Page 17 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
He knows what she’s asking: are they conquered peoples?
“Most are, yes.”
She tightens her grip on the reins, keeping her silence as they near the gate.
The entrance to Anziano looms before them. Similar to the Imperium forts, the gate boasts enormous vertical trunks of weathered eucalyptus, with an elongated lookout built atop it. Also left over from the days of war.
“Name yourselves,” a discorporate voice commands from the other side.
“Marcus Scaevola, Praetor to King Cato of Anziano.”
Dru follows his lead. “Drusilla Valerius.”
When the bard doesn’t say anything, both Marcus and Dru turn to look at him.
At their attention, he straightens. “Oh, Jove, the bard.”
Marcus closes his eyes and shakes his head.
“Drusilla Valerius and”—a pause—“Jove the bard, please pay the toll.”
“Why don’t you have to pay?” the bard whines.
Marcus explains, “I’m the praetor,” right as Dru says, “He’s the praetor.”
Grinning softly to himself, they move their horses forward. A small door beside the gate opens and an older man in a blue silk tunic with a slight limp greets them, holding out a small basket.
“Two coins each.”
The bard rifles through his bag to procure the coins, tossing them into the basket. Once the guard confirms that he deposited the requested amount, he steps back inside and rings a bell. A moment later, the gate creaks open. Dru and her horse trot through first, the golden fields of Anziano stretching beyond her.
For the first time since he left Anziano to find Dru, Marcus hesitates. He can’t help wondering if he made a mistake. Things will only get more difficult once they reach the palace, and though he’s certain Dru can handle anything thrown in her path, she’ll hate it at times. Hatehim.
You did what you had to do. For both their sakes.
And that’s enough for now.
CHAPTER FIVE
DRUSILLA
Anziano is more beautiful than Dru expected, the disparities between this country and the Imperium impossibly stark to her eyes.
The Imperium continuously builds on its conquered lands, with no regard for nature. Summer homes crowd its beaches and sprawling estates march across its countryside, built upon land bought by wealthy Phaedrans from farmers who could no longer maintain a living. The government caters to the rich while the poor suffer, leaving little else in between.
But Anziano stands as a monument to natural preservation. In the distance, craggy mountains emerge, colossal giants of the land and sky. Morning fog clings to them, their bases overflowing with lush trees and bright wildflowers.
Green and gold crop fields dot the landscape from the moment the three of them pass through the gate, most occupied by simple huts. Sinewy smoke curls out of the thatched roofs while cows idly graze and chickens cluck in their coops. Dru’s stomach growls at the faint, savory-sweet smell of fried pataso nearby—one of her mother’s favorite dishes to make.
Mulberry trees, native only to Anziano due to the rich soil, form canopied boundaries between the farms. She squints to see if she can make out any of the infamous worms, who supply the silk for the entire Imperium, inhabiting the leaves. They’d be easier to spot if she weren’t riding a horse, but if she stops now, she might not be able to continue on. Exhaustion pulls at her raw skin and aching eyes, begging her for rest.
I just need to make it to the king’s palace. Then I can rest.
Dru’s eyes flutter closed on their own despite herself. Ovidia’s death immediately plays out in vivid detail in the blackness of her mind. She feels the thump when Ovi was forced against her on the horse as the arrow pierced her heart; hears the gurgling sound she made in the back of her throat before she collapsed to the ground; feels the wrenching pain when Dru realized there was nothing she could do to save her friend.
Though the sun beats down on them, Dru’s blood runs cold and she shivers. Seeing Ovi’s death over and over in her mind’s eye is the true reason she refused sleep for the entire night, despite her exhaustion.
Swallowing the sob clawing up her throat, she opens her eyes again to the sunlit fields of Anziano, while fury and unending grief anchor her in her thoughts. What could she have done differently? What if she’d chosen a different road or decided to make a run for it without the horses? Or if Marcus hadn’t set upon them in the first place, or the bard hadn’t stalled them?
