17. Drusilla
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DRUSILLA
F ire ignites the night sky.
It blazes from within the bronze fire baskets set up around the square, and spews from the mouths of fire breathers.
It even arcs out of the Viverna’s mouth in the fountain across from the temple, drawing the apt attention of the Phaedrans.
Dru must admit she’s enraptured by it too, though she knows it’s only a gimmick—a diversion meant to impress the Phaedrans.
Given their love for the dragon, the display could be a customary part of the Durevolian festival. But it feels less like a celebration of the ancient creatures and more like a farse.
Durevolian vendors and bacchants alike crowd the streets, unafraid of the flames or anything else the festival has to offer.
Laughter rings through the swarming alleyways, drawing people out of their homes and the Phaedrans from their tents.
Have the people of Anziano already forgotten the revolt that ended in death no more than a day ago?
Or have they put that aside for tonight to pay tribute to the gods before the Valorem Blood Trials?
The Durevolians may hate the Imperium’s presence here, but at least they’re not giving up their traditions because of it .
It also provides the perfect opportunity to relieve the Phaedrans of their coin.
Vendors selling all sorts of wares line the square, some with cakes and pastries, the scent of baked dough and sugar causing her mouth to water.
Others sell handmade jewelry, fine silks, toys, and masks.
Children weave through the crowd, grasping wooden swords and horses, laughing and screaming.
Dozens of people gather around the stalls—mostly Phaedrans from the looks of them—and walk away with new merchandise.
Good, bleed them for all they’ve got.
The Festival of Fanaleria began once the sun dipped below the horizon, though few filled the streets then.
Now, the entire city appears to be in attendance.
The visiting Phaedrans have been civil for the most part, much to Dru’s surprise.
Though that’s more likely due to the masks everyone wears over the top halves of their faces, making it impossible to tell anyone apart.
Her own gold-silk mask, formed from light beeswax, sits perfectly on her face.
Silk ties hidden beneath her loose hair hold it aloft, so light she can barely feel them.
She presses her palms into her dress, provided by Cato as promised and which Sabina helped her into after their sparring session and a bath.
Pride swells inside Dru at Sabina’s progress.
Despite its initial purpose being to expel her pent-up energy, the training will prove invaluable to Sabina.
The moment Dru handed her the pole, she could tell the girl had never held a real weapon in her life.
A wooden pole won’t kill anyone, but anything can be used as a weapon if wielded properly.
And, at least now, she knows a few ways to defend herself should the opportunity arise.
Dru reaches behind her and brushes the hilt of her dagger, ensuring it remains secure.
Only slightly more modest than the purple dress she wore to the religious ceremony, the one she wears tonight, sown from white silk the color of the sand on the beach, stays up by only one shoulder strap.
The bursts of gold stitched into the light fabric remind her of stars, nearly sparkling in the firelight.
Two high slits stitched along each hip bone end at her upper thighs.
She left her hair loose in waves down her back, not wishing to draw too much attention to herself.
Glancing around her, though, she sees she’s the only one among the rabble not trying to hide themselves.
Women’s dresses manage to be every color of the rainbow, with fascinating patterns stitched into them; the men wear tunics and outfits similar to what Cato and Marcus wore to the ceremony, in an array of hues to match.
Even their masks claim more extravagance than hers, some with jewels embedded into the silk and dyed birds’ feathers framing their faces.
She notices many of the masks bear the green face of the ancient Durevolian god the festival is named for: Munifico, the god of bounty and harvest. Others wear the golden face of Laran, goddess of war.
Dru wonders if those who wear Laran’s face have set out to make a statement, or if it’s part of the tradition.
Marcus is somewhere in the crowd, duty-bound to the king’s side for the night.
Dru asked Cato if he wished for her presence as well, given how vulnerable he’ll be among so many Phaedrans.
But Cato insisted she go out and enjoy all the festival has to offer, as he had tedious royal duties to attend to before he could be free to do as he wished.
And, given she’s found herself a competitor in the blood trials, this may very well be her last night alive.
She nearly laughs at the idea. The Faithless teach their soldiers to believe every day is their last and to do all they can while still alive. But she hasn’t felt the heavy hand of that particular promise since the night at the tabernae in Nusquam.
A playful scream draws her attention up. The balconies outside people’s homes crowd with boisterous partyers grasping cups in their hands, lit lanterns swaying from hooks underneath. Music wafts from the open doorways in gentle strums and airy whistles, loud drunken laughter accompanying it .
A sort of gambling row populates the furthest alley from the temple.
Tables of dice games, a Phaedran game called latrunculi, and many others garner the most patrons.
With the exception of sports betting, gambling has been outlawed in the Imperium, despite the most elite continuing to do it among their ilk.
Dru wishes Ovi was here to see this, the sting of her death fresh in her mind.
She would’ve loved the spectacle of it all—the drinks, the debauchery, the costumes.
But she especially would’ve loved that they had no responsibilities tonight.
No orders to complete, no target to find and torture or kill.
The purpose of the festival is enjoyment for enjoyment’s sake, and Ovi dreamed of living for only that.
Sorrow slices at her stomach. Despite all the people around her, she’s never felt more alone.
Shaking her head to rid herself of the pain in her heart, she promises instead to enjoy herself in Ovi’s name. To live through her for one night, and damn the consequences.
The Tredici occupy the space in front of the temple’s closed doors, their spectacle gaining the notice of many nearby partygoers. Swathed in purple robes and donning plumeria flower crowns over their loose locks, they begin to engage in a strange, beautiful dance.
Their humming penetrates her from where she stands by the fountain, vibrating along her body and singing in her blood. It reminds her of the second night she was here, when she was drawn to the black cave after spreading Ovi’s ashes.
That same pull yanks at her now. Calls to her like a requiem.
Were they there that night? The cave’s darkness was absolute, but they could’ve been hiding inside somehow.
Despite how drawn she is to them, something gnaws at her thoughts, rooting her to where she stands. For no logical reason, she feels akin to these women. Which is absurd. She only met the high priestess—who, in so many words, told her she would die—at the Spettrale ceremony.
Yet, as she watches them, her worries begin to fall away.
Enjoy all the festival has to offer , Cato bade her.
She’s not often one to let go of inhibitions, but Cato did give her an order.
And it’s what Ovi would do; if it were up to Ovi, they’d already be at the front, throwing coin at the Tredici’s feet or dancing alongside them.
Relaxing her control, Dru joins the growing crowd spellbound by the dance. All thirteen women flit lithely around an open flame caged within a metal basket similar to the one they used in the ceremony the other morning. What burns inside there tonight, I wonder?
The humming grows louder the closer to them she gets. It vibrates along her bones and sets her skin ablaze. A sensation she’s never felt before swells inside her, filling her with… acceptance. A foreign but not unwanted sensation.
Wariness manages to take root again all the same, sinking its claws into her mind.
She catches the eye of the high priestess, whose golden gaze widens in recognition beneath the dark coal around her eyes. Her red-painted lips part, her wavy blonde hair tame compared to how she wore it at the ceremony.
“We will now choose someone from the audience,” she calls out, her voice carrying gently across the square, “whose future shall be foretold in fire.”
The women spread out amid the crowd, dancing between each person until Dru can no longer see them. People gasp and giggle in delight at the spectacle. The high priestess, however, looks only at Dru.
One blink, and the woman stands no more than an arm’s length before her. Dru swallows her gasp.
Taking Dru’s hand, the high priestess separates her from the crowd, leading her to the front of the temple. Her skin burns pleasantly from the contact, her mind emptying.
“What is your name, child?”
“Drusilla Valerius,” she finds herself saying. As you well know.
“And from where do you hail?”
“Obliviscatur. ”
The woman glances back. Sorrow draws down her eyes and mouth. “And why have you come here?”
The haze over Dru’s mind clears enough for her to answer, “I do not know.”
The woman studies her. “Yes, I don’t believe you do. Come, sit.”
She points to a wooden stool placed far enough away from the fire.