Jadikira—was it chance that had him catching Adrienne when she fainted at that festival? Was it chance that had him stumbling upon me and her in the olive grove? Was it chance that had Astarte striking his heart just as surely as she has struck mine? Tell me—you serve a goddess, tell me!”

Tears are tracking down his cheeks now, unchecked, glistening silver, catching along the sides of his nose, in his lips. I want to go to him, to wrap my arm around him like I might have done when we were children, but he gives me a look that has me staying any affection. Anger. Self-loathing. A bitterness that is completely at odds with everything I’ve ever known in him.

“Was it chance that made him the only man in Knossos willing to defy the Minas Crete, whatever the cost?” He lowers his voice, dropping his gaze to the floor, then adds, “That made him a better man than me?”

He is not a better man, I want to say. The only reason he’s going to rescue Adrienne is because Asterion is with her. Of course he would put his lover above the Minas Crete.

But Adrienne had been my brother’s lover too, or very near it. And yet here he stands. Here I stand too, although she is the closest friend I have had since Molpadia. A sister to me in everything but blood.

I watch helpless as my brother shatters, silently but as certainly as stone shatters beneath a hammer, beneath Potina’s swinging axe.

“You… you think he loves her?” I whisper, piecing together my brother’s rambling outburst. “You think perhaps Astarte chose Jadikira to protect Adrienne?”

That would not be surprising, I suppose. I’ve suspected Adrienne is a creature of Astarte since I met her. Her pallor, the crescent moon birthmark on her thigh, the eerie way the weather seems to respond to her moods. Her skill with the bow, despite how reluctant a student she proved to be…

“I think Jadikira is Appaliuna’s own son.”

I stare at my brother in open surprise. This is a theory I have never heard rumor of. The only rumor I ever heard about Jadikira is that he killed a boat full of Egyptians with his bare hands and bathed in their blood in a bid to take his freedom. That he laughs at battle, as if it is a game. The Death Bringer, they call him.

“It’s not just me,” Kit adds hurriedly, no doubt reading my disbelief. “All the men talk of it out at sea. At least, they did this summer. There was something that happened—I can’t remember what, some skirmish, I think, though I can’t remember if it was Acheans or Egyptians who were to blame. Someone was grievously injured, one of Asterion’s crew. But then Jadikira laid hands on him, and he was healed.”

I step back, feeling the low frame of the bed at the back of my knees, and carefully lower myself onto it. The world spins, my mind racing, a thrum as incessant as ceremonial drums in my ears. This is the information my brother should have told me the moment he arrived at Thera. This is information that should have been discussed with Eniocha, my high priestess, before I left home. Why is he telling me this now, when I have no one to confer with, no one to lean on?

“That is not all,” he tells me mournfully. “It gets worse.”

I glare up at him. Worse? How could this get worse?

Our alliance with Knossos rests on the edge of a blade. The new Minas Crete—the woman my brother seeks to pledge himself to—has sent twenty men to assassinate his lover, and my closest friend. All that stands between Adrienne and certain death is a doulos who my brother believes to be the son of Appaliuna.

“The Minas Crete is supplying copper to the Acheans. We suspected it—at least, Ariana did, I think, which is why she asked me to see what I could find out. But it’s true. Perses as much confirmed it today, while we took the midday meal with Xenodice.” His nostrils flare at the mention of his betrothed.

I grip the edge of the bed, barely feeling the fine Egyptian cotton beneath my fingers, barely feeling anything except the icy panic sluicing through me.

“That’s why they had so many bronze weapons,” he continues, as if I haven’t already made that connection myself. “Why we lost so many on Thera that day…”

He trails off, his gaze going distant, and I do not doubt he is seeing what I am seeing now, the images irrevocably burned onto my memory. Blood on pebbles, turning pink with sea water, dancing in the sea-foam. Bodies of the fallen—most of them Acheans, true, but Thera’s sisters among them. Women who fought and died protecting their families, their homes.

Protecting Thera’s children.

I still hear them when I sleep. For our sisters. For our mothers. For Thera.

“But the blood oath,” I say lamely. “All the islands signed it. It was agreed…”

Years ago, when my grandmother’s grandmother was not even born, for as long as even the most ancient among us can remember, there has been a blood oath between the principal islands. Binding us together in trade, like blades of straw tied in a bundle. Strengthening us against our neighbors—and ensuring the greed of one lawagetas or minas didn’t lead to the poverty of all. A part of that bond—a crucial, integral part of that oath—is that copper mined from our islands is not to be traded to the Acheans.

Because without copper, the Acheans cannot made bronze. And without bronze, they are like a tiger without claws.

“It has been broken,” Kit says.

I bend forward, pressing the heels of my hands against my forehead, my elbows sharp against my thighs.

I should never have agreed to come. I should have insisted that Ariana, our older sister, our mother’s heir, come in my place.

A few weeks, they told me. A few weeks to help your brother court the Minas Crete. He didn’t even need to court her, they said. It was all agreed. All I needed to do was make sure everything was done properly. To be the symbol of my mother’s assent to the match.

Now…

“You don’t mean to pledge yourself to her, do you?” I ask, lifting my head to stare up at my brother. At this man who always dreamed of pledging himself to a minas, ever since we were children.

He used to play at having a fleet of ships and brothers-in-pledge to fight alongside, and would drag in stones and sticks and whatever he found as his trade goods. ‘Pretend to be the minas,’ he would order, his little chin tilted up imperiously. ‘And I am coming home victorious. You’ll order a feast to celebrate.’

‘I want to have a fleet too,’ I would argue. ‘Make someone else be the minas.’

He would wrinkle his nose, would argue that women couldn’t sail, and then, when that failed, would give me that look that only younger brothers know how to give. ‘Please, Brita. Please? I need to be pledged to someone. It has to be a minas.’

“No,” his admission is sharp, harsh as a blade thrown down upon stones in surrender. But then his shoulders slump, his body nearly folding in on itself as he stumbles towards me, sinking onto the bed beside me. “I… I don’t know.” He gives me a pleading look. “I… our mother made the bargain. And Xenodice is a Minas. The Minas Crete. I should… it’s everything I ever wanted…”

His hands clasp mine, his grip strong as he gives me a beseeching look. An echo of the look he gave me as a child. Only, this time, I cannot give him what he asks. I cannot make this choice for him.

That doesn’t mean I won’t do my best to influence him.

“Xenodice broke the oath,” I say simply, pressing one of his hands between my own. “And she will kill Adrienne, if the gods allow her.”

A whimper escapes Kit’s throat, a pained sound that is more wild creature than man.

“I will have to tell our mother about the copper. And the other minases—the Minas Phaistos and the Minas Malia. They will have to be informed too.”

“I know,” he rasps.

“There might be war,” I caution, though goddess willing it won’t come to that. A war with Knossos, with Crete—that would be a tragedy beyond imagining. It would weaken all of us. We would need proof before any attack could be made. More than just the word of a man, even if that man is my brother. Still… “Breaking the oath is a serious thing.”

Kit gives a mournful nod.

“If there was war… if Xenodice cannot be reasoned with, cannot be made to adhere to the bargain… and if our mother ordered it…”

“You would be her enemy,” he fills in. There’s no uncertainty in his voice, just the hollow desolation of a man watching all the dreams he has built crumble like sand beneath the waves. “If I pledge myself to her, I may be pledging myself to your enemy, to our mother’s enemy. My men… my men would follow me, but perhaps hate me for it, especially if I ask them to defend Xenodice against their own sisters…”

He trails off, lifting his eyes to mine, a haunted expression making him look suddenly years older. Leaving only the faintest echo of the boy I used to hold.

I know he’s thinking what I’m thinking. That in such a situation, his men could very well turn against him. The ships that he is so proud of, the fleet that he worked so hard for, he would lose it all if he lost them.

“Help me, Brita,” he pleads. “That’s why you came with me, isn’t it? To help me? So tell me, please, what am I supposed to do?”

I give him an irritated look, but bite back the angry retort sitting at the tip of my tongue and instead let out a shuddering sigh, my thoughts racing.

We cannot do anything now, not while Adrienne is still in the wilderness with Asterion, not while her fate is unknown. We cannot go to Adrienne either—that would be the equivalent of declaring ourselves against Xenodice and then leaving Kit’s ships and men at Xenodice’s mercy. Even Kit must have seen that, which is why he sought out Jadikira.

But of course Kit isn’t asking me what he should do about Adrienne. He’s asking whether he should pledge himself to Xenodice—a minas who would cut down her sister islands for her own profit—or whether he should return home in disgrace. Because disgraced he most certainly would be.

Unless… unless there is real proof that Xenodice has broken the oath. Real proof that she is unfit to be minas, and therefore unfit to receive my brother’s pledge. Something more tangible than Kitanetos’ claim of what Perses told him. The word of a woman, someone connected with the truth, someone with standing and knowledge. A lawagetas, preferably, but such a woman would likely be implicated in the matter. And she would never speak to me.

Except…

“Doesn’t Xenodice have a sister?” I ask abruptly.

Kit startles, then frowns at me in confusion.

“Not the older one,” I continue hurriedly, trying to tamp down the flicker of hope burning behind my ribs. But it’s there, strong as the flame on a freshly wicked oil lamp. “I know the eldest died. But there was a third daughter, wasn’t there? I’m certain I saw her when I came out here years ago, when I went to see the Oracle...”

I can see her now, though the memory is hazy. I’d seen twenty-one summers, had just been made first acolyte, and had believed myself to be equal nearly to a minas. I’d barely noticed the girl standing beside the old Minas Crete, a round faced child of twelve or thirteen, her hair cut short in the way of a youth who has yet to bleed for Potina. I might not have noticed the child at all, had it not been for her owlish eyes staring at me with unnerving intensity.

That was six summers ago.

“Oh.” Kit toys anxiously with the gold bands at his wrists, the gems sparkling as he turns them. “Yes, I think I’ve heard her spoken of. Saliah? Sersie? No, that’s not it…” His brow dips, his gaze going distant as he scans his memory for whatever gossip he’s overheard in Xenodice’s hallways. “Ahh! Sira. Her name is Sira. I heard one of the guards speaking of her.” His face lights up, an almost childish expression of delight at being useful. “She’s a servant at Potina’s temple, I think.”

Sira.

I mouth the name, feeling the shape of it on my tongue. Yes, that had been her. The owl-eyed girl at her mother’s side, all those years ago. A girl with eyes like that, she would have seen everything. She would have heard everything too.

Sira.

I rise to stand, the layers of my woolen winter skirt pooling heavy around my ankles. I brush my hands over the fabric, smoothing it, feeling the comforting weight of the dagger at my waist.

“Brita?” Kit looks up at me in question, his hands stilling, features sharpening into alertness. “You’ve thought of something?”

I give him a curt nod, then cross the room to examine my reflection in the polished bronze disc perched on a low dressing table. “Maybe,” I say cautiously.

Definitely, though I don’t dare tell him what I suspect. Not yet. Not until I know for certain.

I turn, giving him a smile full of reassurance that I don’t quite feel capable of. “For now, we wait. Proceed as if you intend to pledge yourself to Xenodice. Smile, simper, act a fool.” I smirk, then add teasingly, “You’re good at that.”

He scowls, but doesn’t argue. Instead, he says, “And what will you do, oh wise one? While I’m flirting in the viper’s den?”

I think of that owl-eyed girl, and my smirk falls away. “I will be at Potina’s temple. And goddess willing, the girl will give us the answers that we seek.”

And goddess help her if she does not give them readily.