Page 43 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Sira

“Velchanos,” I gasp, nearly dropping my sword.

There is no mistaking him—beautiful and bold, his gaze fixed imperiously at the distant horizon, full lips downturned. A sea breeze whips the ends of his loose hair, making it dance around his bare shoulders. He shrugs it away, then turns to face me.

I swallow and take a stumbling step backwards. Only, he is not looking at me, but beyond me. As if he doesn’t see me at all. I turn, following his gaze to a nearby island. It’s close enough that I can see the village wrapped around the distant shore, pretty rows of vineyards tucked along the foothills.

“Thera,” he says, that one word dripping with disdain. “You were among the first to house her. And so, you will be the first to fall.”

He raises one hand, and the we’re standing on mountain explodes.

I open my mouth to scream, but I am flying, above the flames and molten earth, above the smoke and falling ash. I watch as ash rains down, falling like the snow falls on Mount Ida.

“Watch,” a mournful voice whispers.

I turn towards it, only to see one lonely bird hovering in the air beside me. A pale pigeon or a dove. Its wings outstretched as it glides on the wind, its dark eyes fixed on the earth below. On a city, bright and beautiful, tucked along a curving bay, the rooftops already coated white with ash.

“Watch,” the bird whispers.

So I do.

I watch, staring in wide-eyed horror as women and men and children run barefoot out of their homes, the doors flung wide, their arms laden with their treasures as they make for the waiting ships in the bay. I am close enough now that I can see their faces, streaked with tears and ash as they cast longing glances over their shoulders. The sound of crying children fills my ears, and the gentle murmurs of men and women seeking to comfort them. My own arms ache to pick them up, to hold them close. To promise them they will be safe. Look , I want to say. The boats will carry you to safety. See, look how strong they are? See those full sails? Nothing can hurt you, I promise .

A familiar face comes into view, and a silent cry catches in my throat. Britomartis . Her jaw is set with the fierce determination I’ve seen when she’s holding her sword, only now she is carrying an elderly woman, so frail her skin looks made of papyrus. Britomartis , I want to scream. Britomartis . But as often occurs in dreams, I have no voice. I am nothing more than wind dancing in the ash.

“Hurry,” a man calls from the docks. “No more than one satchel per person. Our ships cannot handle the weight.”

No one argues. Hardly anyone speaks. Sails fill, ash swirling as ships cut through water, bearing every last person away, Britomartis with them.

“Watch”, the bird tells me again, its song sorrowful as it flies after the departing ships. “Watch.”

I follow it, borne along the currents of wind as if I myself have wings, dipping and rising when the bird does, until we both rest just above the fleet.

It is a strong fleet. A good fleet. The sort that would be impossible to sink, even in the most dangerous storms. I feel an almost overwhelming sense of gratitude watching it, knowing all those people are safe. That even if I cannot reach Britomartis—even if death has separated me from her forever, that she is with her people, and they are safe.

At our backs, the mountain booms, as if whatever it was doing until now was only a prelude, the opening dance at a festival. The air shakes in answer, vibrating through me, striking at my very bones.

“Watch,” the bird repeats, and this time, it sounds like a sob, raw and aching.

I stare in horror as a wave rises and rises and rises, others following it like ripples in a pool. I am too far up to see the faces of those on board the ship, too far up to hear their cries. But I hear the scream of wood breaking beneath the cresting waves. Until all that is left is sea foam.

I scream a soundless scream.

“Watch.”

I glare at the bird through tear blurred eyes, but already she is carrying me forward, onward, islands and ships rushing below me, like debris carried in a raging current.

We are above Knossos now—I recognize it, even from here, every familiar rooftop, the shape of the hills that surround it, the ships in the harbor at Amnisos. My heart leaps at the sight of them too, especially the familiar, awkwardly built Achean ships that I now know belong to Lykos.

“Watch,” the bird rasps.

This time, I don’t need her to tell me what to look for. I see it, looming like a deadly mountain made of the sea. It rushes faster than anything that size has a right to move. It swallows up Amnisos like a serpent eating a mouse. Ships and buildings, even the high pale cliffs.

Everything.

There’s a cracking sound, like the very heart of the earth is being rent in two. For a moment, I think it must be the sound of my own sorrow. Surely, surely a pain this deep would make such a sound. But then the earth moves, rock opening like hungry mouths.

I watch in helpless agony as Knossos, untouched by the ash and waves, turns to rubble.

And then I am back on the mountain top. Alone with Velchanos. The destruction gone, no more than a memory, a vision, a dream within a dream.

Velchanos surveys Thera, his back to me, his gaze fixed on the quiet vineyards and hills and villas, with only a strip of sparkling sea between it and destruction. Above us, the wind whispers, soft and warm in a cloudless sky.

“You will destroy everything,” I gasp.

I don’t expect the words to come out, or for this god to hear them. Which means I stumble back, legs nearly tangling beneath me when he turns around, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly with surprise even as his expression quickly schools itself into one of bored disdain. His gaze tracks from the top of my head to the soles of my feet, his lips curving with disapproval.

“Little mortal,” he rumbles, voice like ash. “I have seen cities rise and fall, have seen gods born and gods forgotten. Do builders weep when they knock an old house down? Do farmers cry when they till their field before the planting? All things must be destroyed if they are to be made great.”

I shake my head.

There is an ache in my throat, a burning behind my eyes, a pressure boring into the center of my chest. Britomartis, lost among her people at sea. Lykos’ ships at Amnisos. Knossos turned to rubble. And my people. My people. My people.

Velchanos smirks, as if my silence is acquiescence. Defeat. “Do you not wish to know what sort of a world I will build, child? Do you not wish to see the great empires that will rise up under my protection? The great kings who will build cities and temples in my name—cities to outshine any you mortals have created before?”

His gaze rakes over me again, this time lingering on the sword in my hand. On the silvery blade, its tip nearly dragging on the rocky earth. His eyes flare with interest and avarice as he steps forward, head cocked to one side, a teasing smile curving his lips.

Perhaps he means for it to be enticing. The sight of it brings back memories of King Atreus, of his hands on me and the way he watched Astarte’s servants. It makes my stomach turn.

“You could rule with me,” he croons, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You are nothing but memories now, a shadow in my mother’s lonely realm. I could return you to that mortal realm you love so much.”

Return you to that mortal realm.

The promise tangles with the ache of longing behind my ribs. I would do anything, anything to be with Britomartis and Lykos again.

“I could make you a god. You could rule at my side. All would bow before you.”

It is like water splashed across my face. I stare up at him, his looming presence, that sharp-edged smile, those eyes like endless dark pits in earth. His smile curling as he gives me words that echo Potina’s.

This is not real. He is not real. Whatever this is, dream or vision, he cannot hurt me. He is trapped in stone. Trapped, and wanting me to free him.

For all his power, it is I who holds the blade.

“You would share your kingdom?” I ask. “This new, glorious kingdom you will create?”

His smile widens, and he dips his head, magnanimous. “With one such as you, I could be persuaded.”

I want to laugh at the bald lie, even as I want to cry.

He holds out his hands and, for the first time, I notice that they are bound together at the wrists by a thick gold thread. I wonder idly if that bond was there before, or if it has only just appeared. If it is, like everything else here, an illusion. A dream.

“But first, you must set me free.”

He says this lightly, with a dimpled smile and a shrug of one large shoulder. As if it is a little matter. As if he could untie the cords himself, or find another to do this for him.

But he cannot.

If there was another, Potina would not have pleaded with me. If there was another, my own sire would not have sent me to my death like a sacrificial offering.

It is me and my sword alone that can give him mercy.

Mercy, or justice.

I adjust my grip on the hilt of my blade, testing the weight of it. It does not feel so unwieldy anymore. Perhaps I have grown used to it. Perhaps death has made me stronger.

Death, or the raw anger pulsing through my veins, hotter than Velchanos’ own fires.

“You seek freedom?” I ask him, my voice level despite the tightness in my chest. I step closer to him, a sweet smile plastered on my face—the same one I used to give Xenodice, when I was still at her mercy. When I knew my survival depended on pleasing her. “You would like me to cut away your bonds?”

Something flashes in his eyes, bright and hot and dark all at once, then quickly shuttered. He nods, that broad smile unfaltering, his bound hands outstretched.

I frown at them, cocking my head with exaggerated bewilderment. “You will need to kneel.” I give a decisive nod. “Yes, kneel. So that I can reach them better.”

His brow dips, his lips parting as if he means to argue, but then the smile returns, forced and placating, and he drops to one knee, his arms outstretched.

“Whatever you need, little mortal.” A faint chuckle, almost nervous sounding. “Though, take care not to cut me. That blade is sharp.”

It is sharp. But not sharper than the pain of watching everyone and everything I love be destroyed at this god’s hands.

“I will do my best,” I promise him, and that at least is the truth. “I am not adept at using the blade,” I tell him, rounding my eyes apologetically. “You must be patient with me if it takes a moment to cut the ropes.”

“Of course,” Velchanos grits out, nostrils flaring in irritation. I doubt he has ever been patient for anyone in his entire existence. But my words have his shoulders relaxing, the wary sharpness of his gaze fading to a bored sort of irritation.

Hands trembling, I lift the blade, holding it with both hands until it is poised right above his bound hands, right above that golden cord. In the sunlight my blade looks almost black, more like the dark stone my sire sent to the earth than starlight. Like the darkness around the stars.

One stroke downwards, and he would be free.

“Please don’t move,” I tell him, worrying my lower lip with my teeth. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Velchanos smirks. “I doubt you could hurt me if you tried, girl.”

“Brace your arms,” I say, ignoring the insult. My skirt brushes my ankles as I toe the rough stones, adjusting my footing. “On the count of three. Ready?”

Velchanos rolls his eyes impatiently, his forearms tensing as he braces, the ropes pulling taut between his wrists.

“Okay. One…”

I lunge forward.

Feet scrabble over loose rocks, arms trembling, shoulders aching with tension as I brace for impact, as I throw myself over his outstretched arms, my eyes fixed on his left pectoral as if it is a target. As if I can still see where Astarte’s arrow pierced the stone statue’s heart.

The blade sinks in deep. As if Velchanos is made of crumbled ash instead of flesh and blood. His eyes widen, an echo of that expression carved onto the stone in Potina’s halls.

No, not an echo, I realize. He is the stone, cold and brittle. Those terrifying eyes fixed unblinkingly on me.

The sky goes dark, sunlight winking out as if some beast has swallowed it. Wind and sea and birds fall silent. Someone screams. The smell of herbs on a brazier, sweet and acrid. Sharp nails against my arms, as if they would pull my arms free. I tighten my grip on my sword, my jaw tensing, my body as taut as a bowstring, trembling. Firelight dances on the walls of Potina’s realm, harsh and erratic.

Stone turns to ash, covering my feet, brushing against the hem of my skirt. I step back, my blade still gripped in my trembling hands, my chest heaving.

Velchanos is gone.

Potina collapses, hands falling into ash, as if that goddess could pull Velchanos from it, remold him. Remake him, in whatever manner it is that the gods make their own. A keening wail echoes against stone walls.

I swallow and lower my blade, my gaze dropping to my arms, marked from Potina’s fingernails, then to the soft ash still dusting the hem of my skirt, the tops of my feet.

“I am sorry,” I rasp, my throat thick. Because a parent’s grief is sacred. Even here. Even now. “I am sorry. I wish it could have been otherwise. But it had to be done.”

Of course, I doubt Potina sees that. Parents are blind to their children’s faults. My mother was blind to Xenodice’s, even at the end.

Potina turns to face me, black eyes burning in an ash-streaked face. “Sorry?” Sharp teeth flash on a bitten-out word. “Sorry? You dare…”

I lower my gaze, eyes stinging at the sight of Potina’s anguish. My heart is thundering too, a wild rhythm, like the footfalls of a frantic animal who knows it cannot escape a predator.

There will be no escaping Potina. Not here, in Potina’s realm.

For some reason, the thought does not frighten me. Britomartis is safe. Lykos is safe. My people are safe. Warmth blooms in my chest at the thought, a sweet echo of that feeling that struck me before, sharp as Astarte’s arrow.

Love , I realize, blinking rapidly, a strange, bitter-sweet smile pulling at my lips. That is love. It burns, this feeling, sharper than any sword wound I’ve taken, and yet if I could, I would do it all over again.

I hold my sword out towards the angry goddess, hilt first. “I am sorry,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “But I do not regret it.”

Potina hisses, robes whispering like snakes as the goddess rises to stand. I can feel breath on my face, damp like the cold earth in caves. Fear scrapes, claws against stone. I squeeze my eyes shut, and focus instead on the gentle warmth glowing behind my ribs, moonlight peeking from behind the clouds. On Britomartis and Lykos, alive and free and safe.

I can feel it, that love, Astarte’s gift. It is a tangible thing, pulling, pulling, pulling . I close my eyes, leaning into it.

“No.” Potina breathes, voice sharp with anguish and rage. “No.”

“Yes,” a familiar voice answers alongside the fluttering of feathered wings.

Sweet. Laughing. Dangerous.

“Yes.”

“Astarte.” Potina says the name like a curse.

The pull behind my ribs squeezes, tightening, drawing me onwards and onwards, pain and bliss tangled into one. My breath stutters, my eyes fly open.

Smoke and ash cloud beneath the flap of wings. Wings become billowing fabric, pale linen against even paler skin, hair glowing like moonlight against the flickering light in the brazier.

“This is not your realm,” Potina argues, the once smooth features contorting into something sharper. “You cannot have her. You cannot take what is mine.”

Astarte smiles, a chillingly beautiful smile.

“She gave her blood to me,” Potina continues. “Willingly, she gave it.”

“She did.” Astarte dips her head in acquiescence, that soft, knowing smile unfaltering. “And what a gift it was.” Her eyes turn to me, pupils eerily stark against blue as pale as the sky at dawn. “Made without greed, without self-interest. With only love and hope. Look at her…” Astarte’s smile widens to something proud, triumphant. “Even now, even in the darkness, she is bright as starlight.”

“We struck a bargain,” Potina argues. “You cannot take her.”

“I cannot,” Astarte agrees. “Just as you cannot hold her.”

“Her blood-”

“Was a gift, Potina. A gift. Given freely, without expectation, without the taint of greed. There was no bargain struck.”

Astarte steps closer, until she is standing between me and that vengeful goddess. Energy vibrates in the space between them, as if an entire storm has been condensed down to a hand breadth and forced into deadly stillness.

I take a tremulous step back, until my back touches the rough stone wall.

Potina’s eyes are wide, the whites visible around darkening irises that seem to swirl and change, purples and blacks, browns and reds, as if made of liquid earth.

“The blood of mortals… it is mine. Just as their souls are mine to weigh and keep.”

“The blood of mortals,” Astarte echoes, drawing slender shoulders back in proud defiance. “And yet Sira has the Starry One’s blood in her veins. And his own blade in her hands.”

Potina lets out a howl at Astarte’s words, sharp teeth flashing, eyes wild.

Astarte merely turns, giving Potina her back as if unconcerned with that goddess’ wrath. She extends one slender hand in my direction, beckoning me to take it.

“Come, Sira. We have spent enough time in these dark halls. Let’s go home.”