Page 33 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
The only way for Cato to remain king of Anziano is if he wins the Valorem Blood Trials. And maybe not even then.
We have a lot of work ahead of us.
Stepping back inside, she strips off her slip and pulls out the same beige tunic she wore yesterday. Considering she barely broke a sweat in it, it’ll last her at least another day. She does, however, put on a new set of undergarments—the one luxury she wants to keep while she can.
The moment she steps out of her room, she finds Marcus heading in her direction, as if he was waiting for her. A belt tightens the beige tunic around his waist. His dark locks hang loose today, and his stubble has grown longer overnight. It’s unfair for him to look so good. Not when she’s certain she looks like horse dung left out in the sun.
He appears as if he’s been up for some time, and with plenty of sleep: no smudges plague the space beneath his eyes, no tiredness lags his gait.Stellae, he even walks the same as he did when he trained me.
Stopping far enough away, his gaze strays to her tunic. “You know you don’t have to wear a tunic more than once before it’s considered dirty?”
“How you’ve changed, Marcus,” Dru quips. The uniforms the Faithless gave them to wear had to last an entire month before being washed.
A wry smile pulls at his lips; he remembers too.
“Breakfast?”
Her stomach speaks in agreement before she can get the words out.
He leads her to the center of the open courtyard, where a wooden table, chairs, and three place settings have been put out for their use. In the middle of the table sits a jug of milk, a tray of fresh oranges, a small bowl of crystal salt, and a rounded loaf of bread—nearly baked to the color of ash—sliced into even pieces.
“Is that bread burnt?”
Marcus pulls out a chair for her, then takes his own. “No, it’s made from a wheat native to Anziano, called tumminia. It turns the bread dark brown when baked.”
That doesn’t seem like something someone of Marcus’s station would know, but she’s impressed by the knowledge nonetheless.
Unfortunately, small talk has never been one of her stronger attributes, and she needs to air her concerns about Cato’s abilities. Or lack thereof.
Palming an orange, she sits down and begins to peel it. “We need to talk about the trials.”
Marcus’s hand pauses on the milk jug. “And here I thought it’d be a much better use of our time contemplating the weather for the next few days.”
She sinks a short nail into the flesh of the fruit. “I’m serious, Marcus. I’ve been here less than a day, and from what I’ve seen, the king won’t be ready in time.”
Marcus gives up on the milk, regarding her.
“You can’t tell me you haven’t thought the same,” she prods, recalling what she learned of each trial. “The first trial is hand-to-hand combat?—”
“He’s fine on that count.”
“But—”
“Trust me.”
I want to. I want to more than youcan know.
Her chest aches from the distrust of him in her heart. Yet every single one of her instincts tells her she can’t place her full faith in him yet.
She moves on. “The second involves answering impossible riddles to escape a deadly maze. The third, a horse race around the island. And the final trial is gladiator combat. Can you confidently say he’s ready to face all of them?”
One side of Marcus’s lips cock up. “Isn’t that what you’re here for?”
She glares at him.
He plucks a slice of bread from the loaf, tearing it apart to sprinkle some salt inside. “He’s more educated than most participants are likely to be. And he’s been riding horses since he could walk.”
“Marcus…” She sighs. “You saw him out there yesterday. I have no doubt he can answer the riddles, but in past trials, they’ve set up the maze with traps meant to kill. His ability to ride a horse won’t be the issue—it’s what lengths the other participants will go to in the name of destroying their competition.”
