Page 20 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
There lays the capital city of Notevole.
Smaller but higher-end insulae surround houses similar to the marble dumos in the Imperium, their red clay roofs and closed-in courtyards crowding against one another. Every single building faces the temple at the center of town, the tallest structure in the entire capital.
Dru cranes her neck to get a better look. It’s not only one of the most legendary and stunning temples in all the known world, but also the birthplace of the Spettrale religion. She used to love hearing her mother tell stories about them: made up of thirteen priestesses called the Tredici, they harmonize their hums to a pitch perfect enough for their gods to hear them. They also have the ability to control the elements with it.
They’re mere tales, of course, but she loved the thought of being able to control things as a child—of being able to speak to the gods, before learning there aren’t any gods to speak to.
The open-air market set up all around the temple exhibits the wonderful array of colors Anziano is known for. Bright, multi-hued fabrics hang over the merchants’ carts to block out most of the sun, customers crowding the spaces between stalls dressed in their vibrant silk robes and tunics. Aromas of cooked meat and burned sugar manage to reach them, and her stomach growls again.
The sounds of haggling soon prick at her ears.
“That’s far too steep a price for a dozen albacore tuna. I’ll give you half that.”
“Only three moneta for a hat? What a steal! Come get yours.”
“Those robes are beautiful. And the stitching! My wife will love it.”
Other Durevolians walk the streets, tossing coins near a lively flute player or having a drink together outside a tabernae. Two women laugh as one of them places a wide, fuchsia-dyed scarf over the other’s head.
Jealousy spoils the few bites of food swirling inside her stomach. What must it be like to be free? To live without the heel of the Imperium on their necks? To not be bound by Faithless oaths?
But she shifts her attention away before those thoughts can take root, knowing that dwelling on her lot in life will do more harm than good.
The closer they get to the palace, the grander it becomes. Constructed from huge blocks of spackled limestone, it towers high above them, the soft-sloping point in the middle piercing the cloudless sky. Smooth columns support the deep stone overhang spanning the entire anterior, the thick marble cut with veins of sparkling pale-white agate and dark red jasper. The rounded archways linking each column depict carved figures of what she can only assume to be the various gods of the Durevolian people.
Soaring, ancient mulberry trees surround each side of the palacewith impenetrable greenery, their gnarly roots thick from the fertile ground. Detailed marble statues of past emperors, distinguished on their pedestals, flank either side of the dozen or so limestone steps leading up to the entrance.
“I could get used to this,” the bard announces, peering upward as they ascend on horseback.
“I wouldn’t,” Marcus warns him. “Once the treasury repays you, you’ll likely be out on the street again.”
The bard groans, pushing back his greasy blond hair from his face. “Please, I’m not meant for the streets. At least allow me to play for the king, prove my worth.”
“If you’re not meant for the streets, and you’re not meant for prison, then what are you meant for?” Dru asks.
He sighs, gazing affectionately at the palace. “This.”
“I’ll consider it,” Marcus says, though, by his dismissive tone, she doubts he means it.
Once they reach the top, a handful of servants in beige silk tunics hurry out to greet them, offering their hands to help them dismount. Stunned, Dru takes the lead from Marcus, who couldn’t be more at ease. Not that the servants appear threatening, but Dru’s not used to such treatment. The line between the poor and the enslaved grows thinner every day in the Imperium, with the Phaedrans owning tortured slaves. Here, she finds finely clothed servants instead.
Looks as though Marcus has been living in luxury all this time.It stings more than she cares to admit, although now his silk cloak makes sense. All this time spent in Anziano, he’s grown used to their way of life. She wasn’t ready to admit it, but this man can’t be the same Marcus she knew before. Good or bad, it’s the truth.
This Marcus… He’s so different from the man she once knew. He fits in place here like a key turning in its lock.
Like any good spy would.
Marcus regards the servant with his horse in hand. “To the stables, please.”
The boy bows his head and leaves with both their beasts, who deserve plenty of hay for their service.
With the horse no longer beneath her, Dru takes a beat to draw a long breath, air filling her chest and settling her nerves. She desperately needs water, and her body aches from riding, but at least they’re no longer being beaten down by the sun. The shade provided by the palace dries the sweat and dirt on her face and neck; she can’t help feeling disgusting. Over a week of hard travel, and she hasn’t had a moment to wash herself.
Another servant appears, holding a round plate of rolled cloths. The bard immediately snatches his, placing it directly on his face and sucking in a breath.
“Here.” Marcus hands her one of the cotton cloths soaked in infused water. The hint of lavender from it soothes her.
Still, she pauses before grabbing it. “Thank you.”
