2. Drusilla #2
He lifts a single brow, keeping his silence. And she keeps hers. Whether he’s being honest with her or not, he deserves to feel some sort of guilt for what he put her through—along with the rest of the Faithless.
“The man behind the blue door isn’t worth your time,” he says finally.
She stops fidgeting with the sheathe on her belt, unable to hide her surprise that he knows about her orders. Maybe he is still one of the Faithless.
“And King Cato of Anziano is?”
“Yes,” he answers immediately, watching her intently.
Dru bites her lip, quickly weighing her options.
She has no good reason to believe Marcus, to go with him blindly on his word alone.
On the other hand, if he, in fact, never defected and has been on an assignment all this time, that makes him her superior.
Can she deny a direct order—even one from someone who so thoroughly fooled her fellow Faithless initiates and became such a cunning spy?
Especially when he claims the order comes from the last king on the known continent?
Crossing her arms, she takes a moment to weigh her options.
The man behind the blue door could be anyone; it’s not her place to question why the Faithless ordered him to be killed, only to do what she’s told.
And if Marcus somehow remains one of the Faithless, then he must have his reasons for telling her to disregard the orders—rebuffing him would be cause for exile in the eyes of the Three.
She exhales. Despite every bone in her body wanting to deny him simply so she can, her best option right now is to trust him.
“Then we should leave,” she snaps, “before we join the Phaedran soldiers in death.”
Turning on her heel, she makes a run for the military stables, left untouched by the enemy’s fire. Marcus trails behind her.
“Such little faith in the Imperium army might be considered heresy,” he says seriously once he catches up to her. She knows he’s only trying to bait her—like all members of the Faithless, he couldn’t care less about Imperium law.
She doesn’t break stride. “And having someone arrested after saving their life might be considered idiocy, but here we are.”
If she didn’t know better, she could swear he chuckled.
Once they reach the stables, they hurry through the wide entrance, moving along the center pit to avoid alerting any soldiers who might’ve slept through the sounds of war.
Luckily, the ones at the tabernae find themselves too busy with their own inebriation and the enemy’s fire to come for their horses.
Choking down bile, she endures the rank stench of horse piss collecting in the ditch—they won’t get far without transportation. Especially given they’re heading deep into the island country of Anziano, a much wilder land.
Past the rounded stone arches and wooden gates, they find most of the horses tucked away in their stalls. The first few greet Dru and Marcus with impatient huffs, their wide, dark eyes watching them curiously.
A thud slams against the inside of the stables, hard enough to rattle the timbers; Dru flinches. The horses jolt, stamping their feet and whinnying in alarm. Dru pulls out her dagger, hoping Ovi hasn’t gotten herself into trouble, despite knowing that’s the most likely scenario.
She turns the corner, finding Ovidia standing over an unconscious stable hand lying in a heap on the hay-spattered ground.
Dru sheathes her weapon. “It took you this long to incapacitate a stable hand? You’re losing your touch.”
“He was a trained soldier,” Ovi explains, tossing the shit shovel in her hand onto the ground beside him, “and also very uninterested in my womanly wiles.”
Dru rolls her eyes. “Your womanly wiles have only gotten us into trouble.”
Ovi grins, but she drops it just as quickly, pulling out her own dagger as Dru senses Marcus approach behind her.
She holds out a hand, gesturing for Ovi to back down. “Relax, Ovi. You remember Marcus.”
Ovi squints past Dru’s head, recognition and surprise drawing up her brow. “Marcus Scaevola, as I live and breathe.”
Dru recognizes the grin in his voice. “Ovidia Faustus.”
He holds out his hand for her to grasp it. But Ovi doesn’t move, not to take his hand or put away her weapon.
Her gaze narrows. Stellae, this can’t be good. “You have a lot to explain. After what you did to my friend?—”
“Ovi,” Dru whispers sharply. “We don’t have time for this. We need to go, now.”
For the length of a slow breath, she stares Marcus down. Dru and Ovi have spoken about this man at length, and Dru’s worried she’s going to say something they’ll all regret. Ovi never regrets anything she says, but it can—and has—hurt other people.
At last, she puts away her dagger .
She points to the occupied stalls beside her. “These two horses are already saddled.”
Dru immediately heads for the closest one, opening the gate and reaching for the horse’s reins. But the beast rears its head and screams, backing away from her.
“Senseless creatures,” she grumbles.
“You have to know how to approach them.” Marcus starts forward, purposefully turning his head to avoid eye contact as he advances on the second horse. He places his hand unhurriedly on the beast’s cheek. “Aequanimitas, amica.” Calmness, friend.
Despite training with them for years, Dru doesn’t have much luck with animals. Not like Marcus. Fortunate for us. Though she won’t admit it aloud, she’s comforted he remembers the ways of the Faithless. Even if there’s still a chance he’s forsaken them.
“He hasn’t lost his touch,” Ovi whispers beside her. Dru swats her away.
With a bit of coaxing, the horse follows Marcus out of the stall.
He guides him toward Dru, holding out the reins for her. “Think you can handle watching this one?”
She smirks. “I’ll manage.”
He gives her a long look of apprehension before going back for the first horse.
Once he’s turned his back, she repeats the words Marcus said.
To her dismay, the beast leans into her open palm.
The corded muscle beneath his soft, downy hair ebbs along her hand, and he huffs again. You’re awfully sweet for a war horse.
“Touching.”
Dru flinches, hoping she doesn’t startle her horse. Marcus remains stoic, while Ovi looks on in amusement.
Certain she hears hard footfalls heading their way, she glances outside the stables—nothing moves in the flickering firelight. When she turns back, she finds Marcus gripping the reins of the first horse. He leaps onto the saddle with infuriating ease and pulls him around.
Dru clears her throat. “Let’s get out of here before the soldiers come for their horses and find us stealing them.”
Marcus nods. “Besides, the Namican army is likely past the river by now.”
“No shit,” Dru mutters. Using a nearby crate, she helps herself onto her horse much less gracefully. Ovi follows after her, both of their bodies on the saddle making for a tight fit. But they’ll make it work—they always do.
Holding tight to his reins, Marcus trots along the other horse stalls and undoes their latches.
“What are you doing?” Dru asks as the rest of the horses sprint out of the stable at Marcus’s verbal command, galloping wildly into the night.
“Creating a distraction,” he reasons. “They’d look into two horses being stolen, but an unconscious stable hand and a full stable of missing horses would be blamed on the Namicans.”
I hate that he’s right. Swallowing an indignant grunt, she grips the reins of her horse and leads him out of the stables.
Galloping down the opposite way of the pit in silence, Marcus right behind them, she strains to hear any movement from the streets around her. But only the far-off sounds of war cries and clashing swords keeps them company. Not a single soul dares so much as breathe?—
“Wait!”
A slim figure leaps out from the shadows and into their path.
Dru and Ovi’s horse rears up, throwing Ovi from the saddle; she lands hard on her back, rolling out of the way of his hooves.
Marcus, however, keeps complete control over his beast, maneuvering him behind the person and trapping him between them.
Once her horse settles, she finds Ovi on her hands and knees, gulping in labored breaths. It’s not the first time either of them has been knocked from a horse, but Dru knows it doesn’t make landing on her back any easier.
After Ovi finally catches her breath and Dru helps her into the saddle again, Dru takes a good look at the stranger. She closes her eyes and sighs, frustration burning in her restless limbs .
“Out of our way, bard.”
Ovi hits her shoulder with the back of her hand, whispering through pained breaths. “Don’t be rude.”
Slinging his lute over his back, he juts out his lower lip and interlocks his fingers in prayer. “Please, take me with you. I won’t be a burden.”
“Any addition to our caravan would be a burden,” Marcus argues. Glad we’re on the same page about something.
The bard takes a step toward Marcus. “But I won’t be! And I can serenade you with my songs.”
Dru stares at him. He can’t be serious.
“That could be nice,” Ovi insists quietly.
Dru turns her head to whisper, “I will smack you. I swear it.”
Ovi purses her thin lips, green eyes bright with held-back laughter.
The bard fumbles with a small bag from his pocket, shaking it. The pouch jingles with coin, likely everything he made tonight without the tabernae having the opportunity to take its cut.
“I can pay.”
“It’s not about money,” Marcus says.
The bard falls to his knees. Dru scoffs; it’s a bit dramatic, even for a starving musician. “Please. If the Namicans don’t kill me, the Phaedrans will have me arrested for singing an Obliviscaturian song.” He points to himself. “Look at this face: I won’t fare well in prison.”
“That’s true,” Ovi mutters.
Marcus pauses. “Fine.”
Dru glares at him over the bard, who’s too distracted climbing to his feet and dusting himself off to notice.
Seeing the look, Marcus guides his horse to come up close beside her so they won’t be overheard. “It’s not for charity. He may be of use to us at the Mercato Bridge.”
Dru seals her lips tight, trying not to breathe too deeply. By all rights, the man should smell only of smoke and sweat. But at this distance, she can’t help breathing in his scent of sandalwood and olive oil. The olive oil is new, but sandalwood she remembers far too well.
Clearing her throat, she turns her face aside to take stock of the bard. At her back, Ovi tightens her grip around Dru’s waist.
As much as she hates the bard—admittedly for no better reason than his profession—they can’t ignore his offer.
At minimum, they’ll have to pay their way across the bridge, to purchase provisions.
And while the ride to Anziano’s not long, the terrain makes it difficult to traverse, especially if they have to stay off the roads.
She grips her horse’s reins. “You want him? He’s all yours.”
Without waiting for a response, Dru digs in her heels and the horse takes off.