Page 50 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Britomartis

“Britomartis! Come quick! We have an emergency!”

I roll my eyes internally at Erigone’s dramatics, but plaster on a serene smile as I reluctantly leave Sira’s side to see what disaster my acolytes have discovered for me this time.

The braziers are already lit on the open festival grounds, flames barely visible in the light of the afternoon sun. Around us, acolytes and doulos hurry, carrying platters of food, stacks of cups and plates, wrestling with wooden tables.

“There are only five jars of blue lily wine.” Erigone wrings her hands, looking accusingly at Malia. “That isn’t nearly enough. None of the other temples have any either, apparently.”

“It was used up at the festival to announce your brother’s betrothal to the Mina- to Xenodice, my lady.” Malia’s cheeks flame as she crosses her arms over her chest defensively. “And at the celebration for Si- for the Minas Crete’s betrothal to that Achean King…”

I bite back a growl of irritation at Malia’s words, both at the reminder of how close we came to losing Sira, and at the reminder of how impoverished Xenodice left Knossos.

It will take at least five seasons of trading to build it up to what it ought to be. Especially with the loss of Perses’ trading vessels, since he naturally left Crete after Xenodice’s death.

At least he didn’t take my brother’s ships with him. But of course those ships won’t help Sira or Knossos. Neither will her own brother’s—not when both men are pledged to Adrienne.

“Do we not have any plain wine?” I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer. If there was any to be found in Knossos, they would have brought it.

Erigone shakes her head, looking distraught.

“What of the erontas wine stored on Asterion’s ships?” Lykos asks, coming up smoothly to my side. “I thought I heard Kinusi mention you picked up a few jars.”

I shoot him a surprised look. I had thought him too busy panting after Sira while we were on board to notice the sparse amount of trading we managed to do while at Fodele.

“We have a few,” I hedge carefully.

I had picked up the jars on a whim, trading away some of our sought after saffron for the rare beverage. I had thought it would be a useful trade good to have if we needed to push the other minases to support Sira.

“It’s quite strong.” I give him a meaningful look, thinking of how Sira was when she drank it.

Lykos grins, a rakish sort of smile that says he knows exactly what I’m thinking of.

In unison, we both look to where Sira stands amongst Inanna and a few of the servants of Astarte, patiently waiting for them to arrange some peacock feather monstrosity around the makeshift dais they have created for her to stand on.

“We could water it down?” he suggests.

I wrinkle my nose, affronted at the very thought of polluting such an expensive beverage.

“Or I could send one of my men to bring the jars of zythos from our ships—we have twenty or so, if the heathens haven’t drunk it all yet.” His expression sours, and he adds, “It was meant to form a part of my brother’s present to Xenodice in exchange for Sira.”

“Zythos,” I frown, shuddering internally at his suggestion.

Unlike many Therans, I have tasted zythos. Bland and bitter, tasting of stale bread soaked in stagnant water.

I can’t imagine many Keptui would wish to drink it.

“Would anyone even drink that?” Erigone gasps, echoing my own thoughts. Her eyes round as she presses one slender hand to her throat. “Isn’t that just fermented animal feed?”

Lykos jolts back as if her words have dealt him a physical blow. I tuck my chin to my shoulder to hide my amusement.

“Fermented animal feed?” he repeats, eyes wide. “Potina’s Kysthos, what delicacies do you feed your animals here in Crete?”

It’s Erigone’s turn to look affronted, though whether it’s because he’s mistakenly taken her for a Keptui and not a Theran, or whether it’s because of his language, I’m not sure. Probably both. Erigone always was a bit more uptight than the rest of my acolytes.

“Forgive me, but perhaps I could be of assistance.”

All three of us turn in unison to find the Minas Zakros smiling coolly at us. A young man stands close behind her—a consort or a doulos or perhaps a son. It’s difficult to tell, for he’s too well-dressed to be a doulos, but not quite finely dressed enough to be the child of a minas, either. Large too, with a build made for hard labor or working on a ship.

I incline my head, silently asking her to continue even as my stomach tightens. Of all the minases, the Minas Zakros is the one I would least like Sira to be indebted to. Especially for aid with a festival as important as this.

“We have twenty jars of wine on board my son’s ships.” The Minas Zakros waves haphazardly in the direction of the young man standing in her shadow, not even sparing him a glance. She gives a light, affected laugh, then adds, “It’s some of the best, you know. Not the Egyptian stuff you people usually serve.” The Minas Zakros wrinkles her nose. “But real Keptui wine, grown on our own soil.”

I hum in interest despite myself. Zakros is not well-known for its wine. Not yet, anyway. But rumor has it they have developed production methods to rival the Egyptians.

Lykos folds his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes at the Minas Zakros.

“And this would be a gift?” Lykos asks without preamble, as if the Minas Zakros is one of his barbarian trading partners and not a powerful minas. “Or do you seek to barter with us?”

The Minas Zakros blinks at Lykos as if seeing him for the first time. Her lined eyes move over his form, examining the foreign cut of his clothes, just as she no doubt noted the sharp tones of his accent.

“And who might you be?”

There is no missing the disdain in her voice as she asks the question. She must know—she must—that this is the chosen of the Minas Crete. This is the Achean pledged to Sira.

“Mother.”

The young man behind the Minas Zakros speaks for the first time, his sun-darkened cheeks glowing with embarrassment. His voice is surprisingly deep, rough despite the soft way he’s attempting to form his words.

“Mother, that is Lykos. The man pledged to the Minas Crete.”

The Minas Zakros harrumphs as if doubting the validity of that statement then turns back to me, ignoring Lykos completely.

“It would be a gift, of course.” A simpering smile curves her lips. “Though I would ask a favor. As a mother.”

“A gift would be welcome.” I give her a small nod, since she is Sira’s ally. Still, I find I dislike her overly friendly treatment of me just as much as I dislike her dismissal of Lykos. “But I am not in the position to grant favors for the Minas Crete,” I tell her coolly.

Another dismissive wave of her hand, a gentle tsk .

“Of course not.” She gives me a knowing smirk, as if we are sharing some secret. “But you are her lover, are you not? And likely to be the high priestess of Potina’s temple, if the rumors are true. Surely your recommendations would hold some weight.”

My shoulders stiffen at her words. At the thought of being formally made high priestess here at Knossos. I can practically feel the weight of that feathered headdress, of beads and jewels weighing me down. Shackling me to that cold prison of stone and blood and death.

I don’t want it. I never realized before how much I didn’t want it. Not until Sira offered it to me without all the strings of birth and family and obligation.

Not until I was free to choose.

“And what recommendations would you have me make?” I ask tiredly, because I know how this game is played.

The Minas Zakros will gift us her wine, and then ask for some exclusive trade arrangement, or preferential access to copper ore, or whatever good she is after.

The Minas Zakros steps back, ushering the young man towards us. He dips his head, lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he lets her guide him, even as his cheeks flame with angry color. When he dares to look up, it is only to scowl at me and Lykos with distrust.

“Britomartis of Thera, I present you with my son. Daidalos.”

“I can’t believe you traded with that woman,” Lykos hisses, when the Minas Zakros and her son depart. Presumably to return to their guest chambers and prepare for the festival.

I can’t help but smile at the thought of poor Daidalos being preened and pressed into jewels and fine fabrics at his mother’s demand.

“It was hardly a trade,” I huff, lowering my voice and guiding Lykos to the edge of the festival’s preparations. Away from prying eyes and listening ears. “I told her we would welcome her gift, and that I would be happy to present Daidalos to Sira as a potential suitor. I think we got the better bargain.”

Lykos frowns, grumbling something under his breath as he scans the crowd of doulos and acolytes for Sira. He lets out a breath when he finds her, his shoulders relaxing in relief. She’s still on the dais, patiently sitting on the large wooden chair that has been brought out for her as Inanna and her acolytes work alongside the servants of Diktynna to add fruits and dried flowers in vases to their creation.

It is turning out to be a striking piece, I’ll give them that. And now that it is closer to being finished, I can see their intention. They are turning Sira into a living fresco, positioning symbols of Knossos’ wealth around her.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” I murmur.

“And you, priestess, would share her with some Keptui for the price of some wine jars,” Lykos retorts.

“Don’t call me that.” I bristle at the title, even if that is what I have been content to call myself since I left my mother’s house.

“What? Priestess?”

I give him a curt nod, not taking my eyes off Sira. Her gentle smile turns to laughter when a vase of flowers tumbles over, the top-heavy creation toppled by the slightest of breezes. It is a beautiful sound, her laughter. All the more precious for how rare it is.

I would take the role of priestess if it meant I could stay by her side. If it would bring more smiles to her face, draw more laughter from those lips.

“But that’s what you are.” Lykos turns to me, mild alarm and confusion flaring in amber eyes. “You don’t mean… you wouldn’t refuse Sira’s offer, would you? You aren’t planning on going back to Thera?”

I shake my head, surprised at how certain I feel on that point, at how quick I am to reject my home when the choice has been laid before me.

“I could never leave her,” I admit hoarsely.

Lykos seems to have brushed off the darkness that shrouded us only days ago, but the memory of it still sits heavy over me. Every night when I’ve held Sira in my arms, I’ve stayed awake listening to the sound of her breath, remembering what it felt like when that sound had stopped.

No, only death can take me from Sira. And even then, I suspect I would fight Potina every step of the way.

“I… I just don’t feel called to serve Potina anymore,” I admit, dropping my gaze to my feet.

The grass is long and golden with winter, trampled flat by the doulos and acolytes who have been working tirelessly since dawn. I nudge a clump with my booted foot, frowning.

“Then don’t.” Lykos says simply. As if it is the easiest thing in the world to take off the mantle that has been placed on you since birth. “Serve another goddess. Or do something else.”

I blink at him in surprise. He grins, a sharp, cunning thing.

“What?” he teases. “You don’t think you can? You are pledged to the Minas Crete, Brita. Do you think she would force you into any role that didn’t bring you joy? The woman who begs to give you pleasure every moment she can?”

My cheeks burn at Lykos’ crude allusion. He laughs, knocking me sharply with his elbow.

“Come now, Brita,” he says, using the name that so far, only Kitanetos and Adrienne have ever called me. A bad habit he has picked up from them, no doubt. “What would you do instead?”

My heart skips at the question, an unsettling flutter behind my ribs.

What would I do?

The answer brushes over me like a sea wind, full of brine and sunlight.

“I would sail.”

I rub at the back of my neck, as if that will stop the embarrassment prickling there. Women do not sail. Oh, yes, we journey on boats when necessary. But women are not seafarers.

“Then sail.” Lykos shrugs, then adds wryly, “Though perhaps not on Asterion’s ships.”

I shoot him a glare, but there is not heat in it. He knows as well as I do that I relinquished Asterion’s ships days ago and—after no inconsiderable amount of grumbling and cursing—Asterion has forgiven me for borrowing them.

“You could be captain of one of mine,” Lykos says lightly. “Some of my men will be returning to Mycenae, you know, when the spring comes. I’ll be losing a few captains then and could use someone trustworthy. Someone with experience.”

My breath catches in my throat, expanding behind my ribs like wind filling a sail. He offers that up so easily, as if offering someone responsibility of a ship is nothing. A bauble tossed to a friend. If I didn’t know him like I do, I would almost believe he couldn’t mean it. But, for all Lykos’ lighthearted teasing, I know he wouldn’t offer me this gift if he did not mean for me to take it.

“Think on it.” He gives me a knowing look. “You don’t have to decide now. We won’t set sail until the winter storms are finished.” He lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “And hopefully before then I can have at least a few of my ships re-fitted so they aren’t an embarrassment to our minas.”

“They are fine ships,” I tell him honestly.

He shakes his head. “They are the best Achean ships. Which makes them barely more than second rate here. I am not such a fool as to deny that.”

“Thank you,” I tell him, resting one hand on his shoulder.

He gives me a soft smile in answer, covering my hand with this own. Then, as if only now remembering our earlier conversation, or perhaps to change the subject and give me time to consider his offer in peace, he schools his features into one of false irritation.

“Now, this Daidalos.” Lykos folds his arms over his chest. “Do you really mean to introduce him to Sira? As a potential suitor?” His scowl deepens, and there is real annoyance there. “You cannot be serious.”

I bite back a smile, tucking my own hands into the sides of my skirt. “She only has to meet him. There is no obligation on her part to do anything but meet him. Which she would do anyway, you know.”

“She would meet him as the son of the Minas Zakros, yes. But not as a potential suitor.”

“Do you think that would change anything?” I ask, tipping my head in Sira’s direction.

She is surrounded now by all the bounty of Knossos, and even though she is not yet dressed in her ceremonial clothes, she does look every part the minas. Graceful and strong, gentle and steady. Like a mother, ready to guide her people to prosperity once again.

“Do you think our minas would be so easily persuaded, so easily guided? Have you forgotten all she has done?” I add this last part on a hushed breath, even though it is no secret.

Despite her and Adrienne’s explanations, I still struggle to comprehend what Sira has done. Perhaps because, for me, Velchanos has only ever been one of the invisible gods that I pray to. He was not a tangible thing, and so it is difficult to imagine that he ever really posed a tangible threat. I still don’t understand how a volcano erupting near Thera could reach its destruction across the sea to Crete, or how it would spell the end of our people.

But I am wise enough to know that my inability to understand it doesn’t mean it isn’t true.

“I have not forgotten,” Lykos grumbles. “But Sira listens to you. She trusts you.”

My chest constricts at his words. At the reminder of the power that I hold. Because that is what it is to be loved by Sira. To be trusted by her.

It is a power greater than any mortal has a right to.

“I will not persuade her,” I promise him. “I will not urge her to accept his suit. I swear it.”

Not that I think Daidalos is going to be particularly active in any wooing of Sira. He looked almost angry at his mother for offering him up. Strange, really, considering he is the son of a minas. Considering he must have been told, nearly every day since his birth, that the greatest honor he could have would be to pledge himself to a minas.

“I’m going to talk to him first,” Lykos announces decisively. “Before you introduce him, I’m going to talk to him. Give him a few cups of that blue lily wine you people love so much and find out what his intentions are.”

He lifts his chin defiantly, as if expecting me to argue with him. It’s the same look he had when he brought his horse, Cyllarus, into the central stables in Knossos. Stables that had only ever been used to house heifers intended for sacrifice. The keepers had been strangely pleased to see Cyllarus. Excited, almost, at the prospect of housing the taciturn and violent creature.

“I think that’s a good idea,” I tell him. “Though, perhaps don’t give him too many cups of blue lily wine. It would be impolitic to have him make a fool of himself.”