Page 1 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
CHAPTER ONE
DRUSILLA
War is bloody. It cares not who wins or who loses, who’s right and who’s wrong. In the end, it demands payment in blood. And it always collects.
War is what brings Drusilla Valerius to the small village of Nusquam on the outskirts of the Phaedran Imperium, exhausted and half-starved.
Born into conflict, Dru and her people have known nothing else since the inception of the Phaedran empire centuries ago. The Imperium’s tyrannical reign and remorseless lust for conquering ravaged her people’s villages and destroyed their culture. She lost her family because of them; left her home and joined the brutal group called the Faithless because of them—a faction who raised her when both her parents had left this world.
The six years spent in the service of the Faithless have all but erased who she was before, replacing her with a murderous, obedient apparition. A thing to fear.
“Why are we here again?” Ovidia Faustus—Dru’s companion and closest confidant—wonders aloud as they ambledown the main road in Nusquam, a small military settlement on the fringes of the Imperium.
Dru’s wariness worsens from how empty it is. Given most of these dwellings house Phaedran soldiers, though, the deserted streets work in their favor. If the soldiers found out who and what the two women are, they’d be arrested immediately.
Quelling a sigh, Dru procures the slip of worn paper containing their Faithless orders from a pocket sewn inside her traveling cloak. Vision blurred from fatigue, she squints at the words, the scrawl visible enough in the waning sun.
“We’re looking for a man who lives behind a blue-painted door.” Dru flips the paper over before slipping it back inside her pocket. “That’s all they gave us.”
Ovi kicks at a pebble in the path. “Stellae, they’re getting lazy. I’m surprised they mentioned the blue door at all. Next time, it’ll simply say ‘man’ and we’ll be expected to divine a name from it.”
Ovi continues her tirade without giving Dru a chance to respond. “When’s the last time we’ve had anything to eat? Or drink? Especially drink.”
“You ate most of the meager supplies we stole from those silk traders last night,” Dru points out. “I barely got a bite.”
Ovi pauses, considering this. “I’ll grant you the food, but they had no wine. I would give up my left pinky finger for a sip of wine.”
Dru peers over the tops of the surrounding huts, searching for a place to stop. Her neck aches, and her sage-green woolen cloak weighs heavy on her shoulders, but it’s the only thing keeping away the waning breeze from the river at their backs.
Past the next house, an enormous spray of olive leaves peaks over the roof, taller than it has any right to be. Dru almost laughs.Finally, a stroke of good luck.There are whisperings of a tabernae, built on this land centuries ago atop the low stump of an ancient olive tree. Though they tried to destroy the tree, it eventually took root again and grew around the tabernae. Rumor claims it now towers over all the other trees in the grove.
Careful to soften her footfalls, she grabs Ovi’s hand and cuts between two small huts, leading them out into an open field. The remnants of the setting sun bathe the deadening grass in a deep gold, illuminating the worn path leading up to the giant olive tree. Other, smaller trees scatter the area, but otherwise, it’s unoccupied.
Dru gestures at the establishment—if you can call it that. “I don’t think you’ll have to part with much more than a coin or two.”
The tabernae—Tabernae Ebrius, or so says the wooden sign above the door—sits tucked inside the giant innards of the ancient tree. Warm candlelight glows through its round, dirt-streaked windows, promising respite and revelry to anyone who passes by. Loose dirt and pebbles scuff beneath their caligae sandals; a handful of the sharper ones sneak between the gaps and jab the bottom of Dru’s feet. She hisses but otherwise keeps her discomfort to herself.
The amber sun dips behind the low mountains as they hurry up the path. The final morsels of light brush the sky in gentle pink and orange strokes, slowly blackening the land. A soft smile pulls at Dru’s lips. The farther south they travel, the more beautiful the sunsets become—it reminds Dru of her home, of the twilights spent lying in the fields with her mother, waiting until it was dark enough to trace the stars with their fingers.
The night should bring peace to her thoughts, but instead, caution weighs on her mind. Given how exposed they are, every crinkle of grass or snapping of a twig invites wariness into her bones. She glances over her shoulder, finding it empty still.
Ovi reaches down lithely and plucks a long blade of dead grass, unburdened by Dru’s concerns. “Do you remember that one tabernae in the northern mountains?”
Dru scoffs. “That was a brothel, Ovi.”
She smiles faintly, a far-off look in her gaze. “Oh, right. That was a good night.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Ovi flicks the blade of grass away. “It’s your own fault you didn’tpartake.”
Dru shoves her gently. “Someone had to keep a lookout for trouble.”
Ovi grins. “And I thank you for that.”
Coming to stand in front of the crooked door, the muted hums of merriment grate on Dru’s nerves, the faint stench of vomit and old wine turning her stomach. She marks the deep, angry scars carved into the tree’s bark by the hard slashes of sharpened blades. A warning sensation pricks along her neck and shoulders.
“We shouldn’t be here.”
