Page 35 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Britomartis

She is not my enemy.

Those words should not dance like starlight on the water. They should not have my lips curving with a smile, and then a sigh. But they do.

“They are not likely to arrive at night.”

I start at the sound of Lykos’ voice, then frown when he sidles up beside me. Not close enough to brush my arm with his, but close enough that I can smell him, salty and masculine, with hints of Sira on his skin.

“What?” I snap, then remember the crew sleeping on deck and drop my voice to a whisper. “Who?”

“The other ships.” He says the words slowly, as if speaking to an unblooded youth.

Truth be told, I feel like a youth—awkward and uncertain and confused. As if my mind has been in a fog ever since Sira’s soft footsteps pattered across the decking. I squeeze my eyes shut and rub at my temples. It doesn’t help that I hardly slept at all last night.

“There are others who can keep watch, Theran. You exhaust yourself for nothing.”

“I am not exhausted,” I lie.

But I am. I was exhausted when I left Thera. No, even before that. Ever since my brother pulled Adrienne—Astarte—from the sea, my nights have been plagued with worries and my days with doubts.

“Sira is afraid,” Lykos murmurs, changing the subject. He drops his head close to mine as if we are sharing some secret. “She will never show it, never say it, but she is.”

I dare a glance in his direction, only to see his face close to mine, his eyes gleaming with accusation in the starlight.

“Now she lays alone, wondering what she should do when her allies arrive, how she should negotiate with them, whether they will support her. What she will do when she meets with Xenodice.”

I blink at him in surprise, my lips parting as if I would make some answer, though I can think of none.

“You left her alone once. Left her alone without counsel, left her alone with her fears, among enemies who would swallow her whole. True, you came back, and the allies you are bringing, they might be enough. But those birds you sent out, they could bring enemies too. Vultures ready to sweep up the remains of a faltering kingdom.” His grin turns wolfish. “One of those pigeons brought me, after all.”

My blood turns to ice at his words, my breath catching in my throat. I had not thought of that.

But I should have.

Raised by a woman who would leave her own neighbors to drown, I should have expected that there would be others who would seek to shove Sira under the waves. Who would take one look at her—young and sweet and open—and see not a strong minas, but an easy prey.

“Ah. So you do see the danger then,” Lykos drawls. “Good.”

I swallow, my palms clammy where they grip the ship’s rail. All the while, my mind is racing, thinking of what I know of the people who are sailing this way, of their trade interests and what I’ve heard of their sons and daughters. Of the many, many long meetings I’ve sat in on at my mother’s side, first as a daughter, and then as a priestess.

“They will not want war,” I whisper, my eyes darting nervously to the sleeping bodies around us. I hope more than believe it to be true. “They will not want to waste lives on trying to steal what is rightfully Sira’s.”

Lykos cocks a disbelieving brow and I feel my ire grow.

“They will not,” I tell him again, though this time it sounds defensive, even to my ears. “We are not like you Acheans.”

Lykos scoffs, a low, raspy sound. “You are just like Acheans, in all the ways that count. But that is not what matters here, daughter of Thera. What matters, what really matters, is that Sira is getting ready to face a storm of your making and, just like before, you have left her alone.”

My gaze travels to the stern of the ship, to where the sides of the sturdy little canvas shelter ripple in the breeze. To where Sira should be sleeping.

“She doesn’t need me.”

Her brother’s ships and Thera’s forces, yes. But not me. Not when I only ever sought to take from her, even from the very beginning. Not when I went to the doors of Potina’s temple for the very purpose of earning her trust and betraying it.

“You are wrong.”

Lykos’ grip is firm on my arm as he spins me to face him. A soldier’s grip. A sea farer’s grip.

“She does need you. She trusts you too, though the gods know you don’t deserve it. You left her once, hurt her...”

His look is fierce, teeth bared and amber eyes glinting. Even though my blade is at my side, a frisson of fear runs up my spine.

“I will not let you hurt her again.”

Hurt her? I shake my head, my lips parting with an unspoken denial. I would never hurt Sira.

But of course, that’s not true. I have hurt her.

“Go to her, priestess.” Lykos’ voice is a low growl, all traces of the cocksure, teasing smile long gone. “Give her counsel, give her your wisdom—if you have any to give. Give her the very blood that runs in your veins if she asks for it. But do not hurt her or, I swear before Diktynna herself, even Potina will not be able to call the pieces of you to her dark halls when I am done with you.”

I gape at him, half tempted to draw my sword and teach this barbarian what it means to speak to a priestess of Thera in such a manner, and half tempted to embrace him.

“So…” I start, but the word comes out shaky with shock and ill-timed laughter. I bite back a smile, then start again. “So this is what Sira saw in you. This is why they call you the wolf of Mycenae, is it?” I hum in approval, even as bitter shame burns the back of my throat when I think of the truth in his words.

“Sheath your claws, my friend.” I force a lighthearted laugh, pull my arm free of his grasp and clap him on the shoulder. As if he is one of the men on this ship. As if he is a brother I could live and die beside, and not a rival. “I will go to her.”

I say this last bit with a resigned sigh, my stomach flying to my mouth at the thought of going in that shelter. Of seeing Sira’s fathomless eyes staring up at me in the dark. Of sitting beside her and offering her what I should have offered her that first moment I saw her in Potina’s temple.

My loyalty.

Her eyes meet my own the moment I slip though the canvas door, large and owlish in the flickering lamplight, as if she was expecting me. Lykos follows behind me, tying the canvas flap shut with a huff.

“Thank you for training me today.” Sira offers me a look that isn’t quite a smile, but it’s near enough to it that something in me softens like wax beside flame. “You’re a good teacher.”

Another huff from Lykos. I narrow my eyes at him, then sink gracefully to the decking beside Sira. “You’re a good student,” I say with a smile. The expression feels foreign, the muscles tight. “You have good instincts.”

Sira hums noncommittally, not accepting my praise but not denying it either. “Will you train me again tomorrow?”

I nod, and Lykos mutters something under his breath.

“What?” Sira turns to him with wide eyes full of concern. “What is it?”

Lykos scrubs at his face, his palm rasping against stubble as he stares at the canvas wall, not daring to meet Sira’s eyes. At first, I think he doesn’t mean to answer, but then he turns to her, his gaze hot as the flame flickering between us.

“You can not mean to fight.” It comes out as a statement, not a question. “If it comes to it—and you know my thoughts on this, my lady, though you disagree—if it comes to a fight, to a battle, you will not be in it.”

“I will not?” The question is soft but heavy with challenge.

Lykos shakes his head, apparently unaware of the danger in her tone, in the sharpness in her eyes that wasn’t there moments before. I hear it though, clear as the warnings from a conch-shell horn before enemies attack.

“No. You will not. You are too important to risk, and despite your… well, you know…” he casts a meaningful glance in my direction, as if there is some secret between them that I am not permitted to know. “Despite that, it is not safe.”

“Is battle safe for anyone?” Sira muses with a frown, her delicate fingers toying with a loose thread on the blanket. She looks between me and Lykos as if expecting an answer. When neither of us give her one, she continues, her expression hardening with firm resolve. “There will not be a battle, not if I can help it. These are my people, Lykos. Even if they fight to defend my sister’s place, I do not wish to kill them. I will not rule over a city of rubble and bones.”

A chill snakes down my spine at her words.

My own sister had said much the same thing, nearly a moon cycle ago, when she had defied my mother and sent birds out calling for aid.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but for once, I am not praying to Potina, that all powerful goddess of life and death, but to Astarte, unpredictable and beautiful Astarte. My friend.

Please, do not let there be war , I murmur. Let your hungry heart be sated, and rest your sword on calm shores .

As if in answer, a memory rushes through me, bursting like water through a dam. A lesson learned not at my mother’s side, but in my first year as an acolyte in Potina’s temple. A story told, like many stories, to explain to the young and stupid why things are the way they are.

“There is a way,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “A way to prevent battle, I mean.”

As soon as the words are out, I regret them. Sira’s eyes widen with hopeful expectation. Lykos watches me warily, his thick brow dipping.

“It… it has been generations since it was done,” I say, reaching up to rub at my throat, my hand finding the double-headed axe pendant resting there. “Perhaps it never was—perhaps it is just a story.”

“What is it?” Sira leans forward.

The move causes her sleeping tunic to slip off one shoulder, exposing smooth, unblemished skin. My eyes track the movement, drinking in the sight of it, all thoughts momentarily scattering like fish before a dolphin.

“Stories have value, don’t they? You told me that.”

I did.

It seems like a lifetime ago that we sat on the rooftop of Potina’s temple, her head against my shoulder, her fingers twined in my own. I had traded her myth and stories and histories for the truth in her heart, for her darkest secrets.

Cheated her, really, like our traders cheat the Acheans in the north when they can.

“They do,” I reply carefully.

Because this story is heavy with truth, and like all truths, is dangerous as a blade. I swallow, casting a nervous glance in Lykos’ direction. He will not like this story, I suspect. But he asked me to give her counsel, and I will not deny her it.

I have denied her too much already.

“A long time ago, when our people had only just begun to trade across the sea, before we learned that the threads of our islands were stronger woven together, it would happen that one kingdom would seek to take over another,” I begin, sitting back on my hands, my voice taking on the sing-song cadence of the priestess, the story-teller. “One day, a younger sister woke up with the hunger of a minas in her blood. She did not dare challenge her older sister for the city, but she had heard of a neighbor. An island with rich soil, where crocus flowers bloomed from the very rocks themselves, where the grapes were sweet and the heifers fat and the craftspeople rich with talent. That island had an old minas, wise but failing, with an eldest daughter barely into womanhood...”

Sira’s lips are parted, her features stark in the flickering lamplight as she listens with rapt attention.

“The would-be-minas gathered up her strongest fighters, women trained for battle at land and men trained for battle at sea, and set sail. Her women were just as hungry as she was to see one of their own at the seat of this rich kingdom, to have a new home where they could be first instead of second or third daughters, where their own daughters would be born into wealth and plenty, instead of servants of their aunts and grandmothers…”

The first time I had heard this story, I had been one of many second or third daughters. Eniocha, the high priestess, had looked over us all closely, as if she could see hunger or rebellion in our very souls. I had stared back at her, my expression as masked as my mother’s when she faces the lawagetas, certain that Eniocha could not see the quiet hunger that clawed behind my ribs. Even more certain that, if she could, she would not understand it.

“They attacked at night, when the moon had set behind the horizon and the starlight was blotted by mist. They moved like water through the streets, their swords wrapped in leather and linen, their feet bare and soft on the stones. They swarmed the city like ants, like bees, spilling through each doorway and filling up each hall, until they found her. The minas. Old and frail and still asleep in her bed.”

Sira gives a hiss of dismay, one hand fluttering to her throat, and I realize with a pang of guilt that she must be thinking of her own mother. Of the powerful Minas Crete, felled by poison instead of the blade, but toppled from power nonetheless.

“Then they began to search for the daughter.”

I pause, letting my words settle over the space between us, like the shadows resting heavy in the far corners of the shelter. The wind whispers outside, like the voices of all those sisters and brothers sneaking through the unnamed city in the story. Only the waves lapping lazily against the hull of the ship remind us that we are here, and not there.

“They found her. Not in her bed, as you would expect. Not even in the main hall of their palace, but in the heart of Potina’s temple. You see, where most women’s cycles come in the early morning, her cycle had come in the middle of the night. It always had, ever since Potina first demanded the first offering of blood from the girl. And so, just as she had every moon cycle since her womanhood began, the daughter had spent the night curled up on the steps of the deep basin set in Potina’s temple, half asleep and ready to offer that first blood to the goddess.”

Sira tips her head in understanding, a sad smile curving her lips, and I know she must be thinking about her time at Potina’s temple. Had the women of Knossos still come to offer their blood to Potina when its halls became empty, when only Sira and perhaps a handful of others were there to care for them? Had she been alone in caring for those women?

“What do you mean, offer first blood?” Lykos asks, his rough voice interrupting the gentle lull of my story. “What rite is this?”

Both Sira and I exchange a look. It is a look between women who know, women who have felt the ache each month and understand the power that flows from their thighs. Women who, with their very bodies, feed Potina’s hunger for life and death and blood in a cycle as endless as the waxing and waning of the moon.

Thankfully for Lykos, it is Sira who speaks, her voice gentle as she reaches out to take one of his hands in her own.

“When our women first come of age, our blood is offered to Potina,” she explains. “There is a basin at the heart of Potina’s temple—a deep well set in stone, like a bath, I suppose, but never filled with water, and made so that several women can sit and rest in comfort as they bleed. That marks their entry into womanhood, though many women go to Potina’s temple after to make an offering, especially if they are seeking that goddess’ blessing to conceive a child, or to protect the soul of a loved one newly dead.”

Lykos rears back his head, horrified. “Your people cut your young women? To offer their blood to Potina?”

Sira blinks at Lykos in confusion. “Cut? What? No, of course not. Why would we…”

“They are already bleeding, Achean,” I say curtly, though I can’t help the smile of amusement curving my lips at this barbarian’s ignorance. “That is the whole point of them making the offering to Potina.”

He looks at me blankly and my grin widens. “Do you truly know nothing of women’s cycles?”

Sira shoots me a warning look, but I wave it away. I am not insulting her chosen. Just teasing him a little. He can take it.

“A woman bleeds each moon cycle when she comes of age,” I explain, sounding a little more patronizing than necessary. “It is the offering Potina demands of each of us in exchange for her power to give life. It is, in a sense, the embodiment of that goddess’ power, a mark of her favor, her very gift manifesting in flesh and blood.”

Lykos’ usually sun kissed complexion takes on a wan look in the lamplight. “Flesh and blood,” he echoes. His throat bobs, and he glances at Sira nervously, as if expecting her to start bleeding out on the spot. “But how…”

“The same way life comes into this world.” Despite my amusement at his expense, I do not smile now. Not when discussing something so sacred. “From her very womb.”

Lykos gapes, looking to Sira for confirmation. She gives him a reassuring smile and squeezes his hand. “It is not dangerous,” she assures him. “Not like childbirth. And though it can be painful, the pain passes.”

“Every moon cycle? This happens every moon cycle? To all women?”

“To most,” I say shortly. “Until the goddess no longer demands it.”

“Zeus’ cock,” Lykos rasps.

I chuckle.

“But what happened?” Sira’s eyes are back on me, open and hungry for knowledge, her hand not releasing Lykos’. “What happened to the first daughter when they found her there.”

Ahh. Yes. The story.

My amusement fades, my stomach tightening.

“She woke up surrounded, deep in Potina’s sacred pit, with the eyes of her enemies peering down at her. Her blood was at her feet already, staining her bare ankles, and so though her enemies swords were drawn, none of them dared to strike. Not in Potina’s temple. Not while she was making that sacred offering to the goddess who held all the threads of their own lives.”

I give a dry, mirthless chuckle.

When I was an acolyte, I had nodded emphatically at this story, sure—based on my very limited experience in the world—that no man or woman alive would have dared to strike down a woman making an offering to Potina. It seemed an immovable rule, as certain as the earth beneath our feet.

Now, I am not so sure. I suspect if Xenodice was the second-daughter in this story, she would have struck that woman down where she stood, until her life blood mixed with the blood of her sacred offering.

“Now, this daughter, she was young, but she was wise. She knew that as soon as her offering to Potina was finished, her life would end. She was one woman, unarmed, against many. She knew her mother was dead, felt the certainty of it in her very bones. She also knew that—beyond the ring of enemies surrounding her—her own people were waiting, ready to protect her or die trying.”

“‘My sister,’ she said, addressing her would-be-assassin. ‘I see by the strength in your arm and the sharpness in your eye you are stronger and wiser than I am. But my people are an old people. They love their traditions and their minas even more. They will fight to protect me and die in the process, and you will find yourself ruling over a city of rubble and bones. Come, let us settle this before the gods, as is right.’”

Sira nods, and I know with a sinking feeling of dread that she is already seeing the parallels in this girl’s position and her own. Perhaps… perhaps it would have been best not to share this story with her.

“The young woman climbed up the steps, her blood offering still marking her footsteps, until she stood before her invaders. ‘Let Potina choose,’ the girl suggested, holding her arms wide. ‘She is the giver and the taker of life, and perhaps her thirst for blood is more than I alone can sate. Let us stand before one another, and one of us or both of us can satisfy her.’”

Beside me, Lykos draws in a sharp breath, and I know that he has understood where this story is going before Sira.

“And so the women fought,” I explain simply.

The version that Eniocha told us was full of flowery descriptions of the battle, of swords moving like vipers and skirts twirling like dancers and words of bravery spoken between the two women. But I have fought and I have killed, and there is no poetry in battle, only pain and fear and sharp, unsatisfying victory. I imagine that is how it really was between the women.

“They fought. Blade against blade, minas against usurper, before hundreds of watching eyes. Before Potina herself.”

Lykos is glaring at me, his amber eyes burning with the promise of violence. I stare boldly back at him. He asked for this. He asked me to give Sira counsel, to give her wisdom. It is not for him to choose what truths I share.

“The young minas was killed, right on the very steps of Potina’s offering basin.”

Sira gasps, her free hand flying to her mouth. “No.”

“But the usurper’s victory was short lived. Her feet were bare, remember, and the steps slick with the young minas’ blood. As she was turning to announce her victory, her foot slipped, and she tumbled down into the pit, falling on the minas’ sword.”

I had always thought this part of the tale to be overly creative and fanciful. A way to emphasize the power of gods over mortals, and the vengefulness of Potina for all who dared to interfere in her sacred offerings.

Now… now I have seen Astarte face Poteiden at sea. I have felt the winds she called up and tasted the rain she brought down.

Telling this story now, I am only surprised that Potina did not do more.

“With their leader fallen, the invaders no longer knew what to do. They dared not fight the villagers, not when to do so would be to defy the very offering made to Potina. The villagers also dared not raise a sword against the invaders. And so the invaders left. Some say Poteiden swallowed up their ships at sea. Others say they returned home and counselled their minas—the usurper’s older sister—to strike a treaty with their neighbors in order to protect themselves against Potina’s wrath.” I shrug. “What is known is that the villagers lived. They selected a new minas from among them. And the story of the minas who protected them with her life was told from generation to generation.”

Lykos’ glower deepens as Sira nods in understanding. “That is the role of a good minas,” Sira agrees. “To protect her people. Of course. It is a good story.”

“It’s a stupid story,” Lykos grumbles. “They both died for nothing. No one won.”

“The people won,” Sira retorts. “They lived.”

“Battle was prevented,” I agree cautiously, “though I wouldn’t say the people won. Not when they lost their leader...”

“Still,” Sira muses, her gaze going distant. “It is an option…”

Lykos scoffs. “It is not an option.” He shoots me another scathing look, then turns a pleading, almost puppyish expression on Sira. “Please, my lady. Please. You cannot seriously be entertaining the thought of challenging your sister. She is a warrior—even we Acheans have heard of her skill with the blade—and worse, she is without honor. She poisoned her own mother. Who is to say what else she would do? I sincerely doubt she would honor an agreement not to attack. You would fall before her sword and then there would be battle anyway.”

I nod, loath to agree with the barbarian, but unable to deny the truth in his words. “He is right,” I concede. “Apologies, sweet Sira, but you cannot learn enough skill with the sword in a handful of days to defeat Xenodice.”

“But I could survive,” Sira whispers, giving Lykos another one of those looks that is heavy with shared secrets. “I could, you know I could.”

He shakes his head. “We don’t know it. Not enough to bargain with your life.”

“What do you mean, you could survive?” I ask carefully, looking between the pair of them.

Sira’s gaze drops to her lap. Lykos works his jaw, the fingers of his free hand drumming against the decking.

“Sira…” I start warningly, then stop.

After everything that has passed between us, I’m in no position to demand secrets from her. And yet, how am I to help her if I don’t know everything?

I sigh, then try again. “I only want to help you, Sira.” I turn to Lykos, barbarian though he is. “You asked me to help her,” I tell him accusingly. “You want me to help her plan how to deal with her allies, how to face her sister. But I can’t do that if there are secrets between us.”

Sira lifts her gaze to meet my own, and it’s as if she is looking into the very depths of me, seeing all my own secrets with a wordless glance. I feel stripped bare, more naked than I was when we lay together in her room that one, blissful day.

“One of Astarte’s servants attacked me—Drania, was her name—when we were crossing along the base of Mount Ida. I fought her as best I could, which wasn’t much, and she knocked my sword out of my hands. She would have killed me, I’m absolutely certain, but then the starry god struck her down.”

Sira gives a breathy laugh, then looks away, color rising to her cheeks, visible even in the dim light.

“It sounds so ridiculous when I say it out loud.” She shakes her head, then continues. “He sent a star from the heavens. A dark, silvery stone that looked like liquid starlight. And Drania was gone.”

Her throat bobs, and she gives me a look full of open vulnerability. “He is… I think he is my sire,” she whispers, as if afraid of being overhead even by the gods themselves. “He came to me in a dream… I think that is why he saved me.”

Something painful twists in my stomach at Sira’s words, fear and sorrow and anger. Not at her. Never, never at her. But at these gods who would make playthings of us all. Who would come and sire their children among mortals and then use them as they please. Because to be a child of the gods is to have the notice of the gods, and only a fool would want that.

“It is the truth,” Lykos rumbles, mistaking my silence for disbelief. “I saw the stone with my own eyes.” He rises to stand, ducking his head to avoid hitting some of the parcels of clothes and goods tied in the framework of the shelter, then starts rummaging through his and Sira’s belongings in the corner. “Here,” he mutters. “Just a moment…”

Sira tracks his movement, a fond smile curving her full lips, then turns back to me. “She wounded me.” Sira presses one hand to the pile of blankets spread over her lap then furrows her brow, looking between me and Lykos. “Actually, I can show you,” she says, half to herself. “It’s not as if you haven’t seen… and anyhow, it doesn’t matter.”

Without warning, she kicks the blankets free, twisting until her long legs are exposed. She is wearing nothing but the sleeping tunic. My breath stutters at the sight of those smooth thighs, the rounded calves, the sweet arches of her feet. “Here.” She pulls the fabric of her tunic aside, until it covers her sex but exposes that smooth flesh all the way to her hipbone. She traces two fingers along a raw, red line that is as thick as my thumb and nearly the same length. “She stabbed me here.”

“Stabbed you?”

The words come out as a pained cry and I’m practically flying forward, crawling on my knees until I’m at Sira’s side, my own hands reaching for that freshly healed wound, then pulling back.

“Goddess help us, she stabbed you?” But of course I can see that she did. The signature of that blade is written plainly on her skin. “I… I will…” My hands tremble, and I fold them in my lap, then grasp the fabric of my skirt, lest I grab Sira instead.

“You will do nothing, Daughter of Thera,” Lykos says, though there’s a hint of approval in his voice. “The traitor is dead.”

The sound of a sword sliding free of a sheath has me drawing back, looking up at him with sharp anticipation, but he is not even looking at me. No, he is looking at Sira, with all the reverence of a man kneeling before a goddess, the blade held out to her like an offering.

“It healed,” Sira says, pulling her tunic down, then clearing her throat. “Thank you, Lykos.”

She takes the blade from him, holding it carefully in her hands, before laying it on the deck between us. I squint at it, trying to understand if the silver color of it is simply a trick of the light.

“That sword wound was dealt to me mere days ago, and it healed,” Sira announces, imparting this information without ceremony, without preamble. “The others too.”

“Others,” I echo weakly, my stomach churning as dark, unwanted images fill my mind.

Sira desperately and bravely fending off her attacker. Sira taking blow after blow, her face contorted in pain. Sira bleeding, alone, with no-one but a cold, starry god to save her.

I drag my hand over my face, calluses rough against my skin.

“Yes, others,” she says, almost sharply. “And yet here I am.” She straightens, drawing back her shoulders, brushing back a stray lock of hair. “Healed. Alive, when many others would not be.”

“When no mortal would be,” Lykos murmurs, though he does not seem particularly pleased by it.

I can’t say I am either. Oh, I’m grateful she is alive. But that does not mean her suffering was any less.

“He spoke to me that night, the god who sired me,” Sira continues, frowning between me and Lykos. “He showed me the stone he gave me forged into this blade…”

She trails her slender fingers along the smooth, flat edge of the silvery blade. The sight has something hot and strange stirring in my blood, my pulse quickening, my heart thundering.

“And he showed me my city. Showed me Knossos and my people.” She lifts her chin, looking every bit the minas. “He told me to take it.”

“And you will,” I agree, the promise bursting from my lips before I can stop it. “It is yours and you will take it.”

I would take it for her, if I could. Would offer it to her just as Lykos offered her that sword moments earlier. Of course, I cannot. But I can make the other minases follow her. I can make them see that she, and she alone, belongs at Knossos.

“You are right, Lykos,” I say breathlessly, excited and no longer caring whether I agree with the barbarian or not. “The other minases do pose a danger—or they did. But this…” I wave my hand in the direction of that eerie looking blade, towards Sira and her story and the blood of a god running in her veins. “They will follow her without question if you tell them this. Show them this. They will believe it.” Or, if they don’t, their people will, which is all that matters. “They would not dare defy the starry god.”

“Do you believe it?” Sira worries her lower lip with her teeth. I have to fight the urge to reach out and pull it free. To press my own lips to it instead. “It hasn’t been confirmed by the Oracle. If it weren’t for the stone and the healing, I would almost think it was just a dream…”

I shake my head vehemently. “No. No, it wasn’t a dream.” I have seen enough these past moon cycles to no longer be surprised at the interference of the gods.

I reach out, covering Sira’s hand with my own.

She gives a sharp intake of breath, her lips parting as she stares at my hand over her own. My own skin is dark compared to hers from so many days spent at sea, and rougher now. I can’t bring myself to feel ashamed of it though. Not when those days at sea were the cost of coming back to her.

“We will get you Knossos,” I say again, surer of it now than ever. “There will be no need for a battle. Not when they see what you are. Not when they understand that the god Asterion himself wishes you to rule.” I lift her hand, holding it in my own, half tempted to pull her onto my lap. Instead, I satisfy myself with dipping my head, pressing my lips to the back of her knuckles. “I will make them see what you are, Sira. And they will fall before you.”

Just like I do.