11. Drusilla #2
Back then, the Faithless initiates had turned Marcus into a bit of a demigod.
Effortlessly good at everything he did, people either wanted to be him or be with him.
His hair was short then, bringing out the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones.
She could swear his ice-blue eyes shone like stars, and she’d dreamt often about kissing his lips.
Stellae, but she was in love with him—not the real sort of love, but the kind that made you do stupid things.
She shakes her head at her own absurdity as she crosses the open courtyard. From his reaction in the arena, she clearly didn’t make him feel the same. The way he squirmed beneath her… he couldn’t wait for her to get off him.
At least he’s steadfast.
Reaching for the door, she hurries inside.
She palms the coin purse with the torn remnants of the order and moves to leave again.
But she doesn’t want to alarm the guards of her disappearance at night; they might make someone go with her.
Or worse, they might tell Marcus. She wants—no, needs —to be alone for this.
Instead, she heads to the balcony, where the night air seeps into her room, chilling it. Leaning on the iron bar, she peers over the side.
The ocean waves crash into the craggy rocks at the bottom, spraying sea foam into the air. It’s a steep drop, but the moonlight clearly illuminates a path carved into the cliff. Too far to jump, though . Especially if she misses the path entirely.
She’s surprised to find none of Marcus’s men guarding the path. If ever there was a weakness in the palace guard—and with the visiting Phaedrans on the way—it’s this. I’m going to have to speak to him about that.
Squinting at the side of the cliff below, she looks for another way down when she finds a system of thick vines. She kneels, reaching for the closest one, finding it sturdy at the base. Something squishy sticks out from its ends; she plucks it, grasping a small grape between her fingers.
Popping it in her mouth, she bites down. Her lips pucker from the concentrated sweetness and tinge of bitterness. Wine grapes. But if the plants are as old as the vines feel, then they should hold her.
With her back to the sea, she fits herself between the metal bars of the balcony and crouches down.
Keeping a hand tight on one of the bars, she dangles her feet over the edge, searching blindly for footholds.
It’s not long before she finds them among the thick vines.
Taking great care, she pulls on the one directly below, making certain it’ll hold her.
She releases her grip on the balcony .
Luckily, the vines hold the entire way down to the path, with plenty of natural footings along the way. Even if it hadn’t been this easy, she would’ve found a way. The Faithless put her through far more difficult tasks in her training.
Once her feet land on the path, she glances up at the palace. Warm firelight spills out from the other balconies, but it doesn’t look like?—
Something moves out of the corner of her eye.
Searching the palace walls, she only finds someone’s curtains billowing in the soft breeze. Although that looks like Marcus’s chamber… Stop being paranoid.
Taking in her surroundings, she wonders where this path starts. Her plans quickly overcome any curiosities, though, and she hurries down it. Just like the path to the arena, it eventually turns into carved-out stairs, leading her to the edge of the beach.
Once she reaches the sand, her feet sink in. She undoes her sandals and leaves them on the last step, walking along the shore and squishing the sand between her toes. It feels good. Liberating.
Far enough down the shore, she decides this is as good a place as any and walks into the gentle waves. The moment she touches the surf, the water laps up onto her feet, then her ankles. It’s warmer than she thought it would be, as if she’s stepped into a bath instead of the ocean.
She moves further out until the water reaches the middle of her thighs, wetting the hem of her tunic.
The dark sea stretches out before her, the heavy scent of brine and the sharp cries of gulls keeping her company.
Millions of stars stretch across the blackened sky, their rippled twins reflected in the water.
At times like these, she feels so small and insignificant.
As if nothing she does will matter in the end.
Dru uncinches the coin purse and looks up, drawing in a slow, deep breath and whispering, “You would’ve loved this. Every single moment of it.”
As she watches the night sky, a cluster of stars twinkle in and out. If she believed in the Caeli—the heavens the Phaedrans claim exist after you die—she might imagine Ovi looking down on her now. Of her being up there among the stars.
Given she had no chance in Nusquam to do the last rites for her friend, she decides to do so now.
Grasping the shredded remnants of the last order Ovi would ever be given, she scatters them into the surf, speaking the words she was taught but hoped never to use:
“In life, you have served. In death, you shall rest. Mors vincit omnia.” Then, she whispers, “Ex nihilo nihil fit.”
It means “nothing comes from nothing”—a promise Dru and Ovi made to each other if one of them died while the other lived.
Whoever survives promises to move on with their lives, and not mourn the other for too long.
Otherwise, they’ll waste away into nothing, and the one who died, will have done so for nothing.
Dru was certain Ovi would be the one mourning her, not the other way around.
Although Dru will always carry Ovi with her, she has to do her best to move on.
Standing there as the bits of paper ebb and flow at the whims of the Multum Sea, a strange buzzing noise reaches her ears, droning at her back like a swarm of cicadas. She glances over her shoulder, the sound pulling her attention from the sea to the land.
Slowly trudging back toward the shore, she finds herself drawn to the mouth of a cave. The plants on the cliffside surrounding it appear dead. No, not dead ; as if they’ve been set aflame and burned through to their roots.
Dried seaweed and seashells litter the ground as she reaches the sand. She bends down and picks up a white, round one with a strange shape in the middle—when the humming intensifies.
The shell falls through her fingers and plops onto the sand as she stumbles in the direction of the sound, unable to stop herself.
It calls to her, carries her feet along the surface of the beach as if they no longer belong to her.
She feels nothing—not the salt on her face, the shifting ground beneath her, or the temperate breeze through her hair.
They lead her to the looming mouth of the cave. Utterly black inside and as empty as the beach, she stares into it, waiting for something to happen. The humming intensifies the closer she comes, as if hiding itself behind a veil.
Then, as suddenly as the humming began, it stops. Silence presses in on her ears, and the cool night air crawls beneath her skin, causing her to shiver.
Searching the blackness of the cave, a chill scrapes up her spine. She’s not normally one to believe in superstitions, but something doesn’t feel right about this place. And she’s not going to wait around to find out what it is.
Hurrying back up the shore, she grabs her sandals and scurries up the path as if she’s being chased by someone—or some thing . But each time she looks over her shoulder, she’s alone.
She doesn’t feel safe until she finds her way back to the palace, climbs the vines, and pulls herself up into her room.