Page 5 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Britomartis

I had come to Potina’s temple prepared to wring answers from the younger sister of my enemy. To bribe her and coerce her. To threaten her, if need be.

I had not thought to seduce her.

Sira stares up at me, large eyes full of fire and hunger. That look—her simple touch, the brush of her thumb over the back of my hand—it has my mind blanking. It’s as if I can feel Astarte’s arrow piecing me, setting fire to my blood.

“… and then Khepri said that Naunet was lucky to get any pledges, and that if she wouldn’t choose among those who offered, Khepri would put her second daughter forward instead. Make her heir. Can you believe…”

I shudder at the incessant drone of Malia’s voice, rage clawing against desire like a feral beast. I take a deep breath, pushing both unwanted emotions down. I have never been quick to anger, just as I have never been quick to want. Even in battle, I’ve always been calm. Calculating.

Right now, I want to push Malia off the nearest ledge of the rooftop. And then lay this sweet, precious creature onto the paving stones beneath me, to drag pleasure and truth out of her.

“I would like a tour of the temple,” I say abruptly, rising to stand.

Sira’s hand falls away, leaving me instantly bereft at the lack of contact. But it’s for the best. I am the second daughter of the Minas Thera, here as an emissary for my brother’s betrothal to the Minas Crete. I am the first acolyte to Potina’s high priestess on Thera.

And Sira. She is…

“Sira will show you around, my lady,” Malia says around a mouthful, her hand already reaching out to press some cheese between two pieces of stale, dried fruit. “I have to meet with the high priestess and the Minas Crete this afternoon.” She tosses her head with self-importance. “I am sure you understand. The duties of a first acolyte…”

Malia trails off, her focus shifting to the platter before us. I cast a nervous glance in Sira’s direction.

“I can show you the temple.” Sira’s voice rings with authority that contradicts her small stature, her status as one essentially imprisoned between these walls. She doesn’t bow, doesn’t add on ‘my lady’ as would be befitting of an ordinary acolyte. Instead, she stares boldly up at me, a half head shorter but fearless. Beautifully, sweetly fearless.

“That… yes. That would be acceptable,” I stammer.

It’s a terrible idea. I’ve seen how empty this temple is, heard the hollow silence of its halls. If Malia leaves, she may as well be leaving me alone with Sira. And goddess help me, but just the feel of this woman’s hand in my own has nearly made me come undone.

“And these are our living chambers.”

Sira’s voice is soft, edged with trembling vulnerability. She stops in the middle of the hallway, an oil lamp held between two unsteady hands, large eyes fixed on me with silent question. ‘Will you follow?’ they seem to say. ‘Do I ask too much?’

My throat bobs, a shuddering breath escaping my lips.

I know what I should do. I should bow my head, give her a forced smile, thank her for her time. Wish Potina’s blessings upon her. I should make my excuses, mention my duties to my brother, engagements with the Minas Crete. Anything.

Kitanetos is counting on you , I tell myself. As if that is excuse enough for pursuing this course I’ve set. As if it’s not my own desire driving me.

“I would like to see them,” I rasp. Perhaps Velchanos himself has set my blood aflame. “If you would be so good as to show me.”

Another woman would give me a sly smile, gaze at me through lowered lashes, or perhaps jut out her hip, throwing a lock of hair over one shoulder. Sira does none of those things. Instead, she blinks in surprise at my response, her gaze fixed bravely on my own even as the honey-colored skin at her throat flushes red.

“Then I will show you,” she says.

I follow behind her in a haze, barely comprehending the rooms she points out to me. The bathing chamber. The lower acolytes rooms, empty and lifeless, threadbare pallets on the floor, dust coating every surface. Everything lightless, lit only by the barest hints of sunlight filtering down the hallway and the solitary lamp clutched in Sira’s hands.

“And this is my room.”

Her words have every part of my mind at once falling quiet and growing loud, like the roar of a storm against cliffs. She stands at the threshold, gold-flecked eyes staring up at me, cheeks stained red as pomegranates, the oil lamp clutched to her chest. I frown down at it, at that flickering flame too close to her smooth, flawless skin.

“Let me take that, my lady,” I say, wrapping my hands around her own, easing the lamp from her grasp. She whimpers in protest, and I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. “You have carried this burden long enough. And though you have borne it well, I ask that you let me take it now.”

Her eyes round, wide as the open mouths of wine cups, and she relinquishes the lamp. “I trust you with it,” she says. “Though goddess knows why. I have never trusted another.”

My brow dips, some of the heat that’s been making my head spin clearing. She is not merely speaking of the oil lamp. Like a seasoned servant of Potina, she is speaking in riddles, sending words out like messenger doves in the midst of a battle. My heart races at the realization, as the understanding of what she is saying settles over me like ash after a fire.

She trusts me. With her secrets. With her body. Perhaps—goddess forbid—even with her heart.

“Then I will tend it with the same care as I tend Potina’s flame.” The words spill out before I can stop them, before I can consider how impossible such a promise is. But already she is smiling at me, already she is moving, leading me into her room.

I follow, like a moth follows the flame. I am so busy watching the curve of her waist, the way her hips move beneath the layers of her skirt, that I don’t notice her shutting the door until the latch falls into place.

“Britomartis…” she starts, eyes aglow in the lamplight. She presses her back to the door, clutching her hands against her stomach, right under the low dipping neckline of her under-tunic. My eyes travel up from those small hands to the smooth skin above her naval, between her rounded breasts, barely covered by undecorated fabric, to where her pulse flutters wildly at her throat.

“Britomartis…” she says again, and my name is a rasping plea on her lips. “I… is this…I don’t…”

I lift my eyes to hers and realization dawns on me, sharp as morning light over a battlefield. This woman is terrified. Hungry, desperately hungry, but terrified. My brow dips, and I settle the oil lamp in the wall sconce before carefully stepping towards her, my palms held out.

“Sira,” I say carefully. “Sira, I would never hurt you.” It is a lie. I know it is a lie, even if I wish it could be true.

She nods rapidly, eyes so wide they seem to swallow up the lamplight, her lower lip trembling. “I believe you,” she replies, then adds in a whisper, “Though gods know I might be a fool for it.”

I shake my head, but can’t help the sad smile curving my lips. What if some other woman had arrived at Potina’s temple instead of me? Would Sira have trusted them so completely—whispered the dangerous admissions to them that she whispered to me? Would she have led them into her room? Is the only thing to commend me to her that I am not from Knossos? That I’m a stranger?

For some reason, the thought of her leading any other woman besides me to her room makes me want to reach for my blade. I press my palms to my side instead, burying them in the layers of my skirt, and force my features to soften.

“You are no fool, Sira. But you are lonely, aren’t you?” Lonely and—by the way she is looking at me—terrified as a doe before a lioness. Completely inexperienced.

She nods, teeth worrying a trembling lower lip.

An inexplicable ache builds behind my ribs at the thought of her so alone. I step forward, slowly, carefully, until there is less than one pace between us. Close enough that I can see the dilated pupils of her eyes, so large the gold-flecked brown has nearly disappeared.

“You should have scores of lovers falling over themselves to be with you,” I tell her truthfully.

Indeed, if she was by Xenodice’s side as she should be, she would. Doulos. Acolytes. Every young man coming home from sea. The daughters of lawagetas. It would be impossible for them to ignore her, and not just because of her beauty. Rank is just as attractive as a fine face, as soft curves, as luscious curls.

“They did once,” she replies honestly, the hint of a melancholy smile curving her full lips. “But I never felt… it was never…” She tilts her head to the side, the flush painted across her cheeks visible even in the dim lamplight. “They never saw me . Never wanted me. Not really.”

That I understand.

After all, how many young acolytes have thrown themselves at me, even when Molpadia lived? There had been a time, years ago, when I had been flattered by it, when I had accepted the eager press of bodies at some festival, had sighed at the slide of soft fingers beneath my skirt, at the feel of a hungry mouth at my throat, at my breasts.

“It is a hollow thing to be wanted only for your rank,” I agree.

“Oh.” Sira turns back to me, eyes wide with alarm. “Oh, I didn’t mean… that’s not… you don’t think that’s why I brought you here, do you?”

“Of course not,” I chuckle, then without thinking, reach between us, brushing a stray curl back from her cheek. “You are the sister to a minas, Sira. I am only the second daughter of one.”

She blinks, looking momentarily surprised by my proclamation, then her brow dips, raw anguish taking over her features. “She is not the Minas Crete.” The whispered admission bursts out of her, as if of its own volition. “She broke the most sacred law of our goddess to take that place, bought Knossos for the price of our mother and sister’s blood and bones.”

I shudder, the hand that had been toying with her hair settling on her shoulder, as if I could steady the both of us. “That… that is a serious accusation,” I say carefully. My thumb brushes the bare skin by her collarbone and she sighs, her eyelids fluttering closed.

“It is the truth,” she murmurs. “Though no one knows it.”

“And so she locked you up,” I surmise, my heart racing. “To keep the lawagetas from knowing the truth and unseating her.”

Her eyes flare wide, and she reaches up to cover my hand with her own, pressing it against her shoulder. “No. No.” She shakes her head, eyes wide and pleading. “She believes me ignorant of her actions. If she knew… if she found out that I know…” Sira’s throat bobs. “I do not doubt that my bones would be resting beneath Knossos, beside my mother and sister.”

Cold rushes through me, icy as the winter winds of Mount Ida. I tangle my fingers with Sira’s, then pull her close to me, until the only thing between us is our clasped hands. “Why did you tell me this, Sira? Why trust me with this truth?”

This truth she has given me—it is enough to free my brother of every obligation. Enough for him to return home with his honor intact.

It could be enough to start a war, if it could be proven.

It is enough to spell this woman’s death.

Goddess, what if she told another what she is telling me?

“Please,” I press my lips to the backs of her fingers, my eyes holding hers, as if I can impart the seriousness of this with a look alone. “Please. Promise you won’t tell this to another? That you won’t put yourself at risk?”

Sira gives a mirthless smile. “Who would I tell? Malia, who is in my sister’s pay? The old women who visit here, begging me for silphium for their daughters? The women bringing in their dead? The girls offering their first moon blood to Potina? The young acolytes who serve here for a moon cycle at most before they are called to serve my sister instead?”

“That is hardly a consolation,” I tell her drily. “That the only reason you haven’t told anyone such a dangerous secret is that you’ve been kept alone.”

Sira gives me a look that has my blood chilling for an entirely different reason. It’s the look I’ve seen on the faces of women who have fought beside me at Thera—the quiet determination of a woman who knows she will die, and fights anyway.

“I have hidden here for nearly thirteen moon cycles. I have feared each day that the meal sent to me from my sister’s kitchens would be my last. We are mortals born to die, Britomartis. I will not throw my life away needlessly, but I will not horde it like a miser, either.”

Despite those brave words, her hands tremble in my own. They are soft, slight, without a hint of ever having held a sword.

“Sira…”

“I have told only you. I have trusted only you.”

She shouldn’t trust me. She shouldn’t trust anyone, but especially not me.

Sira dips her head, pressing her lips to my fingertips. That one kiss, that innocent brush of her lips against my fingers, it sends fire blazing through my veins, a dizzying wildfire ready to consume every logical thought.

She looks up in silent question, hungry and unafraid. I know what my answer should be.

I pull her to me instead.