10. Drusilla
CHAPTER TEN
DRUSILLA
D ru awakes the next morning to muted sunlight bathing her chamber in a warm glow, pressing in through her closed eyes.
Groaning from the lingering ache in her hip and shoulder, she grips foreign silk sheets between her fingers, the far-off sound of waves crashing around her. Where am I?
Her eyes snap open.
Heart pounding, she leaps from the bed, throwing the sheet off and gulping in the briny sea air. Out of the corner of her eye, the Multum Sea shimmers through the balcony door left ajar, the breeze rippling along the curtains.
Anziano. I’m in Anziano with Marcus Scaevola, and Ovi is dead.
Her stomach drops, and a single tear cuts down her cheek for her friend. She chooses not to wipe it away this time. She doesn’t often allow herself to feel loss. Physical pain is easy to ignore, to overcome. But when no one’s around to see it, she gives in to the scars only she knows exist.
Wearing a white slip she found in the trunk of clothes left at the foot of her bed, she walks out onto the balcony.
She places her arms on the metal railing and peers out at the ocean as the gentle breeze dries the tears on her cheeks.
The morning fog clings to the water’s surface, making it impossible to see the Imperium shore on the other side.
The Imperium, who are only allowing the Valorem Blood Trials to take place in Anziano for their own personal gain.
She hasn’t figured out how yet, or to what end.
But the moment Cato mentioned the lottery, she knew.
The Imperium only does that which benefits them.
They’re not allowing these trials out of the goodness of their vile hearts.
And certainly not for the sake of a tradition for a country they’ve failed to successfully invade.
The only way for Cato to remain king of Anziano is if he wins the Valorem Blood Trials. And maybe not even then.
We have a lot of work ahead of us.
Stepping back inside, she strips off her slip and pulls out the same beige tunic she wore yesterday. Considering she barely broke a sweat in it, it’ll last her at least another day. She does, however, put on a new set of undergarments—the one luxury she wants to keep while she can.
The moment she steps out of her room, she finds Marcus heading in her direction, as if he was waiting for her.
A belt tightens the beige tunic around his waist. His dark locks hang loose today, and his stubble has grown longer overnight.
It’s unfair for him to look so good. Not when she’s certain she looks like horse dung left out in the sun.
He appears as if he’s been up for some time, and with plenty of sleep: no smudges plague the space beneath his eyes, no tiredness lags his gait. Stellae, he even walks the same as he did when he trained me.
Stopping far enough away, his gaze strays to her tunic. “You know you don’t have to wear a tunic more than once before it’s considered dirty?”
“How you’ve changed, Marcus,” Dru quips. The uniforms the Faithless gave them to wear had to last an entire month before being washed .
A wry smile pulls at his lips; he remembers too.
“Breakfast?”
Her stomach speaks in agreement before she can get the words out.
He leads her to the center of the open courtyard, where a wooden table, chairs, and three place settings have been put out for their use.
In the middle of the table sits a jug of milk, a tray of fresh oranges, a small bowl of crystal salt, and a rounded loaf of bread—nearly baked to the color of ash—sliced into even pieces.
“Is that bread burnt?”
Marcus pulls out a chair for her, then takes his own. “No, it’s made from a wheat native to Anziano, called tumminia. It turns the bread dark brown when baked.”
That doesn’t seem like something someone of Marcus’s station would know, but she’s impressed by the knowledge nonetheless.
Unfortunately, small talk has never been one of her stronger attributes, and she needs to air her concerns about Cato’s abilities. Or lack thereof.
Palming an orange, she sits down and begins to peel it. “We need to talk about the trials.”
Marcus’s hand pauses on the milk jug. “And here I thought it’d be a much better use of our time contemplating the weather for the next few days.”
She sinks a short nail into the flesh of the fruit. “I’m serious, Marcus. I’ve been here less than a day, and from what I’ve seen, the king won’t be ready in time.”
Marcus gives up on the milk, regarding her.
“You can’t tell me you haven’t thought the same,” she prods, recalling what she learned of each trial. “The first trial is hand-to-hand combat?—”
“He’s fine on that count.”
“But—”
“Trust me.”
I want to. I want to more than you can know.
Her chest aches from the distrust of him in her heart. Yet every single one of her instincts tells her she can’t place her full faith in him yet.
She moves on. “The second involves answering impossible riddles to escape a deadly maze. The third, a horse race around the island. And the final trial is gladiator combat. Can you confidently say he’s ready to face all of them?”
One side of Marcus’s lips cock up. “Isn’t that what you’re here for?”
She glares at him.
He plucks a slice of bread from the loaf, tearing it apart to sprinkle some salt inside. “He’s more educated than most participants are likely to be. And he’s been riding horses since he could walk.”
“Marcus…” She sighs. “You saw him out there yesterday. I have no doubt he can answer the riddles, but in past trials, they’ve set up the maze with traps meant to kill.
His ability to ride a horse won’t be the issue—it’s what lengths the other participants will go to in the name of destroying their competition. ”
She lowers her voice. “And unless whatever gods might be out there decide to intervene, he won’t last one round in gladiator combat.”
He slumps in his chair, arms relaxed; she bites the inside of her cheek. “You have to give him a chance. He might surprise you.”
“Few could surprise Drusilla, I think,” Cato announces from behind her, taking his own seat across from her.
The thorny crown atop his head gleams bronze now, a blue crystal similar to the one around Sabina’s neck embedded at the center—the mourning period for his father must be over.
His silk robes boast the deep blue hue many Durevolians wear. A king of the people.
Marcus takes up the milk jug again and pours some into a small cup. “She’s worried about your mortality.”
Cato tosses an orange at Marcus, who catches it easily. “You and my mother would get along, then. ”
“And I told her not to underestimate you,” Marcus adds.
“But you’ve given me no basis for that claim.” She tucks her legs underneath her. “Give me a reason—any reason—to think you won’t die in the first round.”
Cato smiles. “This island and its people hold many secrets. When it’s ready, it will show them to you.”
Dru blinks at him. “That’s not an answer?—”
“We have work to do,” Marcus interrupts. “Since you’re so worried about him.”
Grabbing a slice of bread, she rips off a piece. “Fine.”
Knowing full well she’d be a fool to let it go.
Dru spends most of her first full day in Anziano inside the arena, focusing on the third trial to ensure his equitation skills meet her standards. Either he knows how to ride or he doesn’t.
After watching him, she has to admit that he’s better than most riders in the Faithless.
But will it be enough for the treachery involved in these blood trials?
Those from the northern territories are known across the continent to be great horse lords; their lowliest seamstresses have been taught to ride horses since childhood.
She doesn’t know enough of the people from Anziano to guess at what their strengths and weaknesses might be, but she doubts any of them are stupid enough to go after their own king.
The maze will be easier for Cato, just by the nature of his education. But those from the Imperium capital, Phaedra, are also well-learned scholars.
Puffs of white clouds linger in the bright blue sky, but the intensity of the sun this time of year so far south sets her skin on fire. Her hair doesn’t care much for the bit of moisture clinging to the air, which is why she’s pulled it back at the nape of her neck.
She takes a sip of water from the skin she brought with her as Cato trots toward her with his horse beneath him. “Who taught you to ride, your grandmother?”
Cato kicks his heels and gallops past. “Yes, actually. She was an expert rider.”
Dru turns to Marcus standing beside her. “I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not.”
Marcus grins. “If you ask nicely, he’ll show you the painting of her in the royal stables.”
She fights against rolling her eyes. “One more lap, Cato.”
The quietness of the arena soothes her. None of the sounds of the city breach the stone walls except the bell from the temple, which Cato told her rings at regular intervals throughout the day. Enough to be annoying but also helpful when time slips away.
Having suffered three of those intervals watching Cato, she sees improvement from the morning. His confidence grows with each lap around the arena. She hopes it’s enough.
Admittedly, she’s also a bit distracted. She still doesn’t trust the reason behind her being here, and she knows neither he nor Marcus will tell her anything. She’ll have to find out on her own.
“Since we’re here,” Cato breaks into her thoughts as he hands his stableboy the reins to his horse, “I’m going to visit my mother.”
“I’ll come with you,” Marcus offers, then regards Dru.
“I can find my way back,” she cuts him off, a plan forming in her head.
Without waiting for a response, she leaves them to their endeavor and walks back to the palace, hastening once she’s out of sight.
Cato and Marcus both harbor secrets—of that, she has no doubt. And while her oaths demand she trust Marcus, her superior, her training tells her to gather all the information she can.