Page 38 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)
Sira
“Welcome home, sister. May Potina’s blessings be upon you.”
Xenodice rises from her throne, opening her arms in greeting. Her smile is all sweetness and complaisance, as if I am a beloved sister returning from a journey, and not a rival with an army at my back.
“But I see the gods have already blessed you,” she continues, turning her saccharine smile on Lykos. “Giving you a handsome Achean in pledge. That is a surprise, I admit.”
Silk slippers whisper against stone as she makes her way towards me.
“I had not thought men to your taste.”
She pauses, fixing me with a look that is sharp as the blade sheathed at her side.
“But then, I hadn’t thought betrayal was to your taste either. For what else can be meant by filling the harbor at Amnisos with ships and marching upon Knossos like an invading army? So, it looks as if you’re full of surprises, baby sister.”
Murmurs rise up from the lawagetas milling about in the main hall, whispers and exclamations like waves against the shore.
Britomartis grumbles something under her breath to my right, and I feel Lykos’ arm brush against mine as he reaches for his blade, but doesn’t draw it. I ignore them all, and keep my eyes on her, even as I want to crumble beneath the violence of her scowl, like sand beneath the waves.
But I am not sand. I am born of starlight. I carry a blade forged from a fallen star at my side.
“I come here not as your sister, but as the voice of our sisters of Crete, of Thera, of Kos and all the other sacred islands the gods have given us.”
My voice trembles, even though I have practiced this all last night with Britomartis in the shelter on my brother’s ship. Even now, I can smell the burning oil of the lamp mingling with her sweet scent. The memory of it steadies me, lulling some of my fear like the rocking of the ships I have grown to tolerate.
“I come here with representatives of the Minas Phaistos, the Minas Malia, the Minas Zakros, the Minas Galatas, the Minas Kastri…” I pause, glancing to where Britomartis stands sentry at my right. “And the Minas Thera.”
I square my shoulders and lift my chin, conscious of the weight of the headdress threatening to topple sideways, and the cold jewels strung around my neck, and the ornate skirts thick and heavy on my waist.
All borrowed from Britomartis.
It is no wonder my mother hardly smiled, if she had to wear this every day.
She should be here still , I think to myself. It should be her standing on that dais and not Xenodice .
That thought has something bitter and hot rising up, and I feel the last of my uncertainty melt away with it. Xenodice stole my mother. She stole the life I should have had. A life of sweetness and soft baby skin, of children’s laughter and the tender embraces of my nieces and nephews. A life where I could have taken Britomartis as a lover with no thought of alliances or pledges or ships.
A life without the weight of a star-made blade at my side.
“You are charged with the murder of our mother, Eos, and our sister Hemera. You are charged with breaking the oath made with the leaders of our sacred islands, and of trading copper ore to our enemies in the north.”
I dare not look at Lykos as I say this, but there is no ignoring the male voices murmuring in dissatisfaction from the back of the hall. Lykos’ men, presumably.
“There is the blood of our family and the blood of our people on your hands.”
My voice does not tremble now. Instead, there is a steadying heat rising up in me, coursing through my limbs, tingling at the tips of my fingers. It’s the same heat I felt when I faced Drania, when I lifted my sword above my head to fend off her own beneath the starlit sky.
“You have been charged, Xenodice. Before the women of Knossos, before our allies, before the gods themselves. How do you answer?”
If Xenodice feels anything but disgust at my words, it does not show on her face. She stands, looming over us all, cold as a statue, her eyes burning like embers as she stares at me.
Around us, the lawagetas murmur amongst each other. I can’t look at them, nor at the priestesses silently observing the proceedings with the watchfulness of poisonous serpents. They know. They must know.
Or, if they don’t know, they have been content to pretend to be blind so they could profit.
“And if I deny it?” Xenodice’s voice is smooth as honey. “What then? Will you seek to use force to take what you think is yours?”
She holds her hands out, palms up, as if she is one of the goddesses painted on our frescos receiving offerings. “You, who speaks of the blood of our people, would you spill their blood yourself to take this throne?”
My throat bobs. I had expected this answer.
She will not fight you , Britomartis had promised as we sailed from Fodele to Amnisos. Only a mad woman would attempt to fight against a force such as yours.
And if she does, we will crush her , Lykos had insisted. We will wash the rot from Knossos with blood, until only those who are loyal to you remain.
But they do not know my sister as I do. And they do not love my people as I do.
I press my lips together and dare a glance around the room. At the old mothers and grandmothers who once served my mother. At the priestesses with their swaying headdresses and painted faces. At the stone-faced guards, their eyes bright behind expressions unreadable as masks.
I could do it, I realize with icy certainty. I could clear this great hall like a tidal wave. I could gut Knossos and make it into something new. Something better. Something mine.
My fingers wrap around the hilt of my blade, as if I mean to cut them all down myself. And maybe I do.
No.
The word is whisper soft, like the flickering of starlight just after the sun has set.
No.
I still, my lips parting in recognition. It is his voice. Or rather, the echo of it. But, faint as it is, it is unmistakable.
And then I see them, just as I did in my dream that night. A wild flash of images that toss and spin like stars across the sky. The round-faced children, smiling and laughing as they run through Knossos’ streets. The wide-eyed girls stepping barefooted into Potina’s temple, their hands clasped with their mothers as they prepare to offer their sacred blood to that goddess for the first time. The grinning boys as they watch the ships come in to harbor, eyes sparkling at the promise of danger and adventure and glory that awaits them.
My people. Mine.
These women might be my enemies. They might wish me dead or, at the very least, somewhere far from these shores. But they are the mothers and grandmothers and aunts of my people. Their threads are connected, just as surely as the life-thread that connects babe to mother, just as intricately as the threads woven in a loom.
If I cut them down, all of Knossos will fall with them.
“No,” I say, my voice echoing against stone. “No. My quarrel is not with them.”
I turn, looking meaningfully at the faces surrounding us, noting those I recognize. Old Khepri, with her daughter Naunet. The high priestess of Potina’s temple, with the round Malia at her side. The acolyte Theana, who led Atreus into the shadows so that I could escape with Inanna and Lykos. Old Aletheia, leaning on a wooden cane, surrounded by her hordes of daughters.
“They are my people. Their blood belongs to Potina, and is hers alone to take as she wills.” I shift my grip on my blade, wishing it felt more familiar. “I have come to bring justice to you, and you alone.”
My words are met with a murmur of approval, but my sister’s lips curve into a smirk. “Then you had better have stayed at sea. I will not step down for some third daughter who comes marching in here, spouting false accusations. I am the Minas Crete.”
“The gods will decide that.”
My fingers tighten around the hilt of my blade as the memory of that starry god’s words whisper against my skin.
Use it. Call it Astraea, for that is the name I would have given you. It will be your blade, just as you will be mine. And we will see justice done.
The sword sings as it slides from its sheath. To my left, I hear Lykos give a choked sound of dismay. My chest squeezes, but I don’t dare look at him. I keep my eyes fixed on Xenodice, my cheeks burning as the hall around us erupts with whispers.
“What is that?”
“I’ve never seen a metal like that before.”
“Potina have mercy.”
“I’ve seen that before.”
It’s an old man speaking, his face so weathered it looks like leather left in the sun. He stands close to one of the old lawagetas, his words loud but directed at her alone.
“One of the Egyptian pharaohs to the south had one. He said it was made from the shards of fallen stars, collected in some distant desert. A Sah-sword, he had called it.”
“This is Astraea,” I say, my voice hard as Potina’s axe. “Forged from a star cast down by the god Asterion himself. I am not here as a third daughter, nor as a challenger for your throne, but as the daughter of the Starry One…”
“Lies,” Xenodice spits out, then turns to point an accusing finger at Britomartis. “This is your doing, I take it, daughter of Thera. First you bring that pale foreigner before me, and claim she is Astarte reborn. Now you have poisoned my own sister with this madness. As if I was not there the day she was born. As if I have not seen her grow up, as ordinary as any mortal could possibly be!” My sister throws her hands up in mock exasperation. “How many more false goddesses must we endure?”
“I am not a goddess…” I start.
“It is the truth,” Inanna interrupts, surging forward with Asil at her side. “I saw the stone for myself. Drania, one of my acolytes, attacked Sira and the starry one himself sent the stone to protect her.”
Inanna turns, addressing the lawagetas, the other priestesses, the ever-growing crowd. “That god struck Drania down. Killed her instantly, in violent retribution for daring to attack his own.”
“I also saw it,” Lykos agrees, his northern accent more noticeable than before. “And I myself had that stone forged into a blade.”
The murmurs of the crowd rise in a deafening crescendo, echoing off the stone pillars, making the pale fires dance furiously in the braziers.
I lift my sword, small and light and silver above my head. I pray my hand doesn’t tremble. The chatter of the crowd recedes, like the sea drawing towards an incoming wave. I take a deep breath.
“I challenge you, Xenodice. Face me, blade to blade, and see whose truth the gods favor. I do not seek your throne, but justice. For my sister. For my mother. For my people.”
And for me , that dark god-voice murmurs. I will have my justice too .
But I ignore him, because, as vicious as Xenodice is, I do not know what harm my sister could have done to a god. And I am not certain I want a god whispering in my ear anymore.
“You... challenge me?”
Incredulity washes over my sister’s features as she blinks at me in surprise and then—in the first genuine show of emotion I’ve seen since we arrived—she laughs. A real, full-bodied laugh that has her teeth flashing white from behind red painted lips. She presses one hand to her stomach, the move making rings and golden bangles glitter merrily.
“My little sister who cried when the doulos killed a rat in the kitchens? My little sister who shied away from weapons and clung to our mother’s skirts at the mere mention of training to fight? The girl who spent all her days weaving at her loom or playing hide-and-chase with young children? You challenge me?!”
Her shoulders shake with laughter as she reaches up to dab at her eyes with her fingertips, taking care not to smear the kohl. My cheeks heat, because there is truth in all her words.
Her laughter fades, a sharp, predatory look stealing over her features, making her look like a creature carved from stone rather than a flesh and blood woman.
“Have you really come before me with an army, just so that you can die on my blade?”
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry, my heart thundering so loudly in my ears I can scarcely hear the ragged draw of my own breath. Unbidden, my gaze flits over to old Aletheia. Where do you stand when the storm comes? she had asked. Here , I want to tell her. I stand here .
Even if it may very well be the last thing I do.
“No,” I rasp, though even I can hear the uncertainty in my voice. I lower my sword until the sharp tip is pointing at the smooth tiles between me and her. “I have come before you with an army so that all can see justice done. So that when I wash the stains you have left on Knossos, all will see that it is as the gods have willed it.”
Even if I have to wash away the stains with my own blood.
Yes , the starry god whispers, sending a shiver up my spine. But it’s reassuring too, that cold voice, like starlight in darkness.
I smile, but I don’t think it is a friendly smile.
Xenodice’s expression hardens, her gaze never leaving mine as she holds one hand out expectantly to the guard closest to her. The guard draws her own sword, handing it hilt-first to Xenodice’s waiting palm.
“Before the gods.” Xenodice’s voice is cold as Poteiden's lightless depths. “I am ready.”
The crowd moves back, parting like water, pressing up against the walls of the great hall until there is nothing between me and my sister but worn paving stones.
I don’t dare to look at Britomartis or Lykos. Don’t dare to see the disappointment and hurt on their faces.
“As am I,” I reply.
Xenodice moves like a cat, prowling more than walking towards me, not even bothering to lift her sword until she is within striking distance.
And then she strikes.
Without warning, without a word. Only the flash in her eyes betrays her, giving me just enough time to steady my own hand and brace for the attack.
Metal sings as I parry that first blow and then the next. It is nothing like sparring with Britomartis. She had warned me of that when we trained the day after the minases had arrived. It is one thing to fight like this, and another thing entirely to fight someone who wants to kill you. They will not hold back. It will be faster. Harder...
Pain shoots up my arm as I fend off Xenodice’s strikes, my muscles protesting. I tighten my grip, jaw clenching as I lift to meet her blade.
This time, I am not fast enough. The sharp tip grazes my forearm, just enough to draw blood before I manage to block her. The crowd hisses. A few people cheer. Xenodice smirks, her lips as red as the blood pooling angrily on my skin.
It will heal , I remind myself. I can take it .
The next hit comes harder, barely missing my shoulder. I grunt beneath the weight of it, beneath muscle and skill that so clearly outranks my own.
“She’s not even attempting to attack,” I hear someone murmur.
“It’s like watching a heifer be led to the altar,” another comments.
My stomach tightens, a sharp, sickening twinge low in my belly that has a hot ache spreading to my lower back, down the backs of my thighs. A familiar pain that has nothing to do with nerves.
Not now , I plead silently, please, please, not now . Of all the times that I could receive Potina’s blessing…
Hissing in irritation, I swing my blade to meet Xenodice’s attack, then stumble back in shock when her blade snaps in two. The sharp point nearly spears my sandalled toes as it falls to the tiles with a clatter. Xenodice stares wide-eyed at it, at me, at my silver blade poised to strike and her own bronze weapon nothing more than a stump.
“Strike now!” There is no mistaking Lykos’ voice from the stunned silence of the crowd. “Strike, Sira!”
“Silence, Lykos,” Britomartis chides, but there’s a waver of uncertainty in her voice. “None but the gods themselves can interfere in this.”
“Then let them interfere,” he retorts hotly. “Why do they hesitate now? They have been happy to interfere in everything else.”
I lower my blade.
Arm aching, chest heaving, I stare at her, at the older sister I used to follow hopefully around the palace. The older sister who would dress me up like a doll when it suited her, then dismiss me when she was bored of me. She had often smiled at me. I remember holding her hand once when we walked to the cliffs at Amnisos.
I stare at her until the world around us seems to slow, to fade to quiet. Until there is only the two of us standing face to face, Xenodice unarmed and frozen and me with Astraea shining and ready to strike.
But I find I cannot.
Yes , the starry voice hums in approval. Wait .
“She has her mother’s sense of honor,” a woman complains loudly, though I don’t dare take my eyes off Xenodice to see who it is.
“A blade!” Xenodice’s voice is shrill as she casts the broken blade to the stones. “Will no one give me a blade?”
She turns to glare at the group of guards clustered along the wall. The guards whisper amongst each other, glancing nervously between the pair of us before one of them rushes forward with a new sword.
“This better be higher quality than the last,” she hisses, making the guard duck her head.
All the while, the pain in my stomach intensifies, sharp and hot and sickening. I swallow back the familiar sense of nausea that always accompanies my monthly bleeding. Why now? I ask, pleading with any deity who will listen. Why now?
“You always were a fool, Sira,” Xenodice murmurs, cocking her head and eyeing me with a mixture of disgust and bemused interest. “Our mother thought so too, you know. Don’t bother Sira with that , she would say, She wouldn’t understand… ”
Xenodice adjusts her grip on the sword, then gives me a condescending smile.
“It’s why I arranged that match with Atreus for you. You’re the sort of person who needs someone to tell you what to do.”
Slickness coats my thighs, my blood slipping from my body. I squeeze my thighs together and grind my teeth, but I can just as easily stop my bleeding as I could stop the tide coming in to a rising moon.
It always was like this for me. The first time it happened, I’d barely made it to my mother before I’d fallen ill. I’d had to lean on her as I’d climbed down into that sacred basin, and had stared in horror at the bloodied footsteps marking my path through Potina’s temple.
A blessing , the old priestess had said, giving me poppy seed and wiping my brow. Potina’s greatest blessing of all.
It had not felt like a blessing then. It certainly does not feel like one now.
Xenodice’s first strike aims low, a thrust more than anything else. I step aside, my skirt whispering against the stone, my own sword sweeping down to brush the strike aside.
“She is struck,” someone says. “Look at the blood.”
“No, she blocked it.”
“But her ankles, look at her ankles.”
“I’m telling you, there is no wound.”
Xenodice swings her blade down. I bring my own up to block it, grunting under the impact, panting. She strikes again, before I can even draw breath, another thrust that has me spinning back, my feet nearly slipping out from under me as I dodge the blow.
“She’s bleeding,” a voice cries out. “There’s blood all over the stone.”
“It’s her sacred blood,” another murmurs. “Potina’s offering…”
“They should stop,” someone rasps, their voice quavering with age. “Do the young not remember the story of the bleeding minas…”
Xenodice’s strikes come fast and furious now, like rain pelting the rooftops of Knossos in a storm. I gasp as I strain to block them, my arms trembling. I remember feeling like this before, in the dark starlit night when Drania attacked me. The helplessness. The loneliness.
The stings on my arms and legs join with the ache in my stomach, until new blood mingles with the red footprints staining the stone tiles beneath my feet.
When Xenodice’s second blade breaks, I am so exhausted, I couldn’t deliver a killing strike even if I wanted to.
“Sira!” Lykos’ voice seems far away now, like it’s echoing from the depths of Potina’s timeless halls. “Strike, Sira. For me, please! Strike!”
The words sound more like a sob than a rallying cry. This time, Britomartis does not silence him.
It’s alright , I want to tell him. It’s going to be alright .
But I don’t have the strength to speak, not when I’m drawing in ragged, desperate breaths. And then Xenodice is on me again in a moment, a third blade cutting through the space between us like a vengeful storm. Cutting through linen and gold thread and flesh and bone.
I gasp at the feel of it, at the punching pain that has my vision whiting out and the sound of the watching crowd roaring like waves in my ears. I look down, my own sword going limp at my side as I stare at the blade imbedded in the middle of my chest. Dark bleeds out around it, staining the linen tunic I’d borrowed from Britomartis.
I will have to get her a new one…
My gaze drops to my feet, to where blood pools around my ankles, the sacred mixing with the mundane.
Potina will take it all in the end.
I am going to die.
The thought passes by like a ship in the distance. I turn, searching the crowd for Britomartis and Lykos. I’m sorry , I want to say. I should have listened to you. I don’t want to leave you. But I cannot find them. Not when the world around me is blurring and spinning.
So I look at Xenodice instead. At my sister.
“Potina take this offering,” I murmur, blinking as Xenodice’s features bleed like paint dropped in water. “I give it to you freely.” Though, I would much rather have not given it. But what else am I to do with it, if not give it to her?
There is something wet on my face, on my lips. Blood or tears, I do not know. I think of starlight and birds, of sitting beside Britomartis on the rooftop, of that first moment I trailed my fingers over the stubble on Lykos’ cheek.
Someone is crying. They sound like I did when my mother died, when we laid her bones beside my sister’s. That sound, it pulls like a thread linked to my very soul.
“Potina, take this offering,” I repeat, though I’m not sure if the words are forming on my lips now. “Protect my people.”
And she will. She has to. Or I will find her in the halls of her own underworld and make her.
The light coming through the windows is fading, casting the hall in darkness. Xenodice smiles, stepping forward, her grip firm on the blade imbedded in my chest as she brings her forehead to my own. Something hot and liquid fills my throat, coating my tongue with metal.
“You have died for nothing, foolish child,” she murmurs, her voice a low whisper intended only for my ears. “There are no gods to hear your prayers. Only the strong to take what the weak will give them. And only darkness to greet you at the end.”
It is dark now. Darker than the night I faced Drania, because now there are no stars. But I can still see Xenodice, her dark eyes stark against her skin, the red of her lips redder even than the blood beneath our feet. And I can still feel my sword, an ominous weight in my ice cold fingers.
Strike her down , that starlit voice orders. Take what is yours. Justice-bringer. Astraea. Brighter than the dawn. Strike her down .
The blade trembles in my tightening grip. There is nothing but me and her now. Me and her and that cold voice and the blade in my hand…
“They will not survive the night, your lovers,” Xenodice whispers, her breath honey sweet as it ghosts against my cheek. “And I will cleanse the city of all who ever supported you…”
Strike her down , the voice roars. Now .
So I do.