Page 47 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Lykos

It turns out my little bird is a fierce bird-of-prey, not a dove.

I had long suspected she had claws, ever since that first moment I met her, when she drunkenly confessed her plans to kill my brother. But even I had underestimated what she would do to protect those she loves.

“We beg your forgiveness, my lady.” Potina’s high priestess kneels at Sira’s feet, her shoulders shaking as if the weight of her obeisance is a physical thing—one she is unaccustomed to bearing. “We did not know.”

Beside her, the other women murmur their agreement, faces downturned, palms up in supplication. We did not , they agree. We swear it. By Potina. On our mother’s bones .

It was less than a moment’s work to see Sira ascend the dais in the great hall of Knossos, to have her people calling out ‘long live the Minas Crete’. Even the most divisive lawagetas, even those who grew rich under Xenodice’s rule and had gathered at midday with the sole intention of fighting one another for power—even they had fallen to their knees at the sight of Sira stepping through that high doorway, risen from the dead with the goddess Astarte glowing at her back.

Sira’s face grows unaccountably sad as she stares down at the kneeling priestesses, at the elaborate headdresses bobbing towards her knees and the sweeping grandeur of the embroidered skirts against stone still stained with blood.

I try not to look at those tiles. At the proof that, only yesterday, I believed that Sira was lost to me forever.

Today, she walked across those same tiles to take her throne.

“You knew.” Sira says this with a sigh, as if it is a fact that even the smallest child knows. She presses one hand to her heart, the other tightening on the hilt of her sword. “I can see my mother and sister’s blood on your hands, the stain of poison on your fingers, the very guilt on your soul.”

A shudder runs through Potina’s high priestess at Sira’s words, but her dark eyes flash with rage as she lifts her head, holding the headdress with one hand as she rises to stand. “You don’t know what you are saying-”

Sira lifts one hand, demanding silence. One of the other women—Diktynna’s high priestess—pulls her companion down, urging her to bite back her words. Potina’s high priestess trembles with rage. Or, perhaps it is fear. After all, this woman saw Sira die just like the rest of us. And here she stands, the conqueror of death itself. A mortal that even Potina could not hold.

“I know,” Sira repeats.

My skin heats at the power in her voice, sweet and calm as it is. At the way her words thunder through my very bones, as if they were made of metal and not air.

“I have seen into your hearts, into your deeds, just as the god who sired me sees the acts of all who move under cover of darkness. I know. And I am not here to offer you mercy, but judgment.”

A dark thrill runs through me at her words. This is my purpose, she had explained as we had trotted along the sun-drenched streets of Knossos, I understand it now. This is the gift my sire has given me. Truth—I can see truth, clear as starlight burning through the night . I always could, I think. I just didn’t know to look for it. She’d paused then, giving me a meaningful look, then added: I just had to learn to trust myself first.

“You have wronged our people,” Sira continues. “You, who are meant to serve the gods and the people of Knossos, you served your own interests instead. You grew fat as our children grew hungry. You denied our women silphium, that sacred seed gifted by Appaliuna himself. You left women to cry out in childbirth, without prayers or poppy milk to ease their pain. You placed the dead below ground without the proper songs to guide them. Do you deny it?”

Two of the priestesses are weeping now. The third, Potina’s high priestess, stares at Sira with a face contorted with rage and pale as blanched papyrus. But even she does not argue the truth in Sira’s words. How can she, under the knowing eyes of the lawagetas and their daughters? When all here have seen the effects of these women’s deeds?

“What would you have me do with them?” Sira asks the watching crowd. Many of the lawagetas were complicit too, I suspect, if this court is anything like King Atreus’ court back in Mycenae. “Would you have me show them mercy?”

The lawagetas turn to each other with wide-eyed whispers, none daring to speak up. Several of them smile, but they are nervous, fearful smiles.

“Should they pay for their wrongs with blood?”

There are no smiles now.

It is as if the entire hall full of people has stopped breathing. It is the silence of a wave pulling back, just before it crashes. The blade in Sira’s hand seems to glint hungrily, as if it is a living thing that thirsts for vengeance.

No one answers.

Sira narrows her eyes, scanning the crowd, as if searching for a familiar face she expects to be hidden there. She must find it, because her eyes lights up, a gentle smile of recognition curving her lips.

“Aletheia,” she breathes, and the crowd parts, fabric rustling and feet scuffling, bodies pressing against the stone walls until an old woman stands alone. “I thought I would find you here.”

The old woman dips her chin, her hunched shoulders offering the barest of bows. A wooden staff is clutched in one gnarled hand, its dull thud, thud, thud , echoing off the stone tiles as she hobbles towards Sira. It is a slow procession, her breaths growing labored as she crosses the room. Surprise and awe bloom as she approaches, at the sight of the thin skin on the back of her hands, the age-spots spread across her face and neck and those eyes, grey and unseeing but glittering with intelligence.

She must be the oldest person I have ever seen.

“Grandmother,” the lawagetas closest to her murmur as she passes. A few brave ones reach out to trail hopeful fingertips on the edge of her skirt, on the strands of loose white hair trailing down her back, looks of reverence written on their faces.

Asterion sidles up to me, his breath hot against my cheek as he bends to whisper in my ear. “That is old Aletheia,” he explains. “She has twenty granddaughters and fifty great-grandchildren.”

I nod in understanding, a lump forming in my throat as my attention returns to Sira, drawn like a flower following the sun. Clever, clever Sira. To draw out the one person in the crowd who is akin to the mother of Knossos herself.

“Wise mother.” Sira steps down from her dais, brushing past the kneeling priestesses to clasp Aletheia’s hands in her own.

“Child,” Aletheia responds. Not ‘Minas’. Not ‘my lady’. And yet, there is so much warmth in that one word, so much familiarity.

“I am sorry it took so long,” Sira breathes, her voice low enough that only those standing closest would be able to hear. “I am sorry for all you and your daughters have suffered.”

“Hmm.” Aletheia’s eyes scan Sira’s face, though I doubt those pale eyes can see anything that is of this world. “To suffer is to live. But none have suffered as much as you.” Leaning heavily on her cane, she reaches one gnarled finger out, pointing at Sira’s chest, where the wound her sister dealt her is healing, hidden beneath linen and wool.

“I would ask your counsel, if you will give it.” Sira turns, waving one hand to indicate towards the kneeling priestesses. “What do I do with these women, wise mother? How can they repay the people of Knossos for what they have done?”

Beside me, Britomartis hums with approval, her shoulder pressing against my own. We share a glance, turning from the scene to exchange the briefest of secret smiles, both of us brimming with unspoken adoration and respect for Sira’s gentle cunning.

This is our Minas. Our Sira.

Aletheia turns her unseeing eyes towards the kneeling priestesses, expression unnervingly calm for someone deciding the fate of another’s life. Silence hums like a swarm of Melissus’ bees, as if each bated breath filling this hall is a poison barb ready to strike.

“Death…” Aletheia begins, and one of the priestesses begins to sob. The old woman flares her nostrils in disgust. “Death is a kindness. A balm for old bones at the end of a life well-lived. They do not deserve such a blessing. Besides,” Aletheia scoffs, “I doubt even Potina would appreciate the sacrifice of their blood, weak and unwillingly given.”

My spine straightens, a mixture of irritation and disbelief rising hot in me at the old woman’s words. She cannot mean… she cannot mean to pardon them? To release them back into Knossos, where they can work against Sira? Perhaps even see her come to the same harm that befell her mother and sister?

“Easy, Lykos,” Britomartis murmurs, sensing my ire. “Wait.”

“Give them the choice,” Aletheia continues. “They can serve their people. Or they can serve Xenodice.”

Sira cocks her head, attention rapt as she listens to Aletheia’s counsel.

“Let them take the role as acolyte in their temples, like a third daughter, like a doulos. Let every other servant outrank them. Let them serve for seven years, like a doulos seeking her freedom. Or,” Aletheia’s lips curve into something too sharp to be called a smile, “let them water Xenodice’s bones with their lifeblood in the hopes that Potina sees their sacrifice and welcomes them into her great halls.”

The silent hum becomes a roaring swarm as lawagetas turn towards their neighbors, words flowing over top of each other until they are indiscernible. But there is no mistaking the surprise and indignation.

A doulos? Can you imagine? Seven years? Death would be preferable .

Sira nods, turning to the priestesses with a look of grim resolution. “It is done,” she says, loud enough to be heard over the crowd.

“That is unheard of!” Potina’s high priestess’ voice rings out across the hall with authority. “My mother was a lawagetas, equal nearly to your own mother in rank.” She points one accusatory finger at Sira, then shoots Aletheia a scathing look. “A fact this old pretender knows as well as anyone. She was practically a doulos herself once, though no doubt she has forgotten. The third born daughter of a second born daughter, with nothing but what the gods gave her to recommend her. And who will run Potina’s temple?” The high priestess throws this question out as if it is a spear hurled into battle. “What madness—to throw away years of training and understanding. To leave our city’s principal temple abandoned to the leadership of some third-rank acolyte!”

Sira’s eyes narrow in amusement as she struggles to hide her smile.

“That is rich coming from her,” Britomartis hisses in my ear, the noise of the crowd giving us a moment of privacy. “She left Potina’s temple to Malia for over a year, apparently, while she dined at Xenodice’s side. By the time I visited, only Sira was left to tend Potina’s sacred fires and see to the dead.”

A chill snakes up my spine at Britomartis’ words, at the bald admission of what Sira endured. My fingers curl at my side, jaw grinding.

“Aren’t you a priestess?” I ask, giving Britomartis a nudge. “Couldn’t you do it?”

Britomartis gives me a deadpan look. “Do you even know what temple I serve at? What deity?”

I wave one hand dismissively.

“Besides,” Britomartis’ gaze drops to her feet, “Malia would be next in line.”

I scoff. I never met Malia, but if she was content to let Sira carry out her duties alone, then she can jump off those cliffs I saw at Amnisos for all I care.

“You should do it,” I say, with all the certainty of someone who knows next to nothing about temple politics. “You’d be great at it.”

“… I would rather take death,” the high priestess’ voice rises in pitch, bringing the roar of the crowd to a lull. “I would rather spill my blood at Potina’s feet than let my family’s name be despoiled by such degradation.”

She looks around the crowd expectantly, as if waiting for someone to cry out in protest at the prospect of such self-sacrifice, to take her side. To say how foolish it is to make a woman such as her serve.

Like she did to Sira, I realize, with dark satisfaction, eyeing the old wise-woman with renewed appreciation. That is what old Aletheia did, isn’t it? She served these women the same dish they served Sira.

Sira dips her head in solemn acknowledgment of the high priestess’ words. “If that is your choice, I will heed it.”

Silence falls over the hall, hot as a wool cloak on a midsummer’s day, and just as uncomfortable. I know many of the lawagetas will be wondering if they are next, if this is just the beginning of a purge of the rot from Knossos’ halls. If it were up to me, it would be. I would carve out every rotten branch and set them ablaze.

But that is not Sira’s way.

Sira turns away from the shunned priestesses to address the waiting crowd. Her face is pale with fatigue, but her spine is straight and her eyes are glowing with pride.

“Now, what other concerns do you have? What issues would you bring to me?” A small smile, almost teasing, as if she knows that the lawagetas are afraid of her, and she doesn’t quite mind it. “Come, do not be shy. Whatever you have to ask, I assure you, I have faced worse requests.”

Night seeps through the great hall before the last of the urgent requests are heard. Finally, Britomartis steps forward, urging Sira to usher the last of the lawagetas out with the promise of a feast in three days time.

A feast to announce Sira’s ascension to the role of Minas Crete, officially, before all the lawagetas—even those living far outside of Knossos’ walls. A feast to remind Knossos’ allies of this principality’s power and wealth. For some, it will be a feast to celebrate Knossos’ freedom. For others, a funerary rite for the power they once briefly held under Xenodice’s reign.

“My lady will be retiring for the evening now,” Britomartis announces, glaring at the lingering crowd, daring any of them to step forward with another request about boundary lines or harvesting rights or trade quotas. “I ask that you do the same, that you return to your homes and prepare for a celebration under the new moon.”

If anyone grumbles in protest, it is low enough that Britomartis can’t hear it. For most, the flicker of starlight through the lattice windows is enough of a reminder that the woman presiding over them is not entirely of this world. She looks especially otherworldly in this moment, and it’s not just the fine fabrics or the way her hair is ornately coiled over her head, dripping with pearls and beads. There is a fire burning in her eyes, as if she really does hold the torch that can see into people’s souls. Her every expression whispers power, like a lioness sleeping in the sun.

“The gods bless you, Minas,” they say, bowing low before trailing out, one by one from the great hall. The guards posted at the entrance swing heavy wooden doors shut behind them, leaving only the sound of fire flickering in braziers and the lingering scent of blood on the stone tiles.

I find I can look at those tiles now and not feel sick. That I can look at them and see there the proof of Sira’s strength, the depth of her sacrifice.

“We have prepared rooms for you, Minas,” one of the guards announces, only hesitating briefly before crossing the empty hall to kneel before the dais. “In the central chambers. Not… not rooms that belonged to Xenodice, of course. But the eastern rooms, the ones with the lily frescoes.”

The guard’s eyes dart to me and Britomartis, a silent question written there, before she swallows and adds, “They are spacious, with enough room for… for whomever you wish to attend you.”

“Thank you.” Sira slumps in relief at the guard’s words, as if just the thought of resting for the night has stolen the last vestiges of her strength. “I know the ones.” A small smile, aching with memories. “Those will be perfect.”

The guard dips her head, cheeks flushing at her minas’ praise.

“Your brother sent a message as well,” the guard continues as she rises to stand. “Astarte and her pledged will be staying a few nights at Astarte’s temple. To bless that house with the goddess’ presence.”

The guard’s flush deepens, eyes darting to the left, as if she can’t quite bring herself to allude to what such a blessing would entail. I give a snort of amusement, drawing a look of dry disapproval from Britomartis. The guard ignores us both, and continues, not taking her eyes off Sira.

“He said he would come see you in the morrow, to share the midday meal with you. Once… once his goddess has sufficiently rested.”

Sira’s eyes widen in mild alarm at the guard’s words, as if the thought of her brother partaking in the sacred rites that fill Astarte’s temple is too much for her to contemplate.

No wonder so many of the lawagetas rushed out of the great hall when night fell. My men are likely there too—at least those privileged enough to have been let off my ships. An orgy. That is what we would call it in Mycenae. I’ve never experienced one myself, though I’ve observed a few, and of course seen crude renditions of their activities painted across wine pitchers and fruit bowls.

I’m grinning now, desperately trying not to laugh at the way the guard is skirting around the topic, either for her benefit or for Sira’s.

Britomartis gives a sigh of knowing exasperation, dragging one hand over her face.

“Thank you,” Britomartis says, when words seem to fail my little bird. “We will know not to expect him before then. And my brother too, I suppose.” She nearly rolls her eyes at that, and my grin widens. She sailed with them for weeks, didn’t she? Gods, the things she must have seen and heard…

The guard nods, her flush so deep now that even I feel embarrassed for her, before she hurries away, eager to join her companion at the entrance. The two of them whisper to each other before offering Sira one last bow.

“Do you think they’re off to Astarte’s temple as well?” I ask, when the guards pull the doors shut behind them. “To make their offerings to that goddess?”

Britomartis shrugs, apparently completely unconcerned with what the guards of Knossos do in their spare time.

“Probably? I suppose it would be good if they did. Adrienne put on a brave face, but I’ve never seen her looking so exhausted.”

She casts a wary glance in Sira’s direction, as if not quite certain whether to remind her of the ordeal she went through. An ordeal that neither of us can completely understand, despite Sira and Adrienne’s attempts this morning to explain it to us.

Britomartis continues, brow furrowed in thought: “I suspect it will take more than just the offerings of her pledged to restore her strength. Last time she was weakened—at least, the last time I saw—she had battled Poteiden himself out at sea, and then called up a storm. It had taken the offerings of half Asterion’s crew to bring her back.”

Sira makes a choked sound, one hand flying to her throat as her eyes go wide. “What?”

Britomartis turns, giving that patient smile that I have only ever seen her give to Sira. “Adrienne—Astarte, rather—needs the offerings of lovemaking to restore her power, to keep her in strength. That is why the servants of Astarte’s temple facilitate such things, you know, to channel that energy towards their goddess…”

Sira’s cheeks blaze and she holds her hands palms out as if she could physically fend off Brita’s words. “Please. Please,” she chokes out. “Can we not… I know it is sacred, of course it is, but please. By the gods. That is my brother!”

A laugh breaks out of me, echoing against the empty hall as I pull Sira against me with one arm, gently, so gently, despite the violent affection rushing through me.

“Oh my little bird,” I chortle against the top of her flower-scented hair. “You were not so reserved this morning, remember.” I lower my voice, stooping until my lips are teasing the shell of her ear. “And the noises you made, Zeu… gods.”

I swallow, throat suddenly dry with anxiety at the feel of that god’s name on my lips.

Zeus .

The god I have always named first. The king of gods, we had called him. A new god, modern and sleek as a freshly built ship. And he has been slain, destroyed, turned to nothing but ash. By Sira’s hand. By Sira’s sword.

Sira pretends not to hear that name, instead turning in my arms, her small hands pressed against my chest as she shoots me a mock glare. “I seem to recall it was you making all the noise, actually.” Her expression grows sharp, like an arrow nocked in a bow. “I felt you around my fingers, remember? Your legs were quaking like a newborn calf.”

Her cheeks are flaming as she speaks, but that doesn’t stop my own embarrassed laughter from answering her words. I press my cheek against my shoulder, as if there was a way to shake off this unfamiliar sensation. But gods, I hadn’t even considered she would do that. In all my fantasies about what making love to Sira would involve, I had never considered that she would be the one taking me, barbing me.

My mouth waters, my heart ratcheting up to an almost dizzying pace at the memory.

Bátalos, my brother would have called me, with a sneer stretched across his bearded face. I can just imagine his words, what he would say. To bend for a man is shameful enough, but for a woman ? For the very creatures who are made by the gods to take our cocks and our domination?

Sira stares up at me, her knowing eyes burning a trail into my soul, her slender fingers pressed against my chest—those same fingers that had been thrust deep inside of me.

Heat trickles down my spine, coiling like a serpent low in my belly. I would do it again and again. I would beg her for it, if I had to.

“Perhaps… perhaps we should retire,” Sira rasps, her own breaths coming in short quick pants that match my own. She casts Britomartis a sheepish glance. The wise priestess merely lifts a brow in our direction, an indulgent smile curving her painted lips.

“Perhaps we should,” Brita echoes. “Though you will have to lead the way, since this is your home, and neither Lykos nor I can be expected to find our way through this maze.”

Your home.

There is an edge of something in those words that has me straightening, observing Britomartis just a little more keenly. Sira must feel it too, because she turns to her lover, fixing her with a look that is half imperious demand and half vulnerability.

“My home?” She repeats the words carefully, as if they are fragile glass newly forged. “This is your home too, Britomartis of Thera.”

Britomartis straightens her shoulders, a look of disbelief flitting across her features. “I am first acolyte to the high priestess at Akrotiri,” she reminds Sira, not ungently. “My place is with my people.” She says this last bit automatically, like a prayer she has said so many times that it lost its meaning long ago.

Sira peels away from me, grasping Britomartis by the wrists, tangling their fingers together, so that they are twined like the threads in a loom.

I frown at Britomartis. At my ally, my friend. Surely, surely she must see that her life is woven in with Sira’s, with mine? That the gods themselves have bound us all together?

“And yet you sailed here for me.” Sira’s voice is soft, but heavy with accusation. “You defied your mother. You stole my brother’s ships—my brother who is pledged to a goddess, to your friend. And you came here. For me.”

Britomartis nods, throat bobbing.

“Then this is your home too.” Sira brings Britomartis’ hands to her lips, brushing kisses against her knuckles, those all-seeing eyes fixed unmovingly on Britomartis’. “For as long as you will have it.”