Page 4 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)
Sira
“I won’t tell anyone. I swear it, my lady.”
I press the packet into her palms, her hands bony and leathery as I wrap my own around them. “I know,” I reply, my voice hushed. I pause, listening for footsteps. Any moment now and Malia will call out for me. “But this is the last time.”
I said that last time, and yet here old Aletheia stands, two moon cycles later. Predictable as the movements of the stars themselves.
“Of course. Of course.” Her head bobs in acquiescence, hair that is more white than black falling in graceful curls over her forehead, small metal ornaments tinkling with the movement. “My granddaughters thank you.”
I bite back a smile. She has twenty of them, as I recall. I doubt a single one of them knows the name of their benefactor. Which is as it should be.
Aletheia tucks the packet of silphium seed into the linen bag strung around her waist, then reaches up, two fingers lightly stroking the side of my cheek, eyes clouded with age staring up at me with unnerving intensity.
“A storm is coming,” Aletheia rasps. “A storm. A darkness to swallow up the sun and stars. A wind to fell even the strongest tree and topple the proudest mountain.” Her throat bobs, lower lip trembling. The hand against my cheek trembles too, then drops to her side. “The gods are waking, my lady. They were asleep, but they wake. And where will you stand when the storm comes?”
A shiver races down my spine.
“Where will you stand, my lady?” she asks when I don’t answer.
Here . The answer dances across my lips, blazing itself on my heart like the fire burning in one of Potina’s braziers. I was born here, and—goddess willing—one day, in the very distant future, my bones will rest beneath Knossos, next to my mother and sister.
The sound of wood scraping against stone echoes down the corridor, followed by the hum of voices at the entrance. “Someone is coming,” I hiss, ducking my head to press my check against Aletheia’s. “Potina’s blessing go with you.”
Aletheia gives me a sharp parting look, squeezing my hands between her own before shuffling to the back door of Potina’s great hall. I let her go—she knows her way as well as any acolyte. She served here once, when my own grandmother was but a girl. She had been a third daughter then too, like me. But the gods had other plans for her.
I stand, ready to face the censure of Malia or the high priestess or one of the guards. Relief rushes through me at the sight of a woman I’ve never seen before. A stranger, dressed as finely as any lawagetas—as a minas, even, with the coils of gold around her wrists and arms, and beads singing laughingly at the hems of her layered skirt as she walks. I would think she was a minas, visiting from a distant city, were it not for the double-headed axe resting on a long chain between her breasts.
Potina’s axe.
I reach up, subconsciously fingering my own. The pendant that marks me as a servant to our greatest goddess, however reluctant a servant I may be.
The stranger doesn’t see me. Instead, she stares intently at our soot-covered frescoes. Crocus flowers picked by monkeys among rocky outcrops, a cloudless sky overhead. The stranger reaches out, swiping soot from the frescoes, examining her now darkened fingertips as if she’s never seen dirt before. Or, more likely, as if she can’t imagine the halls of whatever temple she serves at being so dirty. So neglected.
I wrinkle my nose in distaste and square my shoulders. This is my city. My temple, though I am only an acolyte. Her temple is probably teeming with acolytes like me, with third-daughters hungry for any sort of acclaim. Desperate to serve the high-priestess and her first acolyte. Desperate to serve the goddess.
Here, there is only me. Invisible to all of Knossos. And, apparently, invisible to this stranger as well.
“I always hated this painting,” I say, tossing a lock of tangled hair back from my shoulder.
The stranger turns, kohl-lined eyes round with surprise, lips parted. The faintest flush paints her cheeks, highlighting high cheekbones and a proud, straight nose. One brow lifts, and for a brief moment I think she is going to chide me for startling her. To chase me from Potina’s great hall, as Malia would have.
Instead, her gaze sharpens, a blade that seems to cut through the smoke from the braziers, through my rumpled linen and uncombed hair.
To me.
My breath catches, something jolting behind my ribs with the violence of one of Astarte’s arrows. I look away, staring unseeingly at the offending frescoes, my heart thundering.
“Too many monkeys,” I ramble, hardly knowing what I’m saying, but desperate to put some words between us. To hold them up like a shield. “Not enough flowers.”
The stranger laughs, the sound rougher than I would have expected from someone so elegant. My ears burn, and for a brief moment I wish Potina herself would crack open the stones beneath my feet and let her dark underworld swallow me whole.
“The monkeys symbolize death...” she says, and there’s a hint of condescension in her voice that has my spine straightening, nostrils flaring. Young though I may be, I am not some simple acolyte, some third daughter of a third daughter, some doulos seeking a better life. Fallen though I may be, the blood of a minas runs in my veins.
“…Playful, wild, sometimes cruel, and always completely unpredictable. The crocus flower symbolizes eternal life, a flower reborn from the same bulb time and time again, undefeated by its harvest.”
“Death can sometimes be predicted,” I retort, anger at my own embarrassment making me speak when I should stay silent. I think of my mother. Of my eldest sister. Of their bones beneath Knossos. Of me, trapped here, behind these forgotten walls. And Xenodice now on the throne. “And a careless harvest can destroy the bulb.”
The stranger blinks in surprise, curiosity and interest flaring in her dark eyes. “What is your name, girl?” she asks.
The shame that has been rising in me since this woman stepped into Potina’s temple blazes like a dancing flame. Girl. I am no girl. I am a woman grown, stepping into my nineteenth winter.
“Sira,” I grit out, trying to sound imperious rather than petulant, and falling short.
“Sira?” The stranger flinches, as if I’ve struck her, rather than offered her my name. “The youngest sister of the Minas Crete?”
I lift my chin. Xenodice. Her name is Xenodice. She is not my minas . I don’t say that though. Not to this woman, this stranger, when I don’t know where her alliances lay. Instead, I say, “ Her only living sister.”
The stranger shudders, a look of understanding flashing in her expression. “It is an honor to meet you,” she says, tilting her head reluctantly, as if she is as unaccustomed to bowing as I am. “I am Britomartis, second daughter to the Minas Thera and first acolyte to Potina’s high priestess at Akrotiri. I was surprised to find you missing from the celebration a few days ago.”
Britomartis .
Panic jolts through me at her name, and I quickly school my features, my mind racing as I go over every word I’ve spoken to her since she arrived.
“So, your brother will be pledged to my sister,” I say carefully, giving the stranger—Britomartis—a bland smile. The smile I learned at my mother’s side. “Please extend my congratulations.”
“Why don’t you offer them yourself?” she asks, daring the one question that none has asked in twelve moon cycles. Where is Sira? Why isn’t she at Knossos by her sister’s side? Why is she locked away in Potina’s temple, cast lower than a doulos?
Not a single friend or ally has asked this question, has sought me out, has spoken for me.
That one question, from this stranger’s lips, it tells me everything. I gape at her, unable to answer.
“Sira? Sira?” Malia calls out from behind me, her voice like metal scraping against stone. “What are you doing out here? You’re not supposed to leave the inner rooms.”
I shudder, chancing a glance in Britomartis’ direction, before turning to greet Malia with a placid smile. “We have a guest, Malia. Would you have me leave the daughter of the Minas Thera waiting?”
I shouldn’t feel so gleeful at the look of panic that flashes over Malia’s ruddy cheeks.
“The daughter of the Minas Thera?” She looks from me to Britomartis, the latter standing as elegant and immovable as a statue of Potina herself. “Do you mean Britomartis? Why did you not fetch me? Why didn’t anyone warn me? Goddess above, we don’t have anything prepared…”
“It’s of little matter,” Britomartis interjects, cutting through Malia’s rambling as efficiently as a bronze blade. “I only came to see the temple. I know the high priestess is away.” Britomartis’ lip curls in distaste as she mentions our high priestess, and hope flutters like a caged messenger dove behind my ribs. Everyone loves the high priestess, or at least pretends to. But I have seen her whip paint the spine of many a young acolyte, turning flesh red as the crocuses on these walls.
“Oh.” Malia rubs her hands together, the flush never leaving her rounded cheeks. “Well, I’m Malia. First acolyte to the high priestess here in Knossos…” she trails off, looking to me for guidance. Because, despite the fact that she has been content to play my jailor, even she knows that she is ill-qualified to play hostess to the daughter of a minas.
“The rooftop is fine this time of day,” I tell Malia, eager to be out of the bowels of this temple. To at least see the city that I miss. “Why don’t you offer her to join us for the midday meal?”
“Of course. Something to eat.” Malia nods, shooting me a grateful smile, then darting off down the hallway, muttering something about insufficient provisions before leaving me alone with Britomartis.
Britomartis, who steps close to my side the moment Malia leaves us, filling my nostrils with the scent of pomegranate and honey. My head spins, as if I’ve just downed a full glass of blue lily wine at one of my mother’s festivals.
“Come.” The word punches out of me, harsh in the small space between us. I don’t dare look at her now, not while my blood is running hot as Velchanos’ own flames, not while my heart is thundering like Poteiden’s waves in a storm. “I’ll show you to the rooftop. We can talk there.”
Britomartis hums her acquiescence, her footsteps surprisingly soft as she follows me through the unlit halls of Potina’s temple. I try not to see the temple through her eyes, try not to see the empty rooms with threadbare mattresses, the grime coated hallway, the chipped walls and fading frescoes. I try not to see it, and yet shame hangs over this place like a shroud. I feel the weight of it on my skin.
“Where is everyone?” Britomartis whispers.
I throw her a wary look over my shoulder, conscious that Malia is only down the corridor. Listening, probably, even in the midst of her panicked preparations for our honored guest. I nod meaningfully to the nearby stairs. “We can speak on the rooftop,” I say carefully. “The air is cleaner there.”
Which is a gross understatement, considering the air near the kitchen smells like rancid olive oil and rot.
Britomartis purses her lips, clearly unaccustomed to waiting for an answer. Still, she must understand the importance of my request, because she follows me to the rooftop without complaint.
“Well,” she says, settling herself on a low cushion before one of the rooftop tables. “Where is everyone?” She frowns momentarily at her seat, then at the sun-bleached table before her, then up at me. “How is it that Potina’s temple has become so…” she waves one hand, indicating to the tired-looking rooftop. To the empty tables and worn cushions, strewn haphazardly across stone tiles. To the notable absence of life in a temple that should be overflowing with the sounds of chatter, of song and dance, of sword and shield clashing among cheers of encouragement and laughter.
A solitary dove coos in the distance, a mournful sound that no one answers.
Anger stirs, the shame I felt earlier slipping off me like a forgotten cloak. I sink to the seat beside Britomartis and fix her with a glare.
“With respect, Britomartis, your brother is pledged to my sister. Surely you must know the answer to your question.” After all, she has come here from my sister’s halls at Knossos. She would have seen what has become of the women who served Potina, of the servants of every other god and goddess worshiped in this city.
She rears back, blinking in surprise, then shakes her head. “I am not one to ask questions I already know the answer to. And we have only been in Crete for a handful of days. The last time I was here, your mother ruled.”
My heart aches at the mention of my mother, even as my mind races to recall this woman’s visit. Had I seen her then, when I was but a girl at my mother’s side? Or had I been busy playing, my arms full of the lawagetas’ fat-limbed children, basking in sunshine and childish smiles?
“Potina’s temple was an example of beauty and wealth when I last visited. Trust me when I say, I know embarrassingly little about your sister, or the politics of Knossos since she took power.” Britomartis’ cheeks darken at this admission of ignorance, and she lifts her chin, as if daring me to criticize it. I suppose, for someone like her, for a first acolyte, for a woman trusted enough to escort her betrothed brother across the sea, ignorance is a rare annoyance.
Not so for me. A forgotten third daughter, blinded by these stone walls, with only the whispers of birds and old women to keep me informed. Perhaps that is why I believe her, why I can feel the longing to trust her, to lean on her, growing within me like some pernicious vine.
“Truthfully?” I whisper. Can I be blamed for leaning toward her, just a little? Close enough to catch the scent of honey and pomegranate, to see the flecks of new-forged bronze in her brown eyes. “You are not here at my sister’s request? You truly know nothing of the changes my sister has made since she took power?”
“I swear it,” she murmurs, pressing one hand to her chest, to the pendant displayed there. The mark of her allegiance to our most powerful goddess. “On Potina’s axe.”
Hope twists, frantic as a bird caught in a snare.
Where will you stand when the storm comes? Alethia had asked. Perhaps this is the storm she spoke of. Perhaps the gods have finally woken enough to hear my prayers, and sent me this daughter of Thera. And now it is on me to take the leap, to prove my bravery and faith, like the heroes in the myths of old.
I worry my lower lip with my teeth, then cast a nervous glance towards the stairwell, half expecting Malia to be standing there, disapproval written over her features. But she is still below, and I will hear her coming well before she can see us or hear us. Those stairs have always proven difficult for her.
“I hope I am not a fool to trust you,” I murmur, staring down at my lap. At my hands clasped to hide their trembling. “Because how I can still trust a servant of Potina after everything is a mystery for the gods.”
I dare a glance back up at Britomartis, at this powerful woman who has dropped into my cage, looking as free as the wild seas I imagine dancing beyond Knossos’ rooftops. As sharp and dangerous as a freshly made blade.
“But I trust you. Gods only know why, but I do.”
I take a deep breath, gathering up my courage in the mild midday air of Knossos. “This is not a temple, but a prison.” I swallow, pressing one hand to my chest, as if I cannot believe the words have escaped me. And yet, now that they are out, I find I cannot stop the rest. “I am sister to the Minas Crete, but I am her prisoner here. The high priestess who served under my mother is gone, and the woman in her place—she is nothing but a jailor, and a puppet for my sister. The women of this temple who once served the people, now they serve the Minas Crete. They work as her guards in the palace and city. They do her bidding. No one tends Potina’s fires anymore, or the sacred basins, except me.”
Britomartis shakes her head, eyes widening with unmasked horror. “And what about the people? Where do they come when they need Potina’s guidance? When their dead need buried?”
I pause, pressing my lips together as I think of how many moon cycles I’ve been here without any companion save for Malia. Of how many tasks I’ve been forced to undertake alone. Of the people of Knossos who used to come to this temple for help, and then stopped when they understood the servants of Potina could no longer serve them as that goddess intended. Except for those brave or desperate few, like Aletheia, seeking silphium seeds for their living daughters, or a blessing for their dead.
“You have seen the state of this temple,” I tell her flatly. “If the building is so untended, what makes you think the people of Knossos fare any better?”
Britomartis takes a shuddering breath, anger and disbelief flaring in her eyes. She rises to her feet, one hand grasping the blade at her side, as if she means to wield it against the force that created this wrong, as if she is Potina’s axe itself, ready to restore the balance.
Fear sluices through me, and I grasp her hand, pulling her back down. “She can’t know I have told you this. You can’t tell her. Please, Britomartis.”
I can feel Britomartis’ strength, raw and vibrating through her. Can feel her callused palms beneath my fingertips—calluses earned, no doubt, through hours with the sword and shield and bow. She is the sort of woman who could lead warriors to battle, who women would fight beside and fall for. I do not doubt she could face Xenodice, were Xenodice a foe to be defeated with blade and bronze.
And yet her hand is gentle in my own, despite my bruising grip, and she fixes me with a soft, almost indulgent look as she obediently settles back to her seat.
“Your secret is safe with me,” she rasps, expression twisting into something I don’t quite understand. She doesn’t release my hand though, clasping it possessively in her own, like one would hold a new-fledged bird fallen from a nest. “I will give you my silence.”
Relief surges through me at her words, warmth coiling low in my belly at the feel of her hand around mine, at the sound of her steady breathing, at her knees nudging my own beneath the table.
“But this cannot continue,” she adds, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. My eyes dip and linger, and for the briefest moment, I find myself wondering what those teeth and lips would feel like on my skin. “I can at least speak to my brother. Perhaps he can convince the Minas Crete…”
“No.” I cut her off, the one word sounding harsher than I intend. “No. Please. I know you mean well, but the goddess herself couldn’t convince my sister of anything.” And a man—handsome though Kitanetos is rumored to be—would be as capable of leading my sister as a mouse leading a snake. “Trust me. She would let her own people starve before relinquishing her own whims and desires. She would sacrifice her own sisters at the altar of her ambition.”
I swallow, glancing at the open stairwell, conscious of how dangerous uttering these truths could be. But I have to be brave. “She already has,” I whisper, unleashing my most coveted secret.
It is a dangerous thing to do. I know this. The only reason I still live is that Xenodice believes me ignorant of her machinations. A child beneath her notice. A foolish girl, spoiled but obedient. Easily led.
“I have put together a little feast for us.” Malia’s voice rings out from the stairwell, and I drop Britomartis’ hands, sliding back so that our knees no longer touch beneath the table, schooling my expression into a mask of complacent disinterest.
“Some fresh bread and dried fruit. And cheese!” Malia adds this last bit with all the exuberance of a mother announcing a feast day. As if the meagre offerings she brings are not an embarrassment to such an honored guest as Britomartis.
Britomartis accepts the food with all the grace befitting a daughter of a minas. I pick at my food, ashamed of the bland bread and dry fruit that is at least a season too old, even if it is not my doing. All the while, Malia rambles, speaking incessantly about everything from crops to the number of births to gossip about who is bedding who, which lawagetas are receiving pledges, and what gifts those great women are demanding from their suitors.
Anger burns behind my ribs, a familiar sensation that has my throat tightening, my mind wandering. Memories that I would rather forget surging forth like rogue waves from the deep. Ready to drag me down.
As if sensing the dark turn of my thoughts, Britomartis’ knee nudges mine beneath the table, a soft but unmistakably intentional pressure.
I stiffen, blinking at her in silent question, nerves fluttering low in my belly. I try to ignore the feeling—I have been mistaken before. Interpreted solidarity and friendship as something more. As want, when it was only me who wanted. And though no one has ever been offended, there is something deeply embarrassing in having ones’ loneliness laid bare.
Britomartis offers me a small smile, the faintest of blushes rising on those high cheekbones, painted lips parting. Her chin dips, an almost imperceptible movement. Is it a silent answer to my unasked question? A ‘ yes, I feel this too ’?
Heart racing, I hold her eyes with my own, an unbidden sigh escaping my lips as I tentatively press my knee against her own.
Her expression softens, her shoulders slumping as if in relief, as if she was just as terrified as me. But that cannot be. Not with a woman like her, bold and graceful and powerful. Her hand clasps my own, possessive and sure and erasing any lingering doubts. I let out a silent gasp of surprise, then squeeze her hand back, reveling in the feel of her beneath my fingertips, her warmth and strength.
“…I heard that Naunet had seven different offers…”
I flinch at the sound of Malia’s voice, even though the woman hasn’t stopped talking since she sat at the table with us.
“But so far she hasn’t accepted any of them.” Malia shoves another piece of bread in her mouth. “She says it’s because none of them had enough to bring, but Caria says it’s really because Naunet’s mother has mismanaged their holdings, and the family is worried they can’t support more than four pledges.”
Malia looks down at the platter between us, falling momentarily silent as she focuses on piling fruit and cheese onto a piece of bread. I hardly care, can barely think of anything. Because Britomartis’ knee is pressed against my own. Because her hand is holding my own.
Her eyes lift, meeting my own, flashing with a fire and hunger that matches my own. Bright with a promise that she won’t be able to keep. Not when my every move is watched. Not with the walls of this temple keeping me in. And yet I want it. I want her.
Goddess help me, I want her.