Page 42 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Sira

I walk until my feet ache. I walk until even my own name is nothing more than the whisper of a memory. I walk until there is nothing but this weight in my hand and that light ahead, growing steadily brighter.

I walk until I can feel the heat of that light on my skin, until the rough-cast walls of the hallway take shape, twisting and turning. Until they open into a room, empty save for a flickering brazier and a dark stone statue.

“You have come.”

At first, I think it is the statue speaking. I step towards it, my hand hovering over the dark stone for a long moment before I dare trail my fingers across it, tracing the shape of a muscled forearm, a hand outstretched, a delicate arrow imbedded in the center of bare chest.

I have never seen such a realistic carving. I can practically feel the anguish of him beneath my palm.

“He is beautiful, is he not?”

A cloaked figure emerges from the shadow, voice sweet as sun warmed honey, face hidden. I drop my hand from the statue.

“You can touch him,” the voice urges. “Look at him. Have you ever seen a man like him?”

I do not want to turn away from this cloaked newcomer, but there is something in their tone that tells me they are not to be disobeyed either. I offer them a polite smile and look at the statue again.

A strong, imperious brow. Intelligent eyes set over high cheekbones. A hawked nose. He would have a nice mouth, if his lips were curved into a smile rather than a snarl. But whoever made him has carved a warrior not a lover. A fallen warrior—one who seems more surprised than angry at the arrow imbedded in his chest.

He is handsome. But perhaps arrogant too.

“Did you make him?” I ask politely. “It is skilled workmanship. I have never seen anything like it before.”

The stranger jolts as if my words have struck them, a pained, wordless cry escaping invisible lips.

“I am sorry,” I say, though I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for. My gaze drops to the object still clutched in my hand. A sword, I realize, with a flicker of recognition. I have seen this sword before. I stare at it for a long moment, trying, trying, trying to remember… something.

“He is my son.”

There’s sorrow in that admission, but pride too. I find myself looking back up at the cloaked stranger with renewed interest.

“I bore him from the very earth itself,” the stranger continues. “Flesh and fire out of stone.”

The stranger steps forward. Slow, soundless steps, until they are an arm’s length away from me. Until I can make out the shadow of a chin, a full lower lip, red against pale skin.

“And now he is reduced to this.” They throw one pale hand in the direction of the statue. “Velchanos. The mighty god. Powerful no longer.”

“Velchanos,” I echo. I know that name. I have heard it before, somewhere. In some other place. I cock my head, studying the stranger. “What is your name?” I ask them, because there is a familiarity to them too. “Have we met before?”

The red mouth curves, thinning into a close-lipped smile. “In a sense. You have spoken to me many, many times.” The hint of teeth peeks through the lips, white and sharp. “You have asked me for favors, too. Begged for them.” One pale hand stretches out, cool fingertips press against my forehead. It doesn’t even occur to me to flinch back or move away. “Died for them. Remember…”

The word is whisper soft, yet I feel it inside my very skull, pulling behind my eyes, tearing like cloth. I gasp as images fill my vision, rushing over me fast as a river.

Blue monkeys picking flowers. The sickly-sweet smell of poppy smoke. A woman watching me with kohl-lined eyes, her dark hair glinting in lamplight. Rooftops stretch out, as far as the eye can see, a cloudless sky laughing above me. Strong arms wrap around me, shielding me against the cold. Starlight dances, whispering… something. Soft lips press against my own, rough stubble brushes the back of my neck. Yearning burns low in my belly. A blade flies, screaming through air, through fabric and flesh. The taste of metal fills my mouth.

“Potina,” I rasp, stumbling back. “Potina.”

The smile widens, teeth like a shark’s glinting in the flickering light. Fear lances through me.

“Do not fear, child.” Potina’s voice wraps around me, thick and cloying as the smoke rising from the fire. “Am I not the goddess you have prayed to your whole life?”

I nod automatically, though Potina’s words do nothing to soothe the growing sense of unease. It’s the unease of half-forgotten dreams upon waking, the sense that something is missing, something crucial. If I could just remember…

“You asked me to keep your people safe,” Potina continues. “And such a prayer, such a sacrifice.” Potina’s tongue darts out, wetting red lips. “I have tasted few offerings as sweet as that. The blood of the Starry One’s own daughter. And not just any daughter. No...”

Potina reaches out, stroking one hand along the side of my face. Panic swirls behind my ribs, tightening my throat, but my feet remain rooted to the spot.

“The purest. Untouched by greed. Selfless.” Potina makes a hungry, wet sound in the back of their throat. “Delicious. You are absolutely delicious, sweet Sira.”

Sweet Sira .

There was someone else who called me that once. I can feel the echo of her touch, warm and strong. If I could just remember…

“I would give you what you asked,” Potina continues. The gentle cadence of their words is like a lullaby now, dulling the edges of my panic. “I would give you what you asked for, and more.”

Cold hands grip my shoulders, turning me to face the dark stone statue. Pushing me towards it. “Look at him, Sira.” Potina’s voice is raw with sorrow. “Look at what Astarte has done to him. You could set him free. You could make him powerful again.”

Astarte. I know that name too. A goddess. One I never liked, though I can’t quite remember why…

“Me?” My voice wavers with disbelief. “How?”

“I would reward you, you know,” Potina continues, not answering my question. “You could be powerful with him. The world would bow at your feet.”

I blink, my eyes stinging in the smoke as I study the statue. He is powerful, there is no doubt about it. I would be terrified if he turned that look on me.

I don’t want to be powerful. Not like that, anyway.

“Powerful enough to make your people safe forever. All of them. Even those you love.”

Those I love. I scrub at my eyes with my free hand, as if that can clear the haze coating my thoughts like smoke. I loved my mother and sister, but they don’t need me to keep them safe. They are somewhere in Potina’s halls…

“Trust me, Sira.”

These last words are sharp, like an order demanding to be obeyed, clawing with discomfort behind my skull. But sharper still is the pain in my chest, as if I have been struck with the very same arrow as the statue. Every longing I’ve ever had, every kind touch, the warmth of a lover’s embrace, the aching need of passion, swelling gratitude—it rushes through me, hot and fast and whiting out my vision. It’s like staring into the sun, like being swallowed up by starlight, like a lightning bolt sending a tree into flames.

It’s like love and loss wrapped in blissful agony.

It burns away the smoke like dawn burning off the mist rising from the ocean.

I press my palm to my chest and turn to Potina in surprise. My vision sharpens. A sharp gaze lingers on my hand, red lips thinning into a displeased frown.

Astarte . I see the word mouthed silently, angrily on Potina’s lips. Astarte .

Memories rush over me, almost overwhelming with their intensity, spreading through my limbs like a poison tipped arrow. But it is the sweetest poison.

I see Britomartis in the lamplight of my bedchamber at Potina’s temple, her eyes wide as I had opened my soul up to her, handing even my most precious secrets to her as if they were nothing…

Why did you tell me this, Sira? she had said then. Why trust me with this truth? It had been foolish to trust her—but it had been right, too. Sweet Sira , she had called me, and brought an army to defend my people.

To defend me , a little voice in my heart whispers. She did it for me .

The memories flow, like water over rocks in a flood, until there is no holding them back.

I see Lykos grinning through the haze of blue-lily wine as he led me from Knossos. Lykos leaping through the air, wild as a wolf as he threw himself at his brother. As he slew the man who meant to steal me from my home.

Then Lykos kneeling before me, a silver blade in his hands, held out like an offering.

The same blade that is still gripped in my hands. A blade forged from a fallen star, bathed in my enemy’s blood.

Trust your own judgement . Lykos’ words burn through me like blue lily wine. Trust your eyes and ears. Trust the sword in your hand .

I tighten my grip around the pommel of my sword. Astraea , the starry god had called it.

Trust me , Potina had said. And yet, looking at those lips thinned with anger, at those shoulders trembling like an earthquake beneath a shapeless cloak—I find I do not.

“Where is my mother?” I ask, studying Potina. “Where is my sister?”

In all the stories, it is our loved ones who come to greet us in Potina’s great halls, who guide our souls through the labyrinth of the underworld. “Why seek my help with this-” I wave my sword in the direction of the stone Velchanos, and Potina flinches “-when I am just a mortal soul, wandering your halls?”

All the while, that ache in the center of my chest is spreading, blooming into something warm and strong, like the golden cords of sunlight tethering me to something bigger than myself. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine that I feel them through it. Lykos and Britomartis. They dance like sunbeams before my vision, impossible to grasp.

But I wish I could.

“I am just a mortal,” I repeat bitterly, because the walls of Potina’s realm are like another cage, locking me away from freedom. From Lykos and Britomarits. From love. “Why involve me in your quarrel with Astarte?”

“You are the daughter of Asterion,” Potina answers smoothly. “You are not an ordinary mortal.”

I snort at that. Not an ordinary mortal. True, the blood of a god runs in my veins, but that can be said of many, according to the stories. I am nothing if not ordinary.

If I was not an ordinary mortal, I would not be dead.

The only thing un-ordinary about me is the sword in my hand, and that is not mine, not really. It is the gift of a god, thrown down from the heavens when I was proving myself so incredibly ordinary, I could hardly keep myself alive.

Yet that same god did not act when I faced Xenodice. And that same god is silent now.

“Asterion,” I whisper. A question. A prayer. An answer to a question I have not yet asked.

Only silence answers.

I bite the inside of my cheek, my mind racing as I turn my attention to the blade in my hand. It is bright, even here, cold and sharp as starlight. Clean too, as if Xenodice’s blood never tainted it. Strike now , that starry god had said—but only after she had dealt the killing blow. Never before.

He wanted me to die.

The realization washes over me, sending ice to my fingertips, making my breath stutter. He wanted me here. In Potina’s realm, with Astraea at my side.

But why?

I consider Velchanos, cast in stone, that arrow lodged in the center of his chest. Astarte’s arrow, if what Potina says is true.

I rub the ache between my ribs. Is that what I felt just moments earlier? Like I was sand turning to glass beneath a forge, remade into something beautiful, even if it was only to be shattered to pieces at the end. Was that Astarte’s gift? And why now, when I am here, and Lykos and Britomartis are there, separated from me forever?

My eyes burn, my throat tight as I stare at Velchanos’ stone face. I would give anything to be with them again. But I gave everything to Potina. For my people. For them . And I am here. Alone. A piece in a game for the gods.

My jaw tightens. I might have nothing left to give, but I can take. And I can see justice done, here in the darkness. Whatever that justice might be.

“What is your quarrel with Astarte?” I muse, studying Velchanos’ perfect features, the even teeth flashing behind a snarl, the strong brow dipping, the widening eyes. “And what did you do for her gift to turn you to stone?”

The stone doesn’t answer. Neither does Potina. And this time, there is no starry god whispering to me either.

But I can feel it. A whisper of truth vibrating around me.

It is the same feeling I had when I first saw Britomartis, when I knew I could trust her with my secrets, with my heart. The same feeling I had when I strode up to Lykos and his men, and demanded his pledge. A knowing.

“Astarte’s gifts cannot be stolen,” I murmur.

Potina lets out a hiss of dismay, a keening whimper that I wouldn’t have thought a goddess could make. Truth , that sound screams. Louder than any of Potina’s whispered lies.

The warmth behind my ribs is growing now, becoming a tangible thing. Not just a thread, but a rope. Like the kind tied to an anchor stone. Only this isn’t holding me down, it’s lifting me up. As if I could become one of Astarte’s birds and fly towards the sun. To freedom. To Britomartis and Lykos.

“He tried to steal her gift, didn’t he?” I ask, turning finally to Potina.

Potina lifts a pale hand to a reddening throat, as if that will stop the raw sob escaping.

“He took, and he paid the price,” I continue, my voice soft. It is a guess, but it tastes like truth on my lips.

“He is my son,” Potina cries, stepping forward, those pale hands outstretched, palms up. I flinch at the sight of them, at the long fingers and longer nails. At the deathly pallor. “You don’t understand…”

I stiffen at Potina’s words. At the way the accusation echoes Xenodice’s own words to me. Foolish Sira. Sheltered Sira. You don’t understand the way the world works.

But I know what it is to have something taken from you. I know what it is to see someone else rise up from the ashes of your misery. I know what it is to love and love and love—and have nothing but loneliness in the end.

“He took, and he paid the price,” I murmur to myself, turning back to Velchanos. “But was it enough?”

It is no small feat to give Potina my back, but I have nothing left to lose. I reach up, pressing my palm to the side of Velchanos’ face. Like I might have done to my brother, when he returned from sea. Like I have done to Lykos. It’s an intimate gesture and I don’t know why I do it, except that, in this moment, it feels right.

“Have you suffered enough, Velchanos?” I whisper, stretching up to my tiptoes to stare into his unblinking eyes. “Has your debt been paid?”

If it has, I will free him, if that is something I can do. I do not intend to be a piece in whatever game it is the gods are playing, but I won’t refuse to act out of spite, either.

Justice. I can bring justice. Like I did to Xenodice.

I’m not sure what I am expecting. Silence, most likely. Perhaps some whispered truth, carried across from my sire’s starry realm to whatever stony depths I’m trapped in. Perhaps that feeling of rightness that I am finally learning to trust.

I do not expect light. A burst of feeling, a rush, like I’m falling, flying, being thrown overboard on a ship in a storm. Like I’m drowning.

And then I’m standing under blazing sunlight on the top of a mountain, with the sea stretching out around me.

And I am not alone.