33. Marcus
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
MARCUS
T he moment they enter the palace, Dru heads straight to her room and slams the door shut. Marcus sighs, wishing he could go after her.
They didn’t speak the entire walk back through the wildlands of Anziano, and he’s fairly certain the only reason she followed him is because she knew she might not be able to find her way out again without his help. After what he did, though, he can’t blame her for not wanting to speak to him.
Wrapped in his arms like that, he nearly blurted out his and Cato’s entire plan, his feelings for her, everything. The power she holds on his heart, over his whims—it’s unfair. He would tell her anything, do anything for her.
Which is why he had to step away while he still maintained some control over his emotions.
Who knows how far things might’ve gone if the breath she released when he pressed his lips to her neck hadn’t broken the hold she had over him? Yet, his entire body aches over it. As if she opened up his chest with that single look of betrayal and pulled out his beating heart .
Stellae, I want her more than my own life.
Resigning himself, he considers heading over to the breakfast table where the daily spread is laid out. He takes one look at the food and grimaces, finding his appetite gone.
He heads for his room—when a figure materializes from behind a column. Marcus reaches for his dagger from his belt, the hilt still slick from jumping into the pool, until he recognizes the man.
“Praetor Marcus,” Gamemaster Ettore addresses him, pressing his hands tightly together. “I’ve been waiting for your return.”
Despite the ominous greeting, Marcus is almost grateful for his presence. Anything to distract him from what happened with Dru.
“What can I do for you, Ettore?” He gestures toward the food, but Ettore shakes his head, placing his clenched hands over his stomach.
“I feel unwell,” he admits. “But not as if I’m sick with some illness. My stomach cramps more with each passing day.” He presses his hand to his forehead. “And my head aches fiercely.”
Marcus takes stock of him. His eyes do appear bloodshot, his cheeks more sunken than the last time he saw him, his skin paler.
“You think they’re poisoning you,” Marcus guesses.
Ettore nods. “Slow enough not to raise suspicions, but yes.”
“The food here is safe, if you need to eat.”
He trembles. “I can’t keep anything down.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t eat some bad fish or lamb meat?”
Paranoia sweeps across his gaze. “I know they have it out for me. I’ve fought them every time they’ve tried to skirt around the rules. The rule they added at the end for the horse race was a long-fought compromise.”
Marcus hadn’t considered how much work Ettore was doing for them in the background. No doubt the Imperium had much harsher punishments in mind for each event so far. Ettore may have saved more lives than he realizes. Not that it matters, when only two competitors can win.
“And they don’t want to compromise on the final trial?”
“That’s just it.” Ettore sighs, leaning against the column beside him for support. “They haven’t tried to alter any of the rules set forth in the final trial. Which means they’re planning something they don’t want anyone to know about.”
“Something dark is at work here, Praetor,” Ettore confesses before Marcus can respond. “I’ve done all I can to unmask it, but…”
Marcus places a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t want you to worry, Ettore. Go home to your wife and your children. You’ve done all you can; the last trial will play out how it plays out now. There’s nothing you or I can do to change that.”
Maybe there never was.
Hope lightens his eyes, but his shoulders drop. “I don’t want to dishonor the king by resigning my post.”
He feels for Ettore, but something about all this raises his suspicions and it’s best if less people are involved.
“Leave that to me,” Marcus says, exiting the palace without another word.
Standing at the closed doors of the Spettrale temple, he knocks, impatient for one of the Tredici to let him in to see Cato. These doors are almost never closed, but today, with the king taking refuge inside, he’s relieved to see every precaution being taken.
His tunic has completely dried now, thankfully. The look on Dru’s face still haunts him but he feels invigorated after the swim. He always does after visiting that pool. Even the wounds on his hands appear to have started healing faster.
Waiting for someone to answer his knock, he glances around him, expecting to see some of the rebels from a couple days ago marching through the streets. But it’s quiet. Perhaps the Imperium soldiers took care of the situation. Though he hates to think what that might mean.
Before he can fully consider kicking in the door, the head priestess finally answers. Her purple robes brush the floor, hanging loose on her frame.
“Forgive me for intruding,” Marcus says, bowing his head slightly, “but I need to see the king right away.”
Wordlessly, she steps aside. Taking one last look behind him to find the streets still empty, he slips in. The sound of the door closing echoes behind him.
A thought occurs to him, something he promised himself to investigate once he saw Ginevra again.
“What did you do to Drusilla the night of the festival? That symbol on her arm…”
He trails off, and a smile widens along her lips.
“I told her it was the ancient Durevolian symbol for loyalty.”
“But it’s not,” Marcus assumes. “Because there isn’t one.”
She watches him for a moment. “I’m sorry, Praetor Marcus—the symbol and the reason behind it are not mine to tell. When the time is right, I will tell Drusilla, and then she will decide whether or not to trust you with the truth of who she is.”
He takes a steadying breath before replying, “Is it hurting her?”
Ginevra shakes her head. “No. And that is all I can say.”
“It’s enough,” Marcus assures her.
They walk through the temple together in silence now, moving too slowly across the river-like floors for his taste.
The sun is high enough in the sky that its light blasts through the opening at the top of the pointed ceiling.
The rest of the Tredici pray on their knees at the base of the bronze dragon, speaking in the ancient language of the Durevolian people irreverently as he passes.
“Through there,” she gestures, indicating a simple wood door to the left of the altar where two of his guards stand watch.
Opening it, he finds himself in a small bedroom with a single bed.
He imagines this room normally belongs to the high priestess, though not since Alessandra has been living in the temple.
The only window sits beside the bed and faces the interior, the thick blown glass a light purple.
The silk sheets on the bed are blue—no doubt brought down from the palace—as is the chair the queen sits in, her son at her side.
Cato looks over at the sound of the door opening, surprise and caution written across his face.
“Marcus, what are you doing here?”
Alessandra clicks her tongue. “Don’t be rude, Cato.” She regards Marcus. “Even if it’s for no reason at all, I’m glad to see you.”
“And you, Regina Vedova.”
She laughs lightly. “I believe we’re past such formalities now. At least in here.”
“Why have you come?” Cato insists, tempering his tone. “Is something wrong?”
“When I returned from my run this morning,” he starts, belaying Dru’s presence, “Ettore was waiting for me. He thinks Blaise and Ambitus are poisoning him for daring to speak against them.”
Cato doesn’t consider the accusation for long. “It’s certainly plausible. What are his symptoms?”
“A tightening of his stomach and a nasty headache,” Marcus explains. “If I’m being honest, his nerves might be getting to him more than anything else. So, I released him from his position until the trials are over.”
Cato nods. “That was wise. There’s not much he can do now anyway.”
“That’s what I said. He claims he’s been fighting them at every turn, and while I’m inclined to believe him, I’m also not sure who we can trust anymore.”
“Do you think the Imperium has him in their pocket?” Alessandra asks.
Marcus shifts on his feet. “I doubt it—Ettore has been consistently loyal to your line. But there’s always a chance they’ve used his wife and children as leverage. At least to keep him out of the way.”
“Then why complain about ailments now?” Cato wonders.
“Probably so he doesn’t appear guilty at the final trial.”
Cato scratches beneath his jaw. “What are the chances he’ll try to leave on a boat to the Imperium tonight?”
“It’ll only prove his guilt,” Marcus argues. “More likely, he won’t leave his home for some time.”
“If the people realize he had a hand in helping the Imperium,” Cato reasons, “they won’t hesitate to exact justice in their own way.”
“We have no idea what’ll transpire between now and then. It could be moot.”
Alessandra straightens. “We must prepare for the worst, then.”
Marcus holds Cato’s gaze. “I’m not sure there’s a way to prepare ourselves for the worst outcome of tomorrow.”
“Even when death is the expectation,” Cato says quietly, “it comes as a surprise.”
Marcus swallows at those words. “Will I see you both back at the palace soon?”
“Yes.” Cato’s shoulders slump. “I must host that horrid champions’ dinner.”
With that, Marcus leaves mother and son to their whims. Marcus never met his own mother, and Alessandra has taken on the role since he first came to Anziano. She treats him like her own son, and he’ll be forever grateful.
Heading back into the temple, he finds the high priestess waiting for him.
“Before you leave my temple, I must be sure of your intentions: what is it you desire?”
He should be surprised by the question, but he’s not. If anything, he should’ve expected to be asked. Given his Faithless training, Marcus rarely enters the temple, and the Tredici see him as an enigma: a godsless man serving as protector of the king whose entire line was chosen by the gods.
Given he’ll likely die tomorrow, however, he decides to answer her question truthfully.
“Too many things for one man. And none of them within my control. ”
She smiles, as if she caught him doing something he shouldn’t have. “It takes a great man to admit such a thing.”
“I won’t pretend to be a great man.”
“That is what makes you one.” She places a hand over his chest, the same spot one of the Tredici marked him the day of the ceremony. “You will need to be that man if you’re to survive the coming months.”
He stares into her bright, golden eyes. “Assuming I don’t die tomorrow.”
Her eyes grow visibly white for a moment before returning, as he’s seen happen only once or twice before. A shiver slices down his spine, but he doesn’t flinch.
She removes her hand. “You must face much more before the gods will allow that to happen.”