Page 39 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Britomartis

I have never hesitated in battle. Even when that Achean was bearing down on me with the force of a winter storm, even when the death cries of my people were echoing around me, and Adrienne lay unconscious at my back—even then I had fought.

“Do something!” Lykos’ cries crack like lightning against the uproar of the crowd, his fingers bruising my arm. “Do something!”

That cannot be her blood on the tiles.

Xenodice moves like a serpent, graceful and deadly, bringing her forehead to rest against Sira’s. Like two sisters locked in an embrace. Only Sira is barely standing, her shoulders slumped and body swaying

Xenodice’s lips move, but I cannot hear the words.

Someone is screaming, a bellowing roar that shakes the stones beneath my feet. Not Lykos, because I can hear the rasping of his breath and the cracking of barely contained sobs. No, it is an inhuman sound, like the very foundations of this great city are being rent apart. The earth trembles.

But Sira and Xenodice stay still, unmoving as twin trees in the eye of a storm.

And then Sira moves. Her body snaps straight, like a bowstring pulled taut, her sword arm moving so fast, I don’t realize what’s happened at first. Not until I see the look of wide-eyed disbelief contorting Xenodice’s features. Not until I see Xenodice stumble back, red blooming against white linen, Sira’s otherworldly blade sunk deep.

Sira doesn’t release it, not even when Xenodice drops to her knees. She grips that blade as if it is the only think keeping her on her feet. As if it is the only thing tethering her to this world.

And then she pulls it free.

Xenodice crumples, lifeless on the blood-stained stone. The room falls silent, a heavy sound, like a wave pulling back, readying to crash against the shore. Sira gives Xenodice her back, turning to face the watching crowd.

Facing me.

The room erupts in screams, in cries and shouts. For a brief, exhilarating moment, I can see Sira’s victory spread out before me, can see her ascend the dais and take her place as Minas Crete, can see her embraced by her people, safe and loved and powerful.

She has won, she has won, she has won.

But then I see the blade. Her blood-stained tunic. Her face paler than sun-bleached linen. The red at her lips as they move, her words inaudible.

Her eyes find my own, and something in her relaxes, her battle stance softening with relief, a broken smile curving her lips. Safe . I see the shape of the word, even if I cannot hear it. Safe .

Lykos gets to her first. My own feet slip on blood-soaked tiles as I reach for her, but Lykos is already wrapping her in his embrace, lowering her carefully to his lap, his cloak spilling over them both like a shield.

“Sira.”

He says her name like a desperate man seeking the blessings from a god, the sound cracking out of his chest as if it will break him in two.

“Sira.”

Her hands are wet with blood and I cover them with my own. They’re cold. Colder than the hilt of that starlit sword she’s still grasping. Colder than Poteiden’s fathomless depths.

I have felt that cold before, more times than I can count as I readied the dead for their journey to Potina’s realm.

“No,” I rasp, in protest to the truth before me. “No.”

She blinks, one slow, unseeing blink, then fixes her gaze on the soot-stained ceiling above us.

Lykos lets out a raw, guttural sound that echoes the silent scream burrowing deep within my chest. The crowd pulses and moves around us, never close enough to touch but hungry as a tide reaching for the cliffs. I hold onto Sira’s hands, as if I can anchor myself to her. As if I can follow her to Potina’s realm.

“Move!” A familiar voice rents the rising din, like the booming of war drums in battle. “Out of my way. That’s my sister!”

The air crackles, the scent of petrichor filling the dusky hall. Light surges, like lightning bursting in a storm, like moonlight rising from behind the waves. The sunlight streaming through the windows seems to dim in contrast. Someone screams.

“Goddess have mercy.”

“It’s her. She’s alive.”

“Astarte.”

“Forgive us, my lady. Forgive us.”

Vaguely, I’m aware of spears clattering to stone, fabric rustling as men and women drop to their knees, whimpers of fear and gasps of awe.

And then she is beside me. Adrienne. My friend. My closest friend. Glowing like the moon, looking like she did that night she faced the ketos, only with gentle agony painted on her features.

“Brita,” she murmurs, wrapping one slender arm around my shoulders. “Oh, Brita.”

My shoulders are shaking, I realize, my cheeks damp and hot as I stare beseechingly into her face.

“Do something,” I demand, as if she is still that strange girl my brother pulled from the sea and not a goddess. “Do something.”

“Jadi!” Asterion roars, dropping to his knees on the other side of Sira. He pauses to glare furiously between me and Lykos before pressing his fingers to the bloodstained fabric of Sira’s tunic. “Jadi!”

“I am here.” The Death Bringer’s voice is low and deadly as he drops to his lover’s side. “Easy, love. I am here.”

He reaches out to place his hands over Asterion’s, pushing mine aside in the process. He pulls the broken blade from her chest, bringing forth a slow trickle of blood. I open my mouth to protest, then freeze when light erupts around us, hot and sweet, tangling around Sira, seeking out her open wounds.

The light—it’s coming from Jadikira’s palms.

Adrienne’s hold on me tightens. Asterion stills, his dark gaze fixed with unwavering intensity on his sister, on Jadikira’s hands against her chest. Lykos stares wide-eyed between the trio of strangers, rage and sorrow etched so deeply on his features, I hardly recognize him.

“What are you doing?” he growls, baring his teeth at Jadikira, then Asterion and Adrienne. “Don’t touch her.”

“Silence,” Jadikira murmurs, his attention fixed on Sira’s wound.

“Easy.”

Asterion clasps Lykos on the shoulder, his thick brow dipping as his eyes move from Lykos’ tear-stained face to his bare chest. To the fresh scar written on his skin. The mark of his pledge. Asterion’s expression softens, something like sorrow and understanding flashing in his dark eyes. “He will help her, if he can.”

“If anyone can save her, Jadi can.”

I breathe a sigh of relief at the sound of my brother’s voice, at the familiar shape of him as he sinks down to my other side. The relief quickly turns to horror at the sight of his face.

The whole left side is marred with an angry scar, from his temple to his throat. Kit gives my look of horror a mirthless smile, and trails two scarred fingers along his cheek.

“Jadi saved me from this. Trust me Brita, if he can save her, he will.”

“Please.” Lykos’ voice cracks over a whispered sob. “Please.”

I should speak. Should offer some assurances to him, this barbarian who has pledged himself so fully to my Sira. But my words lodge in my throat, sharp and bitter.

Light pours out from beneath Jadikira’s palms but blood coats his fingers. Sira’s chest is motionless beneath his ministrations. No pulse flutters at her too-pale throat. No breath stirs from those blood-stained lips.

I wait and watch, full of wild hope, believing in the possibility of the impossible. Expecting at any moment for Sira’s eyes to open, for her to draw in a breath.

Jadikira’s light fades, like the sun slipping behind the horizon.

“I… I cannot.” Jadikira’s voice is thick with sorrow as he turns to look at Asterion. “My love. My love. I can’t. She’s… I am sorry.”

Asterion stares at Jadikira for a long moment, disbelief written over every harsh line.

Then the great Bull of Crete crumples.