Page 44 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Britomartis

I have never passed a longer night and yet, when the first tendrils of dawn snake through the high lattice windows, I cannot help but feel that day has come too quickly.

I blink blearily at the two shadowed forms stretched out on the stone platform.

I had hoped.

When Adrienne had promised to guide Sira out of Potina’s underworld, I had hoped. I had almost believed that she was capable of it.

Hope is a dangerous thing. Beautiful, like a flame, but it leaves you nothing but ash in the end.

Lykos starts beside me, his head coming up from where it was resting on my shoulder as he dozed. The move has him clipping my jaw with the top of his head. I rub at my cheek before turning to give him a half-hearted reprimand.

“Shh,” he hisses, silencing me before more than a syllable can leave my lips. “I heard something.”

I freeze, turning to follow his gaze to where Sira and Adrienne lay, my words, my breath catching in my throat.

A rasping intake of breath whispers over the silence, followed by a shuddering exhale. In the grey dawn light, a chest rises and falls, rises and falls.

No. Not just one chest. Two. Two.

A cry bursts out of me, harsh and uncontrolled as stones tossed against cliffs by the waves. I leap to my feet, the sword I’d unbelted in the night clattering to the temple stones. I’m flying, falling, scrambling to Sira’s side.

“Sira!”

The word comes out on a tight breath, tasting of salt and metal. I’m trembling, like an olive tree caught in a storm, every muscle in my body pulled taut as a bowstring.

“Sira!”

Long lashes flutter, translucent eyelids quivering, full lips opening, drawing in breath. A choked sob escapes my throat, sharp as an arrow pulled free of a wound, but sweet, so sweet.

“Sira.”

My cheeks are damp, tears flowing unchecked now, dropping onto the cold stone platform. Lykos is at my side, shoulder pressed against my own, tense as a warrior preparing for battle.

Sira’s eyes open and meet my own. Lykos wraps an arm around me, keeping me upright. I lean against him, grateful for his warmth.

“Welcome back, little bird.” His voice is thick with emotion, but at least he can speak. I can only gasp for breath between wracking sobs and swipe at my face and frown at the streaks of kohl darkening the backs of my hands. “I knew you would come back to us.”

Sira’s lips curve into a smile at his words as she gives him a look that is gentle and indulgent. As if she can see every fear and doubt he has borne.

My stomach tightens.

I had hoped, but never believed. Not really.

Sira turns to me, lifting one icy hand to the side of my face as she swipes at my tears with her thumb, her wise eyes searching my own. It’s the same way she looked at me, that first day I met her. As if I can still give her the answers she seeks. As if I am somehow fit to guide her, when it is she who has gone to Potina’s underworld and emerged victorious.

I didn’t deserve her then, and I don’t deserve her now. But, by all the gods, I want her. With every fragile thread in my mortal body. With every unknown secret of my immortal soul.

“I came back for you,” she whispers through lips that are cracked and dry. She looks between me and Lykos, as if we are the center of her world. As if there is only the three of us. “I could feel you, even in Potina’s underworld.”

She rises to her elbows, and Lykos scrambles beside her, wrapping his thick arms around her, lifting her to sit. Sira blinks hazily in the dim room of Potina’s temple, her face paling as she recognizes where she is. A temple that was once her prison, I realize, with sinking dread. And this room—how many days and nights did she spend in this room, dressing the dead, offering up prayers on their behalf?

At the other end of the stone platform, Adrienne has already risen, grinning sharply at her fretting men, at Asterion’s grumbled censure of her actions, at my brother’s pleas to never, never do that again.

She turns to look at me, and her smile softens. See , that smile seems to say, I told you I would bring her back .

I blink back a renewed burst of tears, hating the unfamiliar burn of them, the helpless ache stretching behind my ribs. I don’t deserve Adrienne either, don’t deserve her unfailing friendship.

I dip my head in her direction, in silent thanks. It is not enough, of course. Not for a goddess, certainly. Not for a friend who has saved my life.

Who risked her own soul to bring me back the woman I love.

“Astarte showed me the way,” Sira continues, her forehead falling against my shoulder, as if the effort of keeping it up is still too much. “But it was you who guided me home. You and Lykos.” Her breath skates across my collarbone, warm, but not warm enough. “Bonds of blood and bonds of heart,” she murmurs, as if reciting some sacred incantation. “You brought me home.”

Lykos presses a kiss to the top of her head, eyes bright and damp as he catches my gaze with his own. There is so much we need to tell her. So much still to do.

There are the minases and their armies waiting in the palace at Knossos. There are Xenodice’s guards and the lawagetas who supported her. There are Lykos’ men waiting in the harbor at Amnisos, feral barbarians hungry for bloodshed. There is Astarte herself—Adrienne she might be in my mind, but she is a goddess nonetheless. And she must be appeased.

I squeeze my eyes shut and draw in a shuddering breath, hating the scent of dried blood and death that lingers in this place, that coats Sira’s sweet scent until it is barely discernible. That is what we will deal with first, I decide, straightening my shoulders and gently pressing Sira into Lykos’ waiting arms. I swipe the last of my tears from my face.

“Let’s get you out of this place,” I tell Sira firmly. “Let’s get you someplace where you can bathe and rest and eat.”

We end up in the living quarters of Potina’s temple, despite my suggestion that we leave this place. A place that must bear so many sad memories for my Sira. In the end, it had been Lykos who had spoken sense.

“If you think those sallow-faced lawagetas will welcome Sira with open arms and then let her rest, you are mistaken. The moment she steps into that great hall at Knossos, she must be ready as if for battle. Not, perhaps, a battle by sword, but a battle of wills and wit and politics. I will not have her face them barely able to stand and coated in blood.”

“I don’t mind,” Sira had said, taking my hand in her own. “I promise, Britomartis, I can handle it.”

The look I had given her had been enough to silence her, to have her agreeing with Lykos’ plan of rest.

Sira’s room is smaller than I remember, its four walls sparse, with only the barest number of essential belongings placed carefully around. My blood warms when I see the bed, the covers still thrown back, as if Sira had forgotten to make it the night she left, and no one has been in here since to see to it.

I had tasted her on that bed, and felt her tighten around my fingers and tremble beneath my touch. I lick my lips, almost expecting the taste of her to linger there, after all these moon cycles—and then instantly berate myself for my ill-timed desire.

“Where are the bathing chambers?” Lykos asks, brow dipping as he surveys Sira’s room. “Did you not have your own?”

Sira shakes her head. “I shared the bathing chambers with the other acolytes.”

Lykos harrumph’s his disapproval and lifts a brow in my direction as if to say ‘did you know she was living like this?’ I give him a grim nod in return, because of course I did. Her lack of proper accommodations is the most forgivable of all the wrongs done to her.

“We could use the high priestess’ rooms instead,” I suggest half-heartedly, but Sira shakes her head.

“I told Astarte and her men to use that room. It has a bigger bed.” Sira’s eyes spark with mischief despite the dark circles rimming them. “And it is only fitting that the high priestess’ bed be anointed by that goddess, rather than any other resident here.”

Lykos chuckles at that and I shake my head, biting back a smile. There are perhaps many who would be honored to have Astarte and her four lovers so bless their private chambers, but I suspect the high priestess here at Knossos is not one of them.

“Show me where the common baths are then,” Lykos says, gently wrapping an arm around Sira’s shoulders, guiding her to the door. “And I will help you bathe.”

Heat flushes through me at his words, at the thought of him undressing her. Of her sliding naked into hot water. I stand rooted to the spot, my cheeks burning with shame at the thought, at the inexplicable burst of lust at such a time. She is exhausted, injured, coated in blood from her battle with Xenodice. I should not be so full of want.

Perhaps it is because I nearly lost her.

“Will you not join us?” Sira’s tentative question strikes me from my reverie. “You could bathe too, if you want.”

I should protest, should make some excuse and leave her alone with Lykos. With someone who is not hungering after her.

I nod, my mouth dry and follow her from the room.