Page 118 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
Eighty-one horses shift on their hooves, huffing impatiently from their snouts. Thankfully, the sun has hidden itself behind the clouds rolling in from the Multum Sea, a summer storm brewing out over the water.
Marcus will be grateful for the wind on his face once the race starts; though the sun disappeared, the air is stagnant and oppressive. Moisture coats his skin and his tunic sticks to him uncomfortably.
The spectators sit off to the side on stone formations which were once as upkept as the arena but have fallen into ruin since the last blood trials. They wipe their brows and grumble unintelligibly, growing impatient for the start. Ambitus and the gamemasters settle into an alcove partly carved out of the earth at the starting line.
Ambitus has been staring at Marcus since he took his place at the center of the viewing area. He imagines it’s due to the exiling of his sacerdos, but all it does is solidify Marcus’s choice not to kill the holy man. Ambitus would’ve seen that as an act of war and immediately taken Anziano under his jurisdiction.
He glances over at Dru beside him. Sabina helped her wrap the burnt wounds carved into her arms by the lion this morning, just to be cautious. Dru also put on pants beneath her tunic—another precaution. Exhaustion shows through in the bruises beneath her eyes and bends her shoulders.She must not have slept well again.
For the first time since he brought her to Anziano, worry pinches her brow. She draws in slow, deep breaths, gripping the reins of her horse too tight. He wants to reach out, reassure her. Instead, he keeps his hands on his own reins, still unsure if she would welcome it.
Behind him, five full rows fill the space, with a few stragglers in the back. By his count, that means eighteen people died in the maze.Dru nearly made it nineteen.He closes his eyes for a moment, halting those thoughts. If the history of past trials serves itself, nearly half of the competitors left will die in this trial, and he’s going to do all he can to make sure Dru and Cato won’t be counted among them.
After two drum beats, Venatus Magister Blaise speaks. “The rules for this trial are as follows: stick to the designated path; no long-range personal weapons like arrows or spears allowed; and the competitor in last place will be killed.”
Cato stiffens. “That last one is new.”
“So it would seem,” Marcus agrees, wondering if he needs to rethink his plan.There’s no time.
The three of them occupy the middle of the front row—a bad spot to be in unless you’re a fast rider from the starting line.Likely a tactic contrived by Blaise. If trained properly, every competitor will use whatever means necessary to take out their competition, and always having to look over one’s shoulder gives a distinct disadvantage.
After checking once more on the altered reins of Dru’s horse, Marcus leans in to speak to her. “You’re not going to like what I’m about to say.”
She matches his tone. “Then don’t say it.”
“This race isn’t about winning,” he continues anyway, his horse huffing impatiently beneath him. “And while Iknow you’re trained in horsemanship and a decent rider, it’s not enough to survive this trial.”
“I’ll be fine, Marcus.” Dru pats her horse’s neck and straightens. “Have a little faith in me.”
“I do have faith in you. Which is why I think we should work together.”
She finally meets his gaze. “And how do you propose we do that?”
Leaning in closer, he whispers into her ear, acutely aware of how close they are. Of how her nearness draws warmth to his chest and lower, deeper. Of how, even now, moments before they begin a race for their lives, he wants to delve his hand into her hair, to press his lips to the space just below her ear.
He wishes he didn’t want her at such an inopportune time, but he can’t help himself.
Her gold-rimmed eyes watch him carefully as he pulls away. “You’re sure that’s necessary? What about Cato?”
“We don’t need to worry about him. He’s been a great rider since he was a boy—he’ll pull out in front of everyone and make it to the finish line without a scratch on him.”
She sits back in her saddle, a gentle smile pulling at her lips. “You’re worried about me.”
It’s not an accusation or a question, merely a statement of fact.
He holds her gaze. “I am, and I’m not afraid to admit it.”
Her lips part slightly and she searches his face.Stellae, she’s stubborn.
After a moment, she nods seriously. “All right.”
“Good.”
He turns his attention forward, gripping his horse’s reins as the beast shifts beneath him. A nervous understanding passes between them.
Taught ropes stretch before them at the chest- and knee-level of their horses to mark the starting line, waiting for the sound of the final drum beat. Once those drop, the racebegins.
Right as he thinks this, the drum reverberates once and the ropes fall to the ground.
