11. Drusilla
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DRUSILLA
T hat afternoon is spent studying riddles from past trials, teasing out which ones the venatus magister—the Imperium’s gamemaster—and their own gamemaster, Ettore, might reuse as the sun sets beneath the horizon.
Soon, exhaustion addles her mind, so when Cato asks to stop for the day, she doesn’t argue.
Sabina has made herself scarce since she found Dru riffling through Cato’s personal things. Though she wants to trust her, she wouldn’t be surprised if Sabina sold her out. Honestly, she can’t blame her—Cato is her family, and Dru’s a stranger.
In Sabina’s place, the bard, unfortunately, has decided to grace them with his presence. The moment the servants brought out the food and wine for dinner, the bard eagerly appeared in the threshold of Cato’s chambers.
“Why is he here?” she asks Cato. “Don’t tell me you’re keeping him around for his musical talents.”
“Our people only know Durevolian songs.” Cato sets down his spoon and takes a sip of his wine. “It’ll be nice to have a variety of music echoing through these halls or being played in the square. Especially with so many visitors from other lands.”
Dru stabs her fork into the slice of lamb she just sawed off with her knife. “Agree to disagree.”
“Besides,” Cato adds, “I’m considering asking him to spy for us when the Phaedrans come for the trials.”
The bard straightens, looking far too pleased with himself.
Dru eyes the king like he’s gone mad. “You trust his allegiance to you so quickly?”
“I have no allegiance but my own,” the bard argues, failing to put Dru at ease.
“No,” Cato concedes, “but he’s proven himself well enough. From the sound of it, he could’ve easily left you at the brothel on the Mercato Bridge but didn’t. And he paid your way across with his own hard-earned money when he didn’t need to.”
Dru snorts. “ Hard-earned is subjective. And it’s not enough reason to trust him to spy on the Phaedrans for you.”
Cato sighs. “Is it not enough that I enjoy his company?”
Dru takes a bite of food. “No.”
The bard’s lute sits in the corner of the dining room, taunting her with its newly polished wood and taught strings. She stares at it, chewing harder than she needs to.
The more time she spends in the bard’s presence, the more she’s reminded of her childhood.
Her mother, Lucia, used to hum along as she played the lyre.
Dru swears it was made of gold, but now she knows she merely imagined it that way.
Her mother couldn’t have afforded anything painted gold, much less something so large wholly made from it.
Besides the fact that it would be completely impractical and sound terrible.
A servant sets another bowl of rice on the table for them to share; Dru spoons some onto her plate before the others can get to it.
In truth, she doesn’t want to be dining with them.
Or with anyone, for that matter. Ovi and Dru shared all of their meals together when they were out fulfilling their orders, and this is the first true meal without her.
The lamb turns in her stomach, and she wishes her friend were there instead of the damned bard. She sets her fork down too hard and stands, moving into the threshold of Cato’s chambers, her back to them.
Dru wonders if Cato and Marcus eat together often or if the king eats with the mother he mentioned. Though Dru hasn’t seen her yet to know if she exists.
She stares out into the courtyard, the night holding the flames captive. The servants lit the lanterns as soon as the sun set, despite pinks and oranges still soaking the sky.
Her mind keeps going back to the trials. Both Cato and Marcus told her separately that the first trial would be easy for the king, which causes her more unease. She needs to know why they think that.
She turns back. “I know you know the first trial is hand-to-hand combat.”
“Correct,” Cato confirms. “Marcus and I have that one settled. I’ve been learning to fight since I was a boy.”
Since he was a boy? “Why?”
Marcus answers. “The Durevolians believe their version of hand-to-hand combat—scazzottata—to be an intimate rite of passage between parent and child on their path to adulthood. Cato has been a master since he was thirteen.”
That means nothing. As much as she wants to, she doesn’t say it aloud.
Instead, she asks, “Have you fought one of the chieftains from Frigus? Or a warrior from Umida?”
Cato shakes his head.
As I thought. “Because the trials are open to the entire Imperium, you’re either going to have to prepare for every single type of fighting style, or…”
“Or?” Marcus prods, leaning on his elbow.
Dru glances at the bard, keeping her silence until he looks up from his food. Despite his constant presence and his numerous showings of incompetence, he’s a stranger to her and completely untrustworthy. The king’s growing faith in him does nothing to satisfy her own. A good spy indeed .
Taking the hint, he swallows his last bite. “I’ll go see if the cook has any more of that delicious wine.”
Once he leaves the room, Dru places her hands flat on the table.
“Or you add a rule without the Imperium’s knowledge, restricting everyone to a specific kind of fighting.”
Cato considers this. “Like what?”
“Like, hands only; no strikes with the feet or legs; feet must remain less than a foot off the ground.”
Marcus raises a brow. “That seems excessive.”
“That last one, perhaps. But it’s the only way to be sure the king isn’t going to get his ass handed to him. Or worse.”
Cato loops his hand around the front of his neck in thought. “It feels like cheating.”
Dru nearly laughs. “Do you want to live? Or do you want to be honorable? Because I can tell you right now: no one else competing in these trials plans to play fair.”
“Have you fully studied the first few Valorem Blood Trials, from start to finish?” she asks before he can respond.
His silence gives enough of an answer. She glances at Marcus, who looks on in fascination, the smallest of smiles on his lips.
“I have. They were so ruthless because there were no official rules. That’s how Queen Iniga wanted them: it allowed her to control the uncontrollable and make things up as they went along to her benefit.
But every single one of your ancestors had a proxy in their place, and each of them still made it to the final round. ”
She takes her seat again. “The difference this time is?—”
“The Imperium,” Cato mutters.
“Right. And unless you have some rules in place by the time their gamemaster gets here tomorrow, they’re going to make their own, and they won’t be in your favor.”
Cato takes another long sip of his wine. “What makes you think they haven’t already made their own?”
“I’m sure they have. But you can claim precedent over the trials. And they’ll have to acquiesce; otherwise, they’ll be going back on their word about why they agreed to this in the first place, and they’ll have a rebellion on their hands.”
“Dru’s right,” Marcus says. “More than the outcomes of the trials hang in the balance.” He pauses. “There’s still time to make me your proxy.”
Dru’s gut wrenches at the suggestion, and she’s not the only one.
Cato slams his hand on the table. “We’re not having this discussion again. My father’s death changes nothing—I always planned on participating.”
Marcus stands, his chair screeching against the marble floor. “Yes, but that was as your father’s fighter, at a time when he could technically still sire another heir. Now he’s gone, and you have no one to pass your crown on to. If you die, Anziano will descend into chaos.”
Dru can’t help adding, “And the Imperium will be all too happy to swoop in to take control.”
Cato presses his fingers into forehead. “I’d forgotten all about the damned heir business. Before my father passed, it was all I could do to tend to him. I had little time to think of what might happen after…”
Letting out a trembling breath, he gets to his feet, gripping both his wine cup and a full jug of it in either hand. “Thank you both for your counsel. I’ll have a draft of the rules across the four trials by morning for your perusal.”
At that, he leaves the room and opens the door to his lantern-lit office, shutting himself inside. A slight panic rises in her, hoping he doesn’t notice anything out of place. She was careful, but he might be more observant than she gives him credit for .
“What do you have against the bard?” Marcus asks her.
“I don’t trust him.”
“I don’t either. But what reason has he given you not to?”
“He hasn’t given me any reason to trust him.”
He looks at her like he wants to agree.
“Like Cato said, he could’ve left us without horses at the brothel on the bridge, but he didn’t.”
Dru snorts. “Exactly. Why wouldn’t he leave when he had the chance? We got him out of Nusquam, like he wanted, and he had means of transportation. Why come all the way into Anziano?”
“Change of scenery?” He sighs. “Even if he’s Cato’s spy now, I’ll have my men keep an eye on him.”
She shakes her head. “I forgot you have men now.”
He raises a brow. “I was bound to fail upward at some point.”
“We both know I was the failure between the two of us.”
The silence weighs heavy enough to get her up from her chair, refusing to meet his gaze.
“Goodnight, Marcus.”
She feels his eyes on her as she leaves, but he doesn’t respond.
Dru heads to her own chamber across the palace.
She hasn’t let herself be alone with him for too long since their sparring session in the arena yesterday.
Especially after she found herself on top of him and feelings long-buried shot straight to the surface.
She couldn’t help being transported back to their days with the Faithless when he was her instructor and she had less than two years left in her training before she took her rites.