Page 41 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
“Let me help with the belt, then,” Sabina offers.
Dru pulls off her slip, puts on her undergarments, and tosses a tunic—this one blue, like Cato’s yesterday—over her head. Grabbing her belt, she hands it to Sabina. The girl places it around her waist a bit snug at first, before finding the right length and ensuring it sits right on her hips. Dru closes her eyes and bites her tongue.Give me strength.
Once Sabina stops fussing, Dru steps away to grab her dagger from her bedside and sheathes it. “I don’t have to look nice for anyone, especially the Imperium.”
Sabina clears her throat. “Cato says the same thing when the Imperium visits. But it’s nice to be presentable, no matter who the company is.”
Dru doesn’t respond as she laces up her sandals, allowing Sabina to tie them off. Although she draws the line at pinning up her hair.
Lastly, she searches the trunk for something to cover her Faithless tattoo. Given the Faithless’ proclivity for undermining everything the Imperium does, their envoys won’t react kindly to being in the company of one of them. She manages to find a thin leather armband wide enough to fully cover the dictum, which she tightens around her upper arm.
Before leaving, she nearly asks Sabina about the cave on the beach. But, in her sorrow over Ovi, she could’ve easily imagined it. And the last thing she needs is to appear incompetent. Or worse, like she’s losing her mind.
Striding out into the courtyard, a cornucopia of food has been spread out on their breakfast table. Cured meats, cheeses, colorful fruits, squeezed juices, bread. Even wine, which she notices a cup ofalready grasped in the bard’s hand. Watching him jabber on, she bites the inside of her cheek to score her face. There’ll be no getting rid of him now that Cato decided to pay special attention to him.
The council from the first day crowds one end of the table, along with gamemaster Ettore. Marcus stands alone on the other end, watching them intently.
Wariness sets Dru on edge the moment she approaches them. They don’t pay her any mind, but something about the quiet way they’re speaking to one another makes her feel out of place.
As much as she wants to, she doesn’t go to Marcus—not yet. Instead, she grabs a plate and places a few things she doesn’t plan to eat much of on it before entering the crowd.
Unsurprisingly, the Imperium appears to be the only topic.
“What do you think they’re like?”
“Like any other Phaedran who gets a taste of power. We shouldn’t have invited them here.”
“It was the king’s dying wish.”
“Exactly my point: the king was desperate and sick when he made this boon for peace. He wasn’t in his right mind.”
“Don’t talk about our late king like that.”
“Why won’t Cato simply name a proxy?”
“He deserves a chance at glory as much as anyone.”
“But is it worth his kingdom, or our freedom?”
“Have a little faith.”
And on it goes. Dru understands why they’re afraid: their young king’s life hangs in the balance. It appears they’ve tried to talk him out of it before, so they know there’s nothing they can do now to persuade him not to participate. Unlike the Phaedrans, glory and honor mean everything to the Durevolian people. Especially the king.
Leaving the crowd, she finally joins Marcus.
She speaks softly so no one else will overhear. “They’re afraid.”
He flexes his crossed arms. “They should be. In less than a week, they may very well lose their king, their country, and their freedom.”
She smirks. “I thought I’m supposed to be the negative one.”
Before he can respond, the palace front doors open wide to reveal Cato flanked by two of his guards, and a handful of Phaedrans strutting in behind him. The council quiets as they enter the courtyard.
The man directly behind Cato wears blood-red robes embroidered with gold thread. The dark hair cut close to his scalp fails to hide a receding hairline, and accentuates his bulbous nose. His beady eyes squint against the Anziano sun, lips pursed. He must be the ambassador—the legatus—sent from the Imperium. Two guards march on either side of him in full military garb.
To his left stands the Phaedran gamemaster, the venatus magister, who could not look more plain or more bored. His slicked-back blond hair brushes his shoulders, and his eyes are red-rimmed, his face sallow. He looks young, close to Marcus’s age. The golden octagon—the shape of the arenas where official Phaedran fights take place—pinned to his chest marks his station. This man controls all the sport betting that goes on in the Imperium.
It would be impressive if it didn’t sicken her to her core. Most of the Imperium fights involve slaves.
