Page 34 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Sira

“They should arrive within a quarter moon cycle. Perhaps even in days.”

I turn to give Britomartis a blank look in an effort to hide my confusion. She gives me a wan smile, then tilts her head towards the glistening sea stretching endlessly northwards.

“Your allies,” she clarifies. “You should not have to wait long.”

I give a hum of acknowledgment but don’t answer. They were my mother’s allies, perhaps. I don’t recall. They are Britomartis’ allies—at least, that much can be assumed if they respond to her plea for help. They are Knossos’ allies, in the way that pillars in the same great building are allies.

They are not my allies.

In any event, it’s not anxiety for their arrival that has me staring off to the horizon. No, like a coward, I’m doing my best to avoid looking at anyone who might have heard me calling out in a lust-sick frenzy last night. After emptying the contents of my stomach. Which is, presumably, the entire crew of this ship.

“About last night…” Britomartis begins, and I feel my stomach drop to my feet with a sickening lurch that has nothing to do with the sea sickness I’m still battling. “I wanted to apologize.”

“Apologize?” I don’t dare look at her. The ocean bleeds and swims before my vision, golds and blues and greens mixing like paint dropped in water.

“I should not have insulted Lykos,” she says, the words as stiff as the pressed linen fabric brushing against my legs. “He is your… your chosen and your ally. I should not have treated him as if he is a barbarian.”

I almost smile at that. This morning, Lykos had stripped naked in front of everyone and leapt into the sea, drawing laughter from the men and approving smiles from the women, before climbing back on board and flicking salt water over everyone, like a dog shaking water from its fur.

Lykos is a barbarian. But he’s my barbarian.

“You could tell him that yourself,” I suggest mildly. “When he gets back from checking on his horse.”

“I will.”

I dare a glance in her direction, my stomach flipping violently when I see she’s studying me intently. Sunlight catches in her hair, in the beads coiled on top of her head. It highlights the fine arch of her nose, the curve of her lips, the sharp eyes set above round, high cheekbones. My throat suddenly feels dry, my lungs tight, as if the sea wind has stolen all my breath.

She is even more stunning than she was two moon cycles ago, in the dim light of Potina’s temple. There, she was poised and powerful, every bit the priestess. Here, she is wild and fierce and… something different. Brighter.

“I would like to learn to fight,” I say abruptly, the admission tumbling out before I can stop it. Like you do, I almost say, but at least I manage to keep those words in. Help me be more like you .

A strange expression flits across Britomartis’ features, but it’s gone before I can name it. “What sort of fighting?” she asks cautiously, her gaze traveling critically over my form.

I straighten under her scrutiny and lift my chin. “The blade.”

I think of Drania, of how terrified I was, of how powerful her hits were against my own. Of her blade flashing in the dark and my own barely able to meet it.

“And perhaps the shield.”

Britomartis gives a slow nod, but her lips curve into a disapproving frown. “You mean to fight at Knossos then?”

“I mean to take Knossos,” I correct her, remembering the way Knossos stretched before me in my dream. Take what is yours , that starry god had said. “I would rather not fight, but I would also like not to die if I can help it.”

I shoot Britomartis what I hope is a playful smile. She does not return it.

“Lykos mentioned you had been injured on your way here,” she says carefully, those sharp eyes pinned on me, as if she would strip me bare and find out my wounds for herself. I shiver beneath that gaze and try not to remember what it felt like to be naked before it.

“A few scratches.” I wave my hand dismissively. “Nothing serious.”

Britomartis lifts one sculpted brow in disbelief.

“Please, Britomartis?”

“You haven’t asked Lykos to train you?”

I think guiltily of Lykos kneeling before me, that terrifying blade held up like an offering. I haven’t unsheathed it since that night on Zominthos.

“He has offered.” I worry my lower lip with my teeth, and eye the twin blades strapped to Britomartis’ waist. “But he’s a man…” I trail off, my cheeks heating at the obviousness of that observation.

I have seen Lykos fight. I know he is skilled. But he also fights in a way I never could—with strength and power and force. I glance down the length of the ship, to where most of the skeleton crew are clustered at the bow.

Four of Britomartis’ women have stripped down to simple kilts, not dissimilar to what the bull-leapers wear, and are taking part in what looks like a complex wrestling match. A number of men stand watching, grins white against sun-darkened skin. The women move like wild cats, lithe and graceful, power written in every sinewy muscle and curve.

Like dancers, only deadly as well as beautiful.

I want to move like that. To look like that.

I bet Britomartis trained them.

The thought has something hot and bitter rising up behind my ribs. I let out a strained breath, my jaw tensing.

“No. Of course. You’re right.” Britomartis says, her gaze following my own. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” She clears her throat. “Of course you should learn from a woman. From a Theran.”

There’s a teasing lilt as she says this last bit, and I shoot her a look full of mock incredulity. “Not a Keptui? Surely we are the better fighters.”

Her expression grows somber, a stark contrast to the pink now staining her cheeks. “There isn’t a Keptui alive who I would trust near you with a blade, sweet Sira.”

My breath hitches at her words, at the sound of my name across her full lips. Sweet Sira . Goddess, how have I longed to hear that.

“And I should trust you?”

There’s an ache behind my ribs, a deep and hungry feeling, as if longing and sorrow are two serpents intertwined together.

Her eyes go wide, and she steps towards me, close enough that I can see the flecks of bronze in her irises and the pupils dark as cold ash. “I don’t know,” she whispers, her pulse fluttering wildly at her throat. “Potina knows I don’t deserve it. And yet…” She searches my face in silent question. “And yet, I would ask for it all the same.”

A light breeze flutters, tangling the few stands that have come loose from Britomartis’ coils, bringing with it the scent of honey and pomegranate and something that is distinctively her. My mouth waters, the ache behind my ribs sharpening like a knife.

I would give it, I realize with no small amount of shame. I would give her my trust all over again, would trust her with the very future of Knossos if she asked.

“Show me,” I say, taking a step back and lifting my chin. “Show me how to wield a blade.”

Show me that I can trust you , I want to say, but I don’t dare. Not when my words are tangling hot in my throat and the sun is burning my eyes.

“Show me how a Theran fights.”

By the time I’m able to block Britomartis’ blows, my body is slick with sweat, my arms bruised from the training sword, my lungs aching as I draw in desperate breathes.

“Keep your knees bent. Angle your hips—yes, like that. You are a blade, not a sail. Widen your gaze—watch my face, my feet, my hand, my breath.”

My mind races, the world around us fading to a humming blur until everything is Britomartis, her teeth flashing white, her cheeks flushed, her hair damp across her forehead. Her blade moves with careful precision, bronze glinting gold in sunlight, my own muscles screaming in protest as I lunge to meet it, to parry her strikes.

My own movements are slow compared to hers, and graceless. But I defend her hits. And slowly, slowly, the icy fear that’s been gnawing at me since that fight with Drania begins to melt away.

I know I am no warrior. Not yet. Maybe I won’t ever be. I haven’t managed a successful hit either, not even a rap against Britomartis’ knuckles.

But perhaps, just perhaps, I won’t die the moment we arrive at Knossos.

“Good. Yes, just like that.” Britomartis’ praise rushes through me, warm as the first sips of blue lily wine. “That’s much better.”

Her eyes glint, expression sharpening. I feel my body instinctively tense in response. I’ve seen that look before, at least a dozen times since we started sparring this morning. Britomartis feints to the right, but her feet and eyes are saying left, left, left .

I lift my sword, angling it to take the hit from the left with the flat of my blade. Always try to defend with the flat of your blade , she had said. Keep your edges sharp .

Metal sings, a harsh sound that echoes through my bones, through the tired sinews of my arms, across my ribcage. Britomartis’ sword flies from her hand, arching high.

I freeze, my eyes going wide in shock as her sword clatters to the deck, my own training sword poised mid-air. I did it. A giddy, surprised laugh bursts out of me. I did it .

Britomartis’ answering smile is wide, warm as the sunshine beating down on our backs. My lungs tighten, my already strained breath rushing out of me at the sight of it. I lower my sword, and step towards her.

“That was… that was amazing,” she pants, reaching out to clasp my shoulder. Her hand is hot as a brand against my bare skin, and I want to melt against it.

“Thank you,” I breathe, not daring to take my eyes off her face. Afraid that if I look away, that smile will disappear, that the warmth will fade like the sun behind clouds.

We’re so close now that I can feel the heat of her skin, can taste the fresh sweat on the sea air between us. One half-step forward, and I could press my lips to hers.

“You should have struck her.”

I start at the sound of Lykos’ voice, and nearly drop my sword when I realize he’s standing at the rail of the ship, his brow raised, expression coolly unreadable. A handful of men and women stand nearby. Watching us, I realize. Watching their priestess—their captain—spar with the would-be-Minas Crete.

My cheeks heat, and I step back, instantly regretting the loss of Britomartis’ touch.

“You should have attacked the second she dropped her sword,” Lykos continues, bending to pick up Britomartis’ fallen blade. He turns it in his hands, studying it with a frown, then hands it to Britomartis hilt first. “Or at the very least not let down your guard.”

His eyes land on me, and I’m suddenly conscious of how disheveled I must look, with my hair plastered to my forehead and neck and sweat dripping down the center of my chest.

“An enemy could have a knife,” he continues, his voice low, his brow furrowed. “An enemy would not wait for you to pick up your sword if they disarmed you.”

He takes my sword-hand, lifting it with the blade still clenched in my fist as he studies the welts on my forearms and the backs of my hand. A frown etches itself on his face as he rubs one particularly harsh welt with the pad of his thumb. “She hurt you,” he murmurs, concern flashing in his eyes as he studies my face.

I don’t think he’s talking about the welts on my hands. Not really. This is about something else.

My breath catches, the sound of my blood rushing in my ears singing louder than the waves as I recall all the words that had spilled out of me last night. I gave you my heart and body and you left. Left to go to her, to Adrienne.

They had been angry and jealous words. Honest words, yes. But also, perhaps, unfair.

“She hurt you, and yet you did not attack.”

There’s accusation in his tone, but his fingers brush the welt running along my forearm, gentle and careful, his brow dipping with confusion.

I dare a glance at Britomartis. She is staring at us, her features schooled into that unreadable mask, but it is not so unreadable to me. Not anymore. Not when I can feel her eyes burning my own, can see the rapid beat of her pulse at her throat. The way her fingers flex around her sword hilt.

“Because she is not my enemy,” I tell him, covering his hand with my own. But my eyes are on hers, and hers alone. “She only ever meant to help me.”

I give her a small, tremulous smile. One that I hope conveys everything I want to say, but can’t. Not when the words are catching in my throat. Not when her men and women are watching us. Not with Lykos vibrating with barely controlled anger at my side.

I forgive you , I want to say. I trust you. I will give you everything all over again.

Instead, I lift my chin, squaring my shoulders as I turn to give Lykos what I hope is a cocky grin. The sort I’ve seen him give a hundred times a day since he came into my life and carried me to freedom.

“Besides, I will take a few bruises if it gets me my throne.”