17. Drusilla #2
Feeling as if her body’s not hers to command, Dru does as she’s asked, perching stiffly on the edge of the stool.
The longer she sits there, the more aware she becomes.
Fighting for control of her movements and her thoughts has her wondering if the priestesses do, in fact, possess real magic.
If so, she’ll have to be careful with what she says, and hold fast to whatever’s left of her willpower.
“Give me your arm.”
While her mind hesitates, the arm without her Faithless tattoo—which she’s once again hidden beneath a leather cuff—thrusts itself forward.
The high priestess grasps her wrist with one hand and flicks the other over the fire, plucking a handful of flames from it. As if grasping petals. Dru blinks at the sight, but it doesn’t change. Horror rises inside her. Not at the fire itself, but at the thought of being so close to real magic.
This was a mistake.
It could very well be a simple parlor trick. Or it could be the humming magic her mother told her about that’s controlling the fire. The kind that can harness the elements.
The high priestess holds out her palm for the spectators to see, the flames dancing just above her skin. Her throat vibrates slightly, though Dru can’t hear anything over the other sounds of the festival.
Without warning, she tightens her grip on Dru’s wrist and slams the inferno onto her forearm. The crowd gasps; Dru tries to pull away, wriggling, but the other woman’s grip is like stone.
When her arm doesn’t burn like it’s supposed to, she finds the priestess’s eyes.
They’re white.
Dru can’t look away from them as the woman speaks. “Your path has led you here for a reason, Drusilla Valerius. You will find both love and loss, destiny and destruction.” She flicks her hands dramatically over Dru’s brow. “You are an heir, but one born from flame, not blood.”
Heir? Heir of what?
Dru tries to pull her hand away again, but it doesn’t budge.
An overwhelming but foreign sense of purpose invades her, permeating her body, her every thought.
It feels wrong . Fear fights for control of her mind now: fear of what the flames will do, fear of what the priestess’s prophecy means, fear of the magic trying to force all her secrets past her lips.
The priestess removes her hand and the natural gold of her eyes returns. Her chest wilts, as if what she did drained her.
“The gods have bestowed a gift upon you: the ancient symbol for loyalty”— Loyalty? —“in recognition of your service to our beloved king.”
The high priestess drags Dru off the stool and thrusts her hand into the air above their heads, displaying the symbol for all to see. The audience claps and cheers, having no idea what’s passed between them.
As control over herself returns, Dru gasps, chest heaving as if she just sprinted up a mountain. Her body tingles like it’s been left out in the cold too long, and her eyes burn. But she concentrates on her breathing, calming that first until the rest eventually follows.
Standing exposed in front of the faceless masses, Dru feels naked. As if the gods themselves have joined them to cheer on this charade. Her arm continues to tingle the longer the priestess holds it, though it doesn’t hurt. Not like it should.
This is normal , she tells herself. They do this every festival; I’m merely the fool they chose for it. It’s the only explanation. The future foretold by the high priestess was vague enough that some might believe it to be true, and powerful enough to keep the rapture of the crowd.
Before Dru can question her own logic, the other women dance out in front of them, a new song low in their throats. The high priestess drops her hand, letting it fall to Dru’s hip.
With the crowd distracted, the high priestess guides her behind one of the temple pillars.
She focuses her intense gaze on Dru. “I know you.”
Dru takes a step back. “No, you don’t.”
“There’s no point in arguing. I know more about you than you know yourself. But that matters not tonight—the king is in danger.”
Dru straightens. “At this moment?”
“No, in the trials.”
She relaxes. “I know this.”
The woman shakes her head. “You do not know everything. If his enemies are to succeed, much will be lost. Be careful of who you trust.”
One of the few people she’s unwittingly allowed herself to get close to immediately comes to mind: the bard. He hasn’t proven himself to be guilty, but neither has he proven himself innocent and worthy to be at the king’s side.
“A difficult future lies ahead of you, Drusilla. One you cannot avoid even if you wished it.”
As if my life hasn’t been difficult enough.
“But you’re not alone,” she continues. “Never forget that.”
Before Dru can ask her anything, the high priestess disappears back into the crowd and out of sight.
Dru stumbles away from the temple. Dozens of questions swirl inside her mind, every single one of them nonsensical.
She glances down at her arm, finding the ancient symbol permanently inked on her skin.
But it’s not etched with black ink, like the one carved into her by the Faithless.
This one she recognizes to be the same color as the tattoos on the painting of the goddess in her room.
She scrubs at her arm and nothing happens, not even a slight smear. Idiot . She doesn’t understand what it is about those women that she finds so impossible to ignore.
“Drusilla!” a familiar voice calls out, pulling her out of her daze.
Glancing up, she finds Marcus, Cato, and a few of his guards heading her way.
The simple masks don’t do much to hide who they are—no one else keeps guards with them at all times.
And, barring the blatancy of the bronze crown on his head, no one carries themselves like Cato does.
But at least his guards can protect him from any threats.
Clasping her hands behind her back, she hides the newly-formed symbol on her arm. She doesn’t want to explain to anyone—especially Marcus—what happened. They might question why she went up there in the first place, and she has no idea how to answer that without sounding like she’s lost her mind.
Marcus keeps pace at the king’s side. Like his guards, he wears a tunic, although his is blue tonight rather than black.
The firelight warms his features and darkens his hair, a slight stubble peeking out from underneath his simple onyx mask.
Her body aches unexpectedly from not going to him, touching him; she swallows hard, brushing off the sensation.
He watches her, too, his throat bobbing when he catches sight of her. Her chest warms at his heavy gaze. The most likely cause is this dress, the slight breeze pulling at the high slits and rustling her hair. Though she also can’t help noticing his attention on her has become bolder.
Perhaps he’s decided to seize this night for his own, as I have. She’s never known Marcus to take anything for himself, but tonight could be different.
Despite the strangeness of the Tredici’s demonstration, she finds herself forgetting what happened. It’s done now. All she can do is put it out of her mind and move forward. She has Ovi’s reputation to live up to, and she can’t let her friend down.
Cato gets to her first, placing a heavy arm around her shoulder, his words slurred. “Drusilla, I’m so glad you’re here. ”
She grins at the sharp, unmistakable stench of wine on his breath. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with you being inebriated, would it?”
“Never!” He extricates himself from her and stumbles into one of his guards, scuffing up his slippers on the worn cobblestone.
Marcus approaches her. “He is actually happy you’re here. Don’t let the abundance of alcohol on his breath fool you.”
She chuckles. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“I have to take a piss,” Cato announces unceremoniously, breaking off into a narrow alleyway. His guards hurry after him.
Leaving Dru and Marcus alone.
“How much has he had to drink?” Dru asks, filling the unyielding silence.
Marcus takes a step closer to her. Beneath the mask, his gaze flicks across her exposed arms and shoulder, down to the tops of her thighs, as if he believes the mask hides his eyes.
Heat warms her core, and she fights the urge to cross her arms over her midsection.
The hard lines between them have already begun to blur, but she can’t help wondering if he might feel something more for her than Faithless kinship.
She shakes her head to clear it. The Tredici’s magic must’ve had more of an effect on me than I realized.
“Clearly more than you,” he notes, looking away. “Can I get you something?”
Stellae, yes, she could use a drink after what happened with the Tredici.
“Only if you get yourself one as well. I refuse to drink alone.” She glances behind her to see where Cato disappeared. “The king’s had enough for both of us.”
Marcus’s quick flash of a smile reaches his cerulean eyes through the mask—her heart stops inside her chest, and she takes a soft, trembling breath.
Bowing his head, he steps away toward a stall with a large crowd around it, cornered off with barrels of wine.
Instead of waiting around with the masses, he skirts around to the side and leans in to speak softly with the young woman manning those barrels.
After a moment of him speaking to her, she blushes.
Dru snorts softly as she squats down, reaches for a rack under the table, and procures two horn flasks, filling them with a golden liquid.
He takes them from her with a soft smile and heads back.
She never had a chance.
The woman watches him walk away with a soft longing in her gaze, pulled away only by the insistence of her next customer.
Dru bites her lip to keep from smiling. When Marcus trained her, he had little to no idea the effect he had on the women and some of the men; either that’s changed, or he’s as oblivious as ever.
“Impressive,” Dru comments once he’s in earshot. “I didn’t know you took the Faithless’ class on the art of seduction.”
He frowns. “I didn’t. And besides, there’s no art to it.”
“No, I suppose not, for someone like you.” Brow furrowed, he opens his mouth to argue. But she speaks before he can. “And what have you brought me?”
He waits, watching her for a moment before handing her a sea green, glass-blown horn flask. The delicate, rounded edges smooth out along her fingertips, a few small bubbles trapped beneath.
“The Durevolians call it Nettare. It’s stronger than any wine you’ve had in the Imperium.”
She eyes it. “Stronger than the Ruscellamento the underlings made in the well during training camp?”
Marcus chuckles. “Nothing could be stronger than that swill. I swear I watched someone use it to remove paint once.”
Grinning, she takes a sip. The soft taste of honey and lavender and a tinge of spice swell across her tongue first, followed by the ripe sting of fermented grapes hitting the back of her throat. It burns pleasantly, warming her chest and her stomach, and spreading gently along her limbs.
“This is delicious.” She clicks her tongue. “And potent.”
Marcus smiles gently beneath his mask. “I thought you’d like it. ”
“Where is it from?”
He gestures around him. “Here, made exclusively from rare white grapes grown on the far side of the Scabroso Mountains. A delicacy the Imperium has tried to purchase from the Durevolians since they learned of it.”
“A wine far headier than any of the pigswill the Imperium churns out,” Cato cuts in, returned from his cessation. “And without being mixed with water.”
Dru places her hand over her heart. “Blasphemy.”
“Cazzo sí.” Cato grabs the cup one of his guards holds for him and gulps it down.
Dru presses her lips together to hold in a laugh. Despite her mother’s best efforts, most of the ancient Durevolian words Dru knows are swear words. So, she can’t help gasping when the worst one comes out of the king’s mouth.
Indulging in another long sip, she takes in the ecstasy-drenched spectacle on this side of the square.
Among the mob down the next street, she finds fire breathers, jugglers, jesters, prostitutes…
and the bard, of all people, who’s having a grand time taking coin from the Phaedrans in the crowd as he plays their music with great passion.
Marcus leans in to speak to Cato. “I do believe the bard has emptied enough of the Phaedran’s pockets for one evening.”
“Quite right,” Cato agrees. “He’s my bard, and he shall come with us.”
“With us where?” she asks, taking another generous gulp. It loosens the tension from her shoulders, scattering her thoughts to the night. The memory of the Tredici prophecy and the tattoo on her arm has nearly dissipated from her mind altogether.
Cato grins beneath his own bronze-painted mask. “A secret place in the city, hidden beneath the ground.”
Frustration fights with the effects of the Nettare. “Do you think it wise to take the bard, a man you barely know, into a secret hold with you? ”
Cato juts out his chin. “I do not care if it’s a good idea; I’ll do as I please.”
No arguing with that. She’ll keep as watchful an eye on him as she can, and hope Marcus and his guards do the same.
“Taking the king of Anziano underground is a bad idea,” Dru murmurs to Marcus anyway. “No way out if we run into trouble.”
Marcus leans in dangerously close, his breath rustling her hair. Her eyes close on their own and her body warms, her hand nearly reaching for his.
“We won’t find trouble there,” Marcus explains softly. “It’s a secret meeting place for the wealthy; the clientele will be mostly Durevolian heretics and other elite from Anziano. They won’t want the Phaedrans to know about it.”
Dru takes a breath and steps away, putting some distance between them so she can think.
“And what will we do there?” she asks Cato.
Cato eyes her as if she has two heads growing out of her neck instead of one. Perhaps he’s drunk enough for that to be true. “Drink, of course. And make the bard sing for us. Jove!”
The bard glances away from his paying customers at the sound of his name. Seeing who called for him, he hurries to pick up his coin-filled pouch, swinging his lute around his back and running over. The crowd voices their disappointment but moves on quickly to a woman juggling pugio daggers.
The bard bows. “At your service, my king.”
Dru snorts and Marcus clears his throat.
“Don’t tease him,” Cato chastises. “In fact, the two of you could do with a bit more kowtowing in my presence.”
“That’s not going to happen,” she can’t help saying, right as Marcus concurs, “Absolutely not.”
Cato barks out a laugh. “At least there’s consensus.”
He steps away from the heart of the festival. “Onward.”