Page 12 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
“Watch out!”
The haze clears from her mind right before she misses a bend in the path, nearly hurling herself and her horse into the river.Shit.Instinct jerks on the reins, leading them to the beginnings of a worn path which disappears around a hillside.
The suffocating numbness falls away, leaving her shivering despite the warm night. Tall grass dyed black from the night whips at her bare legs, irritating her skin as she fights to catch her breath. Any fight she had left in her dissipates, leavingher a bit faint.
She waits for Marcus and the bard to catch up to her, heart thumping hard and fast inside her chest.
“Stellae, what were you thinking?” Marcus demands, his expression hard, his words laced with venom.
While she shouldn’t have to defend herself to him, of all people, she can’t help feeling embarrassed for nearly ending her own life, and her horse’s.
Thinking quickly, she replies, “Considering we were just ambushed, I was trying to find the best path to Anziano as quickly as possible.”
“There’s only one path, and it’s a full day’s ride.” Marcus’s grip tightens on his horse, eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Tell me now if you won’t be able to make it.”
Dru bites the inside of her cheek.How dare he?“I have traveled farther and longer in this life than you can imagine.”
His expression doesn’t change. “That may be true, but a fair few would be fit to do so after their friend was murdered in front of them. With the Phaedran army so close, we can’t have anything slowing us down.”
Her nostrils flare, and the painful memories of those she’s watched die subside. “Your king needs me, not the other way around.”
“He’s notmyking,” Marcus amends. “And that’s irrelevant. Can you make it there or not?”
Refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reply, she clicks her tongue between her teeth, and the horse sets off again at her command. She doesn’t look back, assuming Marcus and the bard will follow, willing her rage to abate the tears stabbing behind her eyes before either of them notices.
CHAPTER FOUR
MARCUS
Resting against the knotty, uncomfortable roots of an olive tree, Marcus Scaevola pulls the hood of his cloak over his head and crosses his arms over his chest, feigning sleep.
Once they were far enough away from Nusquam, the three of them made camp behind an outcropping of tall, rough stones beside the Pelagus River. Dru insisted on taking the first watch the moment she dismounted. Marcus scored his face to hide his unease. After riding hard for nearly half the night, shaken and visibly exhausted, anyone else wouldn’t have had legs to stand on.
He shouldn’t be surprised, though—Dru has always been stubborn. Even when the Three passed down new edicts for the initiates to follow, she found a reason to rage against them. No matter how often her trainers, himself included, punished her for it. She went to great lengths to prove herself, whether or not she was right.
He’s glad that, at least, hasn’t changed from when he knew her.
Though it seems as if everything else has. Dark spirits haunt her now, turning down her mouth and deadening the spark in her warm brown eyes, muting the gilded rings inside them. He can guess the cause of it: having traveled the Imperium to carry out theunquestionable bidding of the Faithless, she doesn’t like what she’s seen. And he can’t blame her.
So, when she offered to stay awake, desperation clinging to her words, he couldn’t say no.
There are few things Marcus would deny her.
He glances over at the bard from the tabernae. Lying curled on the hard ground within arm’s reach, he cuddles his lute, snoring gently.
What I wouldn’t give to be so unburdened.
Every one of his instincts begged him not to take the bard. But, without coin, there’s no other way to get past the bridge into Anziano. And though, as Praetor, he can come and go as he pleases, that’s as far as his influence goes. The bard seems harmless enough, especially in sleep.
Dru, on the other hand, can’t sit still. And if she can’t find rest, he won’t be able to either.
When she finally stops fussing, he cracks open an eye. He finds her leaning a hip and a shoulder against the thick trunk of the closest olive tree. Having shucked her cloak and draped it over a low-hanging branch, only her cream-colored tunic remains, her figure a darkening silhouette against the pale moonlight. The dagger she held to his throat remains sheathed, its belt low on her hips.
He smiles remembering it: her soft intake of breath when he pressed into her to hide them from the Phaedran soldiers, her features softening then hardening again once he pulled his hood back and she realized who he was. Even her curious gaze on his cloaked form inside the tabernae made him feel things he hadn’t felt in a long time.
She’s even more beautiful than he remembers—more than she has any right to be.
His gaze lingers on her slender waist, swelling into a curved hip. Another change, but a kinder one. The Faithless purposefully starve their initiates for as long as they can, claiming it prepares them for going out into the world. But the truth of it is much simpler: control.
