13. Drusilla
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DRUSILLA
D ru stares at the dress Sabina left on her bed for her that morning. It shimmers in the half-light, sewn from the finest silk in Anziano—or so she’s told. She brushes her fingers along the violet-dyed fabric, extraordinarily soft against her skin.
“Why a dress?”
Sabina regards her. “All the Durevolian women wear this. Cato thought it might fit you. It once belonged to his sister, and she was about your size.”
I don’t have it in me to argue. Though she does note how Sabina speaks of his sister in the past tense. She wonders what happened to her: was she married off, or did she pass away?
“Let me take a bath first.”
“I think that’s wise.”
Sabina combs her hair once she’s done, then helps her into the dress.
The fabric clings to her curves the moment she slips it on over her head. More so when Sabina pulls a thin woven rope around her waist a few times before tightening it, accentuating her smaller waist and ensuring she breathes less easily .
Thin braided straps rest gently on her shoulders and loop across her back, while the neckline plunges down the front, nearly reaching her bellybutton.
The hem of the dress falls just above her feet, except for the thin slit that comes to a point higher on her right thigh than she normally cares for.
“Is this an appropriate outfit for a religious ceremony?”
Sabina laughs. “You’ve spent too long in the Imperium.”
While Dru places the armband back over her tattoo, Sabina shifts on her feet uneasily.
“What is it?” Dru asks.
“What happened to your cheek?”
Dru reaches for her face but doesn’t touch the wound. She completely forgot about it. “A Namican soldier sliced it open with their arrow before I killed them.”
Eyes wide, Sabina follows Dru as she leaves her room for the front of the palace. “That’s where Marcus found you.”
“Yes, in Nusquam, across the river from Namicus.”
“I’m glad he did,” Sabina confesses after a moment. Dru doesn’t press the matter, but she’s glad for Sabina’s company.
The open doors of the palace frame Marcus, Cato, the bard, and a handful of guards, waiting in the bright sunlight of midday.
Her heart nearly stops at the sight of Marcus.
He cleaned up for the first time since bringing her to Anziano—he shaved off the days’ old stubble and slicked back his hair so it curls slightly around his ears.
She can’t help staring at him as he stands beside Cato, wishing he didn’t have this effect on her.
Wishing she could get over wanting him so badly she can barely think of anything else.
Marcus, it seems, has no problem watching her beneath his hooded gaze once he notices her approaching. Or maybe he has no idea he’s doing it.
But most men would look at her the way he does with this dress. At least, that’s what she tells herself. Because she can’t fathom the alternative, and the dress in question warrants it .
His own clothes don’t help the situation.
Instead of a tunic, a pair of black, wide-legged, silk trousers sit low on his hips, and a matching short-sleeved silk shirt clings to his shoulders—with all the buttons undone.
Her idea of what he might look like beneath his tunic does him no justice.
The muscles she convinced herself to be hidden under his cloak that first night are on full display, as is more of his bronzed skin.
She swallows, her body warming at the sight of him. Stellae, he looks good. Too good.
Cato finally notices her, a genuine smile lighting up his face. “You look magnanimous, Drusilla. I’m glad the dress fits you.”
“Thank you. Sabina told me it’s your sister’s?” she prods.
“It was, yes.”
“Was?”
His eyes tighten, but otherwise he gives nothing away. “Yes, was. But I’m glad to see some of her things being put to good use.”
As much as she wants to pry, he clearly doesn’t plan to elaborate. Though she might ask Sabina later.
They start down the hill to the temple in silence.
The heat from the limestone steps beneath their feet seeps through the bottom of her sandals.
Beads of sweat instantly pop up on her forehead and neck as the sun beats down on the top of her head.
She places her hand at her hairline to block out most of it.
The capital city of Notevole sprawls across the entire valley below. Colorful artwork in all different styles graces the exterior of many of the buildings, while multihued shades strung between tiled rooftops filter out the sunlight in the narrow alleyways.
The further they descend, the more Durevolians peek out of their homes and around corners, murmuring to each other.
They only have eyes for Cato.
“Remind me again how this ceremony is meant to be a sign of peace and good faith between two nations who can’t stand each other?” Dru asks the king.
Cato keeps his gaze forward. “Given the Phaedrans will be staying here through the trials, we must show my people how to welcome them.”
“Bullshit,” she blurts out. “Your people don’t want to see you welcoming the enemy with open arms; they want to see you rage against them.”
He doesn’t skip a beat. “I would if I could. But I haven’t been given much of a choice. We don’t want to incite a full-scale riot; the Phaedrans have been waiting for us to make a wrong move, and now they’ve brought soldiers onto our soil.”
She clicks her jaw shut. Not for the first time, Dru’s glad she’ll never have to be in a position of power. It sounds exhausting, second-guessing oneself all the time and always having to consider the needs of the many. She doesn’t envy Cato in the slightest.
Silence accompanies them the rest of the way. From up here, she finds the square mostly empty, with no open-air market today. She can’t blame them: she would make herself scarce too with such high-ranking officials from the Imperium nearby.
Reaching the bottom of the steps, the first Durevolian homes invite them in.
A soft voice sings out of one open window and the sound of a flute floats over from another, the smell of eggs and cooked fish wafting up her nose.
Intricately carved limestone protrudes from the building walls, capping the corners and marking the front doors.
Their footsteps echo as they walk down the wide alleyway, the cobblestone slightly uneven beneath her slippered feet.
Once they enter the heart of the square, the temple appears, looming above them.
She glances up at it, speechless. She’s heard rumors of its magnificence, but never expected to see it for herself up close.
Marble columns laden with the same veins of sparkling pale-white agate and dark red jasper as the palace guard the outside, its rounded structure made from thick limestone.
The curved entrance, which faces the direction of the ocean, climbs almost as high as the roof.
Dru squints at the life-size depictions of the gods carved into the stone with great care and precision, wondering how long it took to build.
The temple is full as they pass through its threshold. The heady scent of vanilla, cinnamon, and roses finds her, calming her nerves.
The throng has naturally separated themselves between Phaedran and Durevolian, which doesn’t surprise her.
Cato’s father might’ve thought this ceremony would bring the two peoples together, but differing religions tend to keep people apart.
She’s seen enough blood spilled over it to not believe otherwise.
Cato leans toward Marcus. “I’m going to find my mother.”
Marcus nods and Cato splits off, his guards following him.
With Cato gone, Dru and Marcus find spots beside one another facing the altar.
Though the other Durevolian women around her wear similar garments, she feels almost naked standing at his side. The slight breeze from the Multum Sea flutters against her sensitive skin, causing goose bumps to pop up on her arms.
Despite his hands clasped behind his back, Marcus’s posture leads her to believe him completely at ease. She wishes she could say the same, and not only because of the dress. Being so close to him but not touching him is almost painful.
Seeing him today without his uniform reminded her why she fell in love with him all those years ago. Few things matter at that age except beautiful eyes and strong jaws, which she saw both of from him nearly every day he trained her. But Marcus was also kind and patient and a good teacher.
Now that he’s back in her life, the feelings she sought to suppress over the past six years have resurfaced as if no time passed. And it’s becoming harder to rein them in.
Her chest hollows knowing that no matter how hard she tried to convince herself otherwise, she still cares for him. Deeply. She lied to herself for so long after he left that she began to believe it.
It doesn’t change the fact that he’ll never feel the same way about me.
The deep temple bell tolls loudly, signaling the start of the ceremony. Men dressed like Marcus and Cato beat the large ceremonial drums, the sound thumping against her ears.
Glancing upward, she finds herself in awe at the temple. Unlike the palace, the floor beneath her feet isn’t marble, but instead blue agate, forming sparkling whirlpools across it. It works in great contrast against the dark green limestone slithering up the beige walls in thick rivulets.
Beams of sunlight shoot through the opening at the highest point of the temple to emblazon a bronze statue of a Viverna, the ancient race of Durevolian dragons, at the center of the altar. He crouches low, poised to attack, his eyes sparkling with red gems.
Once the echo of the last bell dissipates, thirteen women dance out from behind the statue to the beat of the drums. Dru’s eyes widen—these women have not one scrap of clothing on. Now I know why Sabina laughed about the appropriateness of my outfit.