Page 32 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Britomartis

“Is it wise, do you think, to house them on this ship?” Kinusi asks, bending to whisper the question in my ear so that none of the men on board hear.

I give him a bitter smile.

“Why? Are you concerned your minas will kill me in my sleep?” I deadpan.

“I do not jest, priestess,” he grumbles. “It would be within her right, whether she wields the blade or not. And that Achean with her…”

Kinusi trails off, his upper lip curling in disgust as he watches Lykos help Sira climb up from the small fishing boat. Sira’s eyes are wide with unabashed interest as she takes in the ship. I can’t help but wonder if this is her first time on board a trading vessel. It may well be.

“He is welcome to try,” I say drily. “The gods know my blade could take the use after so many days at sea.”

I almost hope the Achean does try, if only so I can have the pleasure of gutting him like the beast he is.

Kinusi shakes his head in disapproval, but doesn’t succeed in hiding an indulgent smile. “Your blade will get enough use by the time we are done, I suspect, without needing to fight our own allies.”

I wrinkle my nose.

That Achean is not an ally. He’s a leech. An upstart. How he convinced Sira to accept his pledge, only the gods know. Trickery, perhaps. Or threats.

My blood runs cold at the thought of it, my fingers twitching at my side, as if I would draw my sword right here, on deck, with all the acolytes and men watching.

“I take it you mean to give them your quarters,” Kinusi asks cautiously, drawing me back from my murderous imaginings.

“What?”

“Your quarters,” he repeats, slowly, as if speaking to someone unacquainted with ship life. “There is nowhere else that would be suitable for the Minas Crete, you know.”

I scowl at him. “I know that.” I just hadn’t thought about the fact that Lykos would be in there with her. That the pair of them would be sleeping in my bed.

It’s strange hearing Sira referred to as the Minas Crete. She is just sweet Sira to me, the lonely young woman trapped in Potina’s temple, waiting eagerly for my arrival every morning, clinging to my hand each time we said goodbye.

Five days. Had it only been five days that we had together?

“So. When do we set sail?”

My scowl deepens as Lykos crosses the deck towards me, sure-footed and brimming with confidence, as if he has spent every day of his life at sea.

“We set sail when all of our allies are gathered here,” I tell him shortly. “It should not be more than a handful of days.”

“A handful of days,” he echoes, folding his arms over his chest, his eyes brightening as his gaze roves over the ship, like a purchaser inspecting his wares. “And no place for my horse, I see.”

“No.”

I told him when we were on land that these ships were not equipped to bear livestock. Certainly not when we have enough women and men on board that the ships already rest low in the water.

Lykos gives a one shouldered shrug, then turns to where Sira is cautiously making her way across the decking, her arms outstretched as if that will help her balance.

“My apologies, my lady.” Lykos is at her side in a moment, giving her his elbow, simpering like a fool. “I forgot. Let me help you.”

The smile Sira gives him—it is like a blade to my heart. Sweet and grateful, full of trusting adoration.

She had given me that smile once.

Fool that I am, I had thought she would give me that smile again. I had thought that if I brought her ships and blades, if I rallied her allies and removed her murdering sister from the throne…

But when she turns to look at me, it’s as if she barely sees me at all, and the smile is gone.

“I’ll have some food brought to you,” I say stiffly, waving one hand to where the captain’s quarters are at the stern of the ship. “You can stay there while we’re on board.”

It’s barely more than a small tent, a shelter of hide and canvas rigged up on a wooden frame, housing a simple sleeping pallet. And all my belongings.

“I’ll… I’ll just have to remove a few of my things.”

Though Potina knows where I’m going to put them.

I draw in a deep, steadying breath of sea air, and glance around the ship. Only half the women and men are on board—the others doing whatever it is they are doing on shore—and already there is scarcely room to move without having to step over someone’s legs, or their bag, or their weapons.

“Your things?” Sira blinks at me in confusion. “What do you mean, your things?”

Something pangs behind my ribs at her question, at the guileless way she is looking to me for answers. She had looked at me like that before, hadn’t she? When we had spent entire days together on the rooftop, and she had looked at me like I held the entire world in my hands.

If I had, I would have offered it to her.

“That’s where I’ve been staying,” I say cautiously, knowing better than to refer to them as my quarters. Since, technically, they are Asterion’s quarters. Just as this is, technically, Asterion’s ship.

“And where will you stay now?” she presses. There’s a demand in her tone and a keenness in her gaze that wasn’t there two moon cycles ago.

“Somewhere else.” I shrug.

I’ll have to bunk down with one of my acolytes, I suppose. It’s something I’ve always tried to avoid, even at Potina’s temple. Not that I dislike any of them, but even the perception of favoritism is a sure way to fill one’s house with petty jealousies and sour looks.

“You’ll stay with us,” Lykos announces officiously, one hand on his hip, his entire posture screaming ease and swagger.

Sira and I stare at him with twin expressions of horror. He cannot be serious.

He gives a dismissive wave of his hand.

“It’s a crowded ship, from what I can tell. You have what, fifty men and women on board? And you’ve been at sea for nearly a moon cycle. Everyone will have their place, their companions…” he shakes his head. “No, it would not do to change that. It would be unfair to the crew.” He fixes Sira with a meaningful look, then lowers his voice. “Not when they have journeyed so far for your cause, my lady.”

This last piece is addressed to Sira, and I see the moment understanding dawns, some of the color draining from her cheeks.

“Of course.” She stares up at him with gratitude. “I had not thought of that. I had not thought of the crew.” She gives me a pinched smile. “You will stay with us, of course.”

I should refuse. Potina knows I want to refuse. The thought of curling up on some pallet while Lykos and Sira sleep together, or perhaps do more than sleep. Of being subjected to their sweet whispers, Sira’s pleased sighs and Lykos’ cocky, self-satisfied grin... it’s almost too much to bear.

I could refuse. Sira is not my minas. While we are at sea, she has no authority. At least, not over me and the crew. And I am second daughter to the Minas Thera, first acolyte to Potina’s high priestess, and captain of this fleet. Even on land, this woman does not rule me.

And yet I find myself lowering my head in a stiff approximation of a bow, my throat dry. “As you say, my lady.”

It turns out my fears of being subjected to the sounds of Sira and Lykos’ lovemaking are completely unfounded.

“I… I think I’ve been poisoned.”

I step into the shelter—our sleeping quarters—just in time to see Lykos holding Sira’s hair back from her face as she doubles over, vomiting into an empty pot.

“It’s only the sea sickness, little bird,” he murmurs, carefully covering the pot with a linen cloth when she has finished. He urges her to lay back down, swiping at her damp brow with the back of his hand.

Something pangs behind my ribs at the sight of this brute of an Achean treating Sira with such care and tenderness.

“Do you have any wormwood wine?” Lykos asks, never looking away from Sira’s pained face. I didn’t realize he’d even heard me come in.

“Wormwood wine?” I echo stupidly. Though of course, I’ve heard of it. The followers of Diktynna offer it to women in childbirth—I remember Molpadia telling me about it, and how much work went into curing the wormwood leaves in wine.

“Yes.” Lykos gives me a sharp look, his palm still resting on Sira’s forehead. “Do you have some?”

“I… I do not know,” I confess awkwardly, uncertainty and guilt twisting in my stomach. “Does it treat seasickness?”

Lykos gives me a disbelieving look, as if I’d just asked him if Poteiden rules the sea, or if Appaliuna and his griffins truly carry the sun across the sky each day. “Your people are supposed to be renowned healers. Do you not have a cure for seasickness?”

I lift my chin, narrowing my eyes at Lykos. If there was a cure for seasickness, I would have given it to nearly all the Theran women on board these ships the first quarter moon cycle at sea. The men, all of them seasoned sailors, had stared in unabashed horror at the illness surrounding them. But none of them had suggested wormwood as a cure, and neither had Diktynna’s acolytes.

“Why would we need it?” I retort hotly. “Our men were made for the sea. They are not weak-blooded like you Acheans.”

I regret the words the second they leave my lips.

Hurt flashes in Sira’s eyes as she turns her head away. Lykos pales, his expression contorting into something almost feral as he rises to his feet, carefully stepping around Sira so as not to disturb her.

“There is nothing weak-blooded about my minas,” he hisses, his face only a hand’s width from my own. “If you knew… if you had any idea… I have seen her walk away from sword wounds that would kill most men. She has stood before the wrath of the gods themselves and not trembled-”

“Lykos.”

Sira’s voice is strained, but there is no doubting the command in that one word. The warning.

Lykos obeys, but bares his teeth at me, looking more like a snarling wolf than a man. I barely notice it though. No, my mind has caught like a stray thread on Lykos’ words, and an icy, terrifying anger is vibrating through me.

“Sword wounds?” Goddess help me, but whoever hurt Sira better be dust in Potina’s realm, or I will drag them there myself. “When was this?”

They both stare silently back at me. I grit my teeth, and let a frustrated breath out through my nostrils.

“Fine,” I concede, when it is clear neither of them plans to give me any answers. “I will go find some wormwood wine.”