Page 52 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)
Sira
“My lady, I present Daidalos, son of the Minas Zakros.”
I straighten at the sound of Britomartis’ voice. My back is aching from sitting so long on this chair, my legs restless with the urge to move, to dance, to run. Around me, my people dance and laugh among the braziers, eating delicacies off platters, filling their cups with wine, standing close to friends and lovers.
The sight of them so happy and relaxed has been enough to assuage my own discomfort as the evening stretched into darkness. Still, I can’t help wishing I was among them.
“Daidalos.” I repeat his name lest I forget it and plaster on a smile, tipping my head politely at the young man standing before me, Britomartis on one side and Lykos on his other.
“It is a pleasure to meet you.” I lift my cup of wine—the same cup that has been in my hand all evening, since my worry of making some embarrassing mis-step has kept me from taking more than a few sips. “Your honored mother has gifted us with the most delicious of wines.” I gift a smile to the Minas Zakros too since she is standing off to one side watching Daidalos’ introduction with an unnerving look of avarice.
I expect the young man to simper, to ramble out some remarks of gratitude for the thanks or, at the very least, agreement about the quality of the Minas Zakros’ gift.
Daidalos makes a face, wrinkling his crooked nose before letting out a derisive snort.
“Your lover’s wine is better,” he says. “That erontas wine, I mean.” Daidalos winces when Lykos gives him a wide-eyed look full of some meaning I don’t catch, then turns to give Britomartis an apologetic smile. “Lykos snuck me some of your wine, Britomartis of Thera.” His smile turns into a broad grin. It’s almost a triumphant look. A smug look. “It was meant to be a secret. Between men.”
Lykos groans, dragging one hand over his face. His cheeks are flushed, though whether it is from embarrassment or the wine, it is hard to say.
Britomartis stares at Daidalos in surprise before shooting Lykos a look of mild exasperation. Lykos grimaces, leaning around Daidalos to mouth a silent ‘I’m sorry’ to Britomartis. Britomartis shakes her head then—aware of the watchful eyes that must be on us—forces her lips into a brittle smile.
“Well, I am glad you liked the wine, Daidalos of Zakros. It is one of our island’s finest vintages, brought from the nearby town of Fodele. It’s infused with erontas, a rare herb that only grows on the cliffs of Mount Ida.”
The watching crowd murmurs approvingly among themselves, their conversation happily turning to cheerful debates about which of Crete’s wines really are the finest. Meanwhile, I blink in mild alarm at Britomartis’ words. I have tried erontas wine once before and it left me nearly senseless with desire.
“It is a good wine,” Lykos agrees heartily, clapping Daidalos on the back. He leaves his hand on the other man’s shoulder, his fingertips trailing idly over the embroidered neckline of Daidalos’ tunic. Daidalos grins at Lykos in reply then—when his feet seem to falter beneath him—wraps one arm around Lykos’ slender waist.
I bite back a smile and exchange a look with Britomartis. She lifts one questioning brow at me, her own lips quirking.
“Daidalos would like to be presented as a potential suitor,” Britomartis continues steadily. Her voice has lost none of its formal cadence, but her eyes are dancing with mirth. “The son of the Minas Zakros, Daidalos has four trading ships, fully crewed. He is also, by all accounts-” Britomartis pauses to shoot the Minas Zakros a dubious look, then continues, “a calm and quiet man used to shouldering great responsibility, despite his youth.”
A few of the watching lawagetas titter merrily at Britomartis’ speech. Especially the last part, which is clearly the recommendation the Minas Zakros asked her to give. I wince internally and do my best not to look in the Minas Zakros’ direction. Instead, I fix my attention fully on Daidalos.
“Is this so, Daidalos of Zakros?” I give him a placid smile and pray that whatever offence the Minas Zakros takes from this encounter, none of the fault can be placed on me. “Would you like me to consider your suit?”
Throughout this speech, Daidalos has been staring into Lykos’ eyes with a soft smile curving his lips. He turns his head at my question, blinking up as if noticing me for the first time.
“My suit?” he echoes, his face blanching. “What suit?”
Laughter erupts from the watching crowd. I feel my cheeks prick with embarrassment on Daidalos’ behalf.
Lykos pulls Daidalos close and presses his lips to his ear, whispering something that I can’t quite make out. Daidalos straightens, turns to give Lykos a questioning look, a murmured question that I don’t catch. Lykos nods emphatically, giving Daidalos’ shoulder an encouraging squeeze. It seems to be all that Daidalos needs, because he turns to me, a look of determination written across his features.
“Yes.” His throat bobs and he casts one more questioning look to Lykos. “Yes, I would like that.”
“So. Can we keep him?”
I sit down heavily on the low bench in front of my dressing table, then sigh with relief when Britomartis starts to unpin the cumbersome headdress I’ve been wearing all night.
Lykos drops to his knees on the floor beside me, grasping the edge of my bench to steady himself.
“I know he didn’t make the best first impression,” he continues, shuffling until he’s nearly kneeling between my legs, staring up at me imploringly. “But that was my fault. Sort of. Well, I gave him some of Brita’s erontas wine so I could question him, but then he ended up drinking too much…”
Britomartis lifts the headdress, and Lykos trails off, momentarily distracted. His gaze drops from my hair to my throat—still practically covered in jewelry—and then my exposed breasts.
“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he rasps, reaching out to tentatively trail his fingertips over the waistband of my skirt. “Like a goddess. Like a queen. And you’re mine.”
A satisfied smile curves his lips as he rests both hands on my waist, fingers splayed. His eyes linger on my stomach, as if he can see through the jewel encrusted belt and embroidered linen.
“My child could be growing here, even now,” he muses reverently.
Britomartis snorts in amusement behind me, her hands working to draw out the pins and coils from my hair.
“It’s unlikely, Achean,” she tells him bluntly. “You have made love to her what, twice? Three times? And besides, she’s taking silphium.”
Lykos pouts at that, but doesn’t seem entirely dissuaded.
“Well. She could be.” His eyes dance with amusement as he shoots her a challenging look. “I’ll just have to fill her with my seed until it takes.”
Britomartis makes a choked sound, clearly appalled by his words. I laugh at the pair of them, glad to finally be back in the privacy of our chambers, with Britomartis’ hands in my hair and Lykos’ on my stomach and the pair of them bickering in that comfortable way that they have started to do.
“But, can we keep him?” Lykos asks again, turning that hopeful expression on me. “Daidalos, I mean.”
“I know who you mean.”
Gods, he is adorable like this, soft and pliant from too much wine. Needy from the effects of erontas, though some of its effects have thankfully worn off by now.
I cup his face in one hand, brushing my fingertips against the rough prickle of stubble coating his cheek. I wasn’t sure about that stubble at first, at the masculine coarseness of him. I like it now. Like how he rubs his cheeks against my sensitive inner thighs. Like the contrast of that roughness against the softness of his lips and mouth.
“Technically speaking, it would be an eligible match,” Britomartis agrees slowly. “He is from a good family. And Knossos needs more ships.”
I sigh, my gaze drifting to the polished bronze oval mirror set on my dressing table. My own reflection stares back, hazy and dark in the lamplight.
“That is true,” I agree reluctantly.
We have lost Perses’ ships and my brother’s ships. Lykos’ ships are good, but even he admits they are nothing compared to the ships my people build.
Still, I have only just taken my throne. And what I have with Britomartis and Lykos—it is new and precious and perfect. Would bringing someone new in spoil that? And while I’m sure Daidalos is a perfectly respectable man (tonight’s drunkenness aside) I might not want him as a lover.
In fact, the thought of it, of some strange man’s hands on me, it makes my stomach churn.
“Please, Sira.” Lykos tangles his hands in my skirt, making room for Britomartis to start untying my belt.
I stare down at him, at the want written across his features. This is not just a passing desire, I realize. Not just the impulse of a friendship formed over too much erontas wine. No, there is desire there. Real, deep, desire.
“You want him?” I surmise.
Lykos nods, his gaze dropping, a flush creeping up his cheeks.
“And you think… he wants you too?”
“I believe so.” Lykos wets his lips, still not meeting my eyes with his own.
Tenderly, gently, I grasp his chin, lifting his face, urging him to look at me.
“I am sorry,” he whispers.
My brow dips.
“Sorry? Why would you be sorry for it?”
“Well… I’m… I’m pledged to you.”
Something cracks behind my ribs, and I find myself rising to my feet, pulling him up with me. Britomartis hisses in dismay as my ornately decorated skirt tumbles to the floor, no longer held up by the many ties and belt.
“Oh, Lykos,” I sigh, wrapping my arms around his waist.
His linen tunic smells like poppy smoke and grass and wine and him. I breathe it in, delighting in the smell of him, then turn to look at Britomartis over my shoulder. We share an indulgent smile, a knowing look. For all that he has tried to adjust himself to our ways, our Achean still has so much to learn.
“Have you not seen Adrienne and her men?” I ask him, pulling back to stare up into his bewildered face. “Do you not know that Jadikira and my brother are lovers? And Nerites too, I believe, by what Adrienne has said. It is only Kitanetos who devotes himself fully to Adrienne, and that is simply because that is the way his heart has been made.”
I give him a gentle smile, then skate my arms over his shoulders, as if I can physically impart the reassurance I’m trying to give him.
“There is no shame in it,” I tell him, repeating what I’m certain Britomartis has already explained. “In fact, such things are generally encouraged among pledge-brothers where there is the inclination. It creates harmony and devotion. It eases the burden on the woman they are pledged to as well...”
My stomach twists at that as I consider my own inclinations. How very unlikely it is that I would want to take on some other man as a lover, and the conflicting expectation that I—as the Minas Crete—would have at least several men pledged to me.
“Yes. I know.” Lykos’ throat bobs, and the blush that has been painting his cheeks spreads to his forehead, to the tips of his ears. “But Daidalos is… he doesn’t have any inclination for women at all.” He bites his lip, then adds hurriedly. “It isn’t anything against you, you know. You are beautiful. Even he acknowledged that you are beautiful. But he has never desired a woman and any pledge from him would be an empty thing. He would not want to be your lover, only mine. And so I shouldn’t ask for you to consider him, should I? It’s selfish to want that, when he would just be for me, and me alone.”
The relief I feel at Lykos’ words, it’s like falling and flying all at once.
I surge forward, wrapping my arms around his neck, slanting my lips against his to silence him, sighing at the sweet taste of erontas wine on his tongue. Behind me, Britomartis huffs in amusement.
“Yes, that would be very selfish,” Britomartis deadpans. “To have a lover who no one else shares. Who would do such a thing? Especially when that lover brings four well-built ships to Knossos and an alliance with Zakros. Incredibly selfish.”
I pull back with a laugh, shaking my head at Britomartis’ words, at Lykos’ wide-eyed look of surprise.
“A pledge from Daidalos would not be an empty thing,” I tell him seriously, though it is hard to stop the smile tugging at my cheeks. “I would more than welcome such an offer, Lykos. And if you think he might be worthy of your heart, then I am certain he would be worthy of my own affection.”
Especially if it is only friendship and affection he requires , I think wryly, though I don’t say that out loud.
“You mean it?”
I can practically feel Lykos vibrating with excitement, as if he means to run this very moment to find Daidalos, to tell him of this news.
“I mean it.”
I press another kiss to his lips, this one a brushing, tender thing. A promise.
He kisses me back, hungry, desperate kisses that have him clawing at my tunic and pulling at my hips.
“Thank you,” he says between kisses, his words breathy and half mumbled against my own lips. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“I’ll inform his mother tomorrow,” Britomartis says, and I know she is saying this for his benefit. Because he will not understand how such things must be done. “That will start the courtship period. And will give you time to change your mind in case this affection for him is merely the result of you having drunk too much of the wine you stole from me.”
“I won’t,” Lykos assures her, stopping his kisses to hold me to him, cradling my head against his chest. I can hear his heart hammering wildly, as if he has just fought some battle or run some race. “I won’t change my mind. I know I won’t.”
“Well. We will have to see.”
I can hear the smirk in Britomartis’ voice, that sharp edged tone that she takes with him—and sometimes me—when we are alone in our chambers. The sound of it has heat coiling low in my belly, an almost automatic response to the expectation of pleasure.
“Now, in the meantime,” she purrs, “perhaps you can show your minas just how very, very grateful you are.”