13. Drusilla #2
Watching them, she finds it hard to believe that these are the women her mother told her about almost reverently when she was little. She spoke longingly of their sisterhood, of their bond with their fellow priestesses, of their earthly magic.
Besides the ability to affect the elements with their harmonizing, they’re also rumored to be the protectors of the last Durevolian dragon. But there’s more myth than truth to that.
She glances at Cato, who stands beside the ambassadors from the Imperium.
The legatus now wears his full military garb, armor and all, sticking out among those in attendance.
If Dru had to guess, he hails from one of the more southern territories where war wages less often.
As if he feels the need to announce his military prowess when he likely hasn’t had to fight a day in his life.
The naked Tredici kneel before the statue of the Viverna. They throw back their heads and croon in their language, the ancient words keening along the high domed ceiling. Their voices harmonize perfectly with each other, and a pleasant chill floats along her skin, settling in her bones.
She closes her eyes, recalling her mother’s voice singing her to sleep as they curled up together on the floor. An ache she’s fought hard to suppress wraps itself around her chest and tightens around her stomach.
Opening her eyes, she places a hand over her midsection to staunch it.
In the midst of their chanting, the Imperium priest steps forward, taking his place directly beneath the dragon. Uneasy murmurs fill the temple from both peoples as the drum beats cease.
She leans into Marcus, whispering, “What’s happening?”
“The sacerdos insisted on inserting himself into the ceremony—to show unity.”
There’s that word again: unity.
“Liar,” she can’t help saying. “There’s no unity in this; they’re trying to convert the Durevolians.”
He clears his throat gently. “They’re a proud people. Believe me, they won’t be so easily manipulated.”
She could swear he and Cato rehearsed their speeches together. Dru’s about to argue with him when the bard, of all people, steps out from behind the dragon, lute in hand. She blinks a few times to make sure the tight ties around her waist aren’t causing her to hallucinate.
How did he manage to talk his way into a sacred ceremony for the Durevolians ?
The sacerdos holds out his hands to the congregation. “Phaedrans, Durevolians, thank you for coming today. Ad deorum misericordia.”
For the gods’ mercy.
“Ad deorum misericordia,” the Phaedrans repeat.
Dru stares at her feet to temper her anger. She wishes she could scream at them for coming here, for trying to push their ways onto these people. But others in the room do it for her.
Although it’s not the powerful hymns of the Tredici, the Durevolians around her begin to hum together, filling the temple with a sound unlike anything she’s heard before.
It rattles the stone and shakes the fiery torches, and she could swear the Viverna trembles.
Looking at Cato, a grin slides across his lips.
The Tredici priestess in the middle turns to face the congregation, bearing her unclothed figure to all.
Her messy, aurous hair hits the small of her back, her eyes more golden than any other Durevolian Dru has encountered so far.
Shoulders back, chin high, she holds herself as a person with immense power.
Whether she actually has any or not, is yet to be seen.
When she holds out her palms, the humming stops. The priest, in turn, takes another step forward. His neck strains forward as he glances down at her form. What I wouldn’t do for my dagger right now.
“We are here today to bless the Valorem Blood Trials. For it is now not merely a Durevolian tradition but one that can be shared across the Imperium. In this, we will set a precedent for peace across the Imperium and with our neighbors. A melding of two great nations has commenced.”
Dru tightens both her hands into fists, likely drawing blood from the nails cutting into her palms.
“In your king’s great wisdom, he has decreed that any person in Anziano can pledge themselves to the promise of glory in the Valorem Blood Trials.”
For your glory, not theirs.
Marcus’s attention snaps to her. Merda, I said that out loud. She presses her lips closed, refusing to meet his gaze.
“However, in the event not enough people volunteer, we will host a lottery.”
Worried murmurs trickle through the temple as panic seizes Dru. “Wasn’t Cato supposed to draft rules for us to go over?”
“I read them,” Marcus admits. “The Phaedrans arrived so early this morning, I didn’t want to bother you with them.”
“You should’ve brought them to me.” Anger overtakes any embarrassment of her previous outburst. “Never assume what I can and cannot handle—not when my sole purpose here is to help the king. ”
He pauses. “You’re right; I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
She takes a measured breath to cull her frustration at Marcus as the priest continues. “You’ll be given the great opportunity to prove your loyalty to your country and, in some cases, win your freedom from your masters.”
She narrows her gaze. The Imperium would never allow their slaves a chance at freedom.
But that can’t be Cato’s rule either, not when the servants in the palace appear to be compensated for their labor.
Or, at least, they’re not being held hostage and tortured daily.
So there must be a reason they’re allowing them to participate.
The Imperium plans to use them for sport , she realizes, stomach churning.
No slave of the Imperium could muster enough strength to have a chance against an ordinary well-fed citizen, much less a trained soldier like those who volunteer.
And even if an ordinary citizen is chosen, nothing stops them from naming a slave as their proxy.
“And so, in the name of peace and comradery, I will now sing a Phaedran song of glory in the gods’ names.”
Your gods , she wants to say aloud but again holds her tongue. There’s something about this particular priest that draws deep rage from her each time he speaks.
The moment the bard strums the first chords and the priest opens his mouth, Dru stiffens. They’ve chosen the war ballad the Imperium soldiers sing after each conquest—a purposeful choice, no doubt, but ironic, considering they never could conquer Anziano.
Her breath stalls in her chest, the words and melody seared into her mind .
She hid for three days beneath the smoking cinders of her home, forced to listen to them play that song night after night.
Until they moved on and the Faithless found her, severely dehydrated and fighting off infection from her wounds.
Closing her eyes, she tries to think of better things, but all she sees are the decaying bodies of her people, the smell of burnt flesh haunting her memories.
Marcus knows it too—most of the Faithless come from villages destroyed by the Imperium legions. He reaches over to take her clenched hand in his and grasps it tight. She lets him, her chest loosening a fraction at the contact.
Knowing he feels the same pain, but reached out to her first… it means more to her than he can ever know.
Once the song ends, Dru opens her eyes and extricates her hand from his, crossing her arms loosely beneath her chest. His warmth lingers while she focuses on breathing normally, feeling his eyes on her.
The head priestess gets to her feet again, wide eyes shining. In her arms, she holds a branch laden with green leaves and white flowers. She turns to face the priest so he can grasp the branch with her, and Dru notices bright yellow swirling inside the white petals. Like a burst egg yolk.
Another one of the Tredici hands her a torch.
She holds it to the base of the branch, where it immediately ignites.
Together, they drop it into the large bronze fire basket at their feet and grasp hands as the flowers shrivel under the heat of the flames.
Gray smoke curls out of it, permeating the air.
It bleeds into the sunlight where it turns white.
“With this sacrifice of the sacred plumeria,” the Tredici priestess says, her voice low and strong, “the Valorem Blood Trials have been blessed by the gods, both old and new.”
At her words, the other Tredici women abandon the altar to pull on the dark purple robes set out for them.
The last one, they offer to who she assumes to be the head priestess.
After tying it off, she nods at yet another holy woman, who passes to her sisters each a bronze bowl small enough to fit in the palm of their hands.
One by one, they dip their bowls in the ashes of the plumeria plant, lining up in a half-circle around the altar.
The high priestess takes her place in the middle of them once more. “Come forth and take part in this blessing. For beauty was destroyed so blood could be shed. In her name, Lode Laran.”
Those from Anziano hum again in response .
The Durevolians standing closest to the altar approach the women.
Each Tredici dips their middle finger in the ashes before pressing it onto the person’s chest, directly below the collarbone.
It appears they’re marking everyone with a symbol, with those who receive the blessing displaying the ashen circles as they turn away.
The Phaedrans stay where they are.
Whether an act of rebellion or curiosity, Dru pushes to the front, placing herself in front of the high priestess.
Recognition, of all things, sparks in the woman’s golden eyes. She leans close and draws the circle on Dru’s chest in black ashes, murmuring, “La morte affligge i coraggiosi, Drusilla Valerius.”
Fear hastens her pulse. “How do you know my name?”
But she doesn’t reply. The two women stare at each other for a moment, something familiar yet unknown passing between them. Dru opens her mouth, though she’s not sure what to say—until the high priestess pulls back and moves on to the next person.