Page 18 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
She’s never doubted her decisions before, but Ovi’s death has forced her to question every moment that brought them to Nusquam.
But she can’t let it distract her. She’s never set foot inside Anziano’s borders before and has no idea of the dangers that might threaten her here.
Through her sleep-addled delirium, suspicion rears its ugly head again at Marcus. The only thing permitting her trust of him is his knowledge of her last order—of the man behind the blue door. Theonly way he could possibly know about it is if he’s still within the fold of the Faithless.
Or, someone broke Faithless law and told him of it.
She glances at him, wishing she knew where his allegiances lie.
Peering out as far as her bleary eyes allow, Dru marvels at how unspoiled the land is. A well-fortified island in its own right, war has never visited Anziano’s shores. But danger constantly lurks across the sea and near its borders. The Imperium Navy keeps a watchful eye on their ports, ensuring the merchant ships traveling from the Phaedran territories to the island carry no contraband, like weapons or slaves.
Their freedom is conditional, like all those under the heavy hand of the Imperium.
The worn path Marcus set them on eventually leads to steep cliffs and an expansive view of the turquoise Multum Sea. It loops around the white-stoned bluffs and eventually down to the shoreline.
Once they reach the beach, soft but durable sand turns beneath the horses’ hooves, their pace kicking up grains of it in their wake. With the sun almost directly overhead now, the ocean has retreated back, leaving bare the smooth, algae-laden rocks and shimmering tide pools. A sharp breeze catches the hairs loosened from her braid, and the stink of seaweed and brine pricks at her nose.
But she breathes in deeply, welcoming it in the comfortable silence. Her orders from the Faithless never take her to places like this, and she plans to take advantage for as long as she can.
When they talked about what they’d do if they weren’t bound to the Faithless in the early hours of the morning after successfully fulfilling their orders, Ovi always said she wanted to live on a beach somewhere. She’d even mumble about it in her sleep sometimes, a smile on her lips.
Gripping her horse’s reins, she pushes those memories away, locking them up inside herself. As easy as it would be to stew in her misery, she can’t afford to dwell on those who’ve left her.
Ovi is dead. And there’s nothing that’ll change that.
Hastening her pace, Dru catches up to Marcus. The tense fury in his shoulders when he barged into the brothel has disappeared, his body moving in sync with the cadence of his horse’s trot.
That look he gave her… it’s the same look that made him hard to resist all those years ago. Back then, she couldn’t have been more certain that he cared about her. That her fondness for him would be reciprocated, even though he was her trainer. It’s been six years since the last time she saw one of those looks, and they still hold power over her.
And it’s likely he knows it.
Try as she might, her suspicions of him linger. Even his failed attempt at hiding how impressed he was when she had that drunken idiot pissing himself can’t be trusted.
If he managed to convince the entire legion of Faithless that he defected, why couldn’t he also pretend to care for her? She desperately wants to believe he’s being genuine—if it wasn’t exactly the sort of regard her younger self so obviously longed for. It could easily be an act tailored to a woman who no longer exists.
Naïve little flower.That’s what the Faithless called her when they first brought her there—motherless, penniless, witless. She’s striven to prove them wrong ever since.
“Are we there yet?” the bard asks. She’s surprised he’s stayed silent for this long; he must be tired after all that sleep he had last night. His snores could’ve woken the dead.
“No,” Marcus barks.
Her stomach growls for the hundredth time, and she remembers the food the brothel owner gave them. “We should stop to eat.”
Without waiting for an answer, she maneuvers her horse to take shelter beside a giant mulberry tree growing out of the rocky cliffs. The sun beats down on them, severe since the moment it rose at the market—they could use the reprieve.
Perching on a flat, weather-worn boulder, she unties her sandals to stretch her ankles and feet, sifting the soft sand between her toes.Marcus feeds the horses the pair of apples from the brothel owner’s provisions, then brings the rest of the food over, the bard at his heels. Dru shakes her head. His own shadow couldn’t be closer.
From the bag, Marcus procures two blood oranges, a jar of ricotta cheese, and a loaf of focaccia. Ricotta has a short shelf life, so the brothel owner most likely traded for it with a local Durevolian farmer.
He hands Dru an orange and breaks off a section of the bread for her. She immediately devours the entire hunk of focaccia; it tastes a week old, but at least it’s food. Peeling the blood orange next and eating a slice whole, the juices burst inside her mouth pleasantly, quenching her thirst.
In the comfortable silence, Marcus stretches out on the sand beside her, using a thick piece of driftwood to prop up his head. She can’t help watching him, his taut muscles flexing while he positions himself comfortably, his dark lashes fluttering as he closes his eyes. His scars practically glow in the indirect sunlight, his face thinner but not malnourished.
As impossible as it seems, Marcus grew up. Though only a couple years older than her, he acted far beyond his age when training her and the other initiates. She never thought about it before, but the Faithless must’ve seen something great in him to give him such a duty at a young age.
When he opens his eyes and sits up, releasing his hair from its tie, she glances away quickly. She pulls what’s left of her braid over to one side to hide her face, allowing the back of her neck room to breathe. The loose hairs of her long, dark tresses fan out, the waves more pronounced from the thicker air here.
The bard doesn’t partake in the food. Instead, he flips his lute around and strums a chord. Dru flinches.
