Page 31 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Sira

“Tell me the plan again,” I order, then tighten my arms around Lykos’ waist when Cyllarus takes a leaping step over a fallen twig, snorting as if he thinks it is a poisonous serpent. Lykos laughs, tightening his hold on the deranged creature, granting him a loving pat on the neck when he finally calms down.

“We were to take you to Zominthos,” Inanna says. “And then on to the coast, at Fodele. All your allies will convene there—it has a sheltered bay, from what I understand, so all the ships will be well out of sight from Knossos. Then we sail to Amnisos, and march on Knossos.”

I nod. The way Inanna explains it, it sounds so simple. Easy, even. A half-days walk from Zominthos to Fodele, then a day sailing around the point to Amnisos. We are already nearly at Fodele—I can see the first of its pale houses on top of a distant hill which, Asil tells me, marks the last hill before the descent down to the coast.

“And your men are waiting for us in Knossos?” I ask, directing the question at Lykos.

“Knossos and Amnisos,” he corrects. “I told Galenos to put half our men on the ships, so that we are ready to flee if need be.”

“We will not flee.”

Lykos pats my hand with his own. “Of course not. But I will not leave my ships unguarded for some Keptui to steal.”

I hum in agreement, and have to acknowledge the sense in his plan. I wonder if that is what happened to Kitanetos, if he had left his ships unguarded. Malia said that he’d abandoned them, abandoned his men too, but I don’t believe it. A man is nothing without his ships. It is more likely that Perses took them, by theft or by force.

“And you think Xenodice will step down without a fight?” I don’t bother to hide the doubt in my tone.

“If all the minases arrive, she will have to,” Inanna answers confidently, then quickly steps away when Cyllarus turns, gnashing his broad teeth in her direction. “Control your beast, Achean,” she snaps, glaring up at Lykos. “It is a menace.”

Lykos laughs, a sweet, lyrical sound. I hide my smile against his back.

“Your sister is no fool.” Inanna continues. “She will not waste the blood of her people in needless battle. And they will not fight for her—not when fighting is senseless. This is not a matter of bloodthirsty Acheans seeking to raid…” Lykos stiffens beneath my hold, but remains silent. “… these are our own people. The people of Knossos would not endanger the lives of their children, of their sisters and mothers for the pride of one minas.”

“No…” I say slowly.

I want to agree with her. But then I think of Clio, round-faced and beautiful, with the future of her family line growing in her belly. And I think of my eldest sister, strong and brave and calm, training her whole life to be the leader of Knossos. And my mother. My wonderful, powerful mother.

Xenodice might as well have carved out her throne from their bones.

I swallow, my stomach twisting with the thought of those barefoot children running along Knossos’ streets, of the sounds of their laughter turning to screams and cries. I think of Xenodice’s brave-faced guards—women who only wanted to serve Potina or Astarte or Diktynna or some other goddess—and what it would be like to lift my sword against them. To see their blood coating Knossos’ pavement, just so that I might take the throne.

I will not do it.

“And if she does not?” I ask softly, dreading the answer. “If we arrive at Knossos and my sister does not step aside? If she orders her guards to fight us? If she attacks?”

“Then we fight back.”

It’s Lykos who answers this time, his voice vibrating against my ear where it’s pressed against his back. “We show them what it means to rule.”

“What it means to rule?” I echo, my frown deepening.

“Yes, little Keptui.” I feel Lykos’ shoulders straighten, his back muscles tensing. “You don’t think I sat all those years at my brother’s side learning nothing, do you? There has been many a family—especially to the north of Mycenae—who would see one of their own sit upon the throne. Who do you think he sent to see that they knew their place?”

“You… you fought them?” The knot in my stomach tightens. “Your own people?”

Our men fight. Our women too. But our men fight to protect our trade, and our women fight to protect our shores. To fight against one’s own people… that is madness. It is like a tree fighting its own branches for the sunlight.

“Of course. There were… I admit there were parts of it I did not approve of. Some of the other men… well, things happen in the heat of battle, and it’s best not to think of them too much. I never… there is no honor in that sort of thing, you know? But an uprising must be pulled out root and stem if it is to be stopped. And it is good for the people to fear their king.”

I pull back, staring at Lykos’ broad shoulders with disbelief. Inanna casts me a sidelong glance, the disgust at Lykos’ words written over her features.

“Your people are barbarians,” she says curtly, lifting her chin. For once, I am inclined to agree.

Lykos shrugs. “That may be. But my brother kept his throne.”

He falls silent. I wonder if he is only now remembering that his brother’s throne is sitting empty and there will be no king to reclaim it.

No one speaks much after that. Perhaps it is simply the winter sun beating down on our backs, or the lingering exhaustion that even a night’s rest at Zominthos was unable to fix.

All the while, the sword Lykos had made for me weighs heavy against my side, its weight a threat and a warning. I finger the hilt and ornate sheathe cautiously. A kingdom isn’t ruled by a blade , he had told me. But now he is saying that I might have to fight my own people in order to rule them.

I am beginning to think he knows as little of ruling a people as I do.

By the time we round the last hill and start the long descent into Fodele, the heat and silent tension is almost unbearable. It had been so cold on Mount Ida, painfully, bitterly cold. Now, I am sweating beneath my thick woolen cloak, even with it cast to the side. Lykos is sweating too, his tunic and cloak damp where they press against my stomach.

“We are nearly there, little bird,” he murmurs to me, reaching back to stroke my thigh. “And look—there are ships in the harbor.”

I squint against the sun, following his line of sight to the glittering harbor. There are numerous little vessels bobbing on their anchors, but five of them are unmistakable as proper ships. Trading vessels of the first rate. My heart races at the sight of them, with their clean sails and strong hulls.

“Who do you think they belong to?” Lykos muses, leaning forward in the saddle, as if that will help him make out the color of the flags strung between the top of the mast and the bow.

Those are the decorative or ceremonial flags. I know that much, from my brother and fathers. They take them down when they’re at sea, but put them up when they come into port, so that all who know how to read them know who they are and what they’re trading and so forth.

“They look blue to me,” Lykos announces. “And I think the name one, the center one, it has a star on it.”

My heart stops, soaring like a dove and catching in my throat. “A star, did you say?”

“Hmm…” he leans forward again, then nods decisively. “Yes, definitely a star.”

“That’s my brother,” I choke out, gratitude and joy threatening to make me burst into tears. “That’s Asterion.”

By the time we reach the heart of Fodele, I’m ready to throw myself off Cyllarus. I probably would, if I wasn’t terrified of falling and being trampled by the creature’s sharp hooves.

“Easy, Keptui,” Lykos murmurs soothingly, as if he’s trying to calm the creature we’re riding instead of speaking to his minas. “Let me help you down.”

“Do you see him?” I ask Inanna. There’s no point in asking Lykos—he doesn’t know my brother. But Inanna does. All of Knossos does. “He’s tall, he should be easy to spot…”

Lykos grumbles out some oath I don’t quite hear, giving Cyllarus’ reins to a very reluctant Asil before reaching up to grip my waist and haul me from the saddle.

I grip his shoulders, smiling broadly at him as he lowers me to the ground. “I think you’ll like Asterion,” I tell him. “I haven’t seen him since… well, that doesn’t matter. But I think you’ll like him.”

Lykos gives me a gentle smile, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from my face. I probably look like a complete mess, sweaty and dusty after riding all day, but Asterion won’t care. Not when he’s seen me barefoot and running wild and half-naked as a grubby child.

There’s a crowd gathered now, scores of men and women I don’t recognize. I scarcely notice them. Instead, I press close against Lykos’ side, grateful for his steadying presence, for the strong arm around my shoulders despite the heat and sweat, and crane my neck as I attempt to see over Inanna and the rest of Astarte’s servants as they form a protective arc around me.

That’s when I see her.

Not my brother, not the person I am looking for, but perhaps the only person in the world who can be forgiven for not being him.

“Britomartis!”

The women in front of me move aside, until there is nothing between me and the woman who stole my heart. Until she is close enough that if I stepped forward a pace and reached out my hand, I could touch her.

“Sira…” She pales visibly at the sight of me, all the color draining from her features like paint washed from papyrus. Her eyes catch on Lykos, on his arm wrapped around my shoulders, on my arm snaked around his waist. Her throat bobs. “You came.”

“Lykos and Inanna got me out of Knossos,” I tell her.

Gods, but I want to go to her. Why is she not stepping closer? Will she not at least clasp my hand? I glance around, wishing there were not all these strangers crowding around us, staring intently at the three of us, as if they have any right to our conversation.

Cyllarus snorts and stamps his feet, clearly as uncomfortable with the crowd as me.

“Apologies, my lady,” Lykos’ words brush against my ear. “But I should see to my horse before he tramples someone.”

And then I’m standing alone.

“Britomartis?” I say again, and this time the name is a whispered plea. A question.

She is just as beautiful as I remember. Strong and tall, every line of her features speaking elegance and power. Her skin is a little darker—the result of being at sea, no doubt. And there is a brightness in her eyes that wasn’t there before.

“You came back for me.” I take a tentative step towards her. “I thought I’d never see you again.” I hold my hands out to her, palms up, like someone making an offering at temple and give her what I hope is my friendliest smile. “Is my brother with you?”

Her hands still mid-air, hovering above my own. “Your… your brother?”

“Asterion,” I clarify. Though surely she knows that. “I saw his ships in the harbor.”

Her hands drop to her sides, brushing against her thick wool skirt. She gives me a pleading look. “Perhaps… this is… you must be tired from your journey. My people are sleeping on the ships but there should be a room here for you to rest.”

She glances meaningfully at the watching crowd. Ice rushes through my veins, a sickening dread slicing through like a blade.

“Where is Asterion?”

Goddess, what if something has happened to him? Is that why Britomartis would take me somewhere private? To break some news to me, to spare me from grieving in front of so many watching eyes?

“Britomartis…”

She takes in a shuddering breath. “He’s not here.”

I stare at her, my heart stilling in my chest. Dead. He must be dead. I know my brother. He would not relinquish his ships for anyone. Even Potina herself must have fought to take him.

“No. No. Not that.” Britomartis does take my hands then, clasping them between her own. Her grip is strong and her palms are callused but her hands tremble. “He’s alive. He is well. I swear to you, sweet Sira, he is alive.”

Sweet Sira .

How many times have I heard her say those words in my dreams? How many times have I dreamed of her touch? I step closer, my knees weak with relief.

“You swear it?”

She dips her head. “I swear it.”

“He is… is he on the ship then?”

“He is on Thera. Or at least, he was when I left.” She worries her lower lip with her teeth, her gaze going distant, thoughtful. “They have Nerites’ ship,” she says, more to herself than to me. “No doubt they are close behind. They won’t come here though. Perhaps they’ll arrive at Amnisos when we do, or shortly after…”

“My brother lent you his ships?” I ask, incredulous.

Britomartis shakes her head, her eyebrows lifting in supplication. “No.” Her tongue darts out, wetting sunburnt lips. “No. I stole them.”