Page 47 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
She narrows her gaze. The Imperium would never allow their slaves a chance at freedom. But that can’t be Cato’s rule either, not when the servants in the palace appear to be compensated for their labor. Or, at least, they’re not being held hostage and tortured daily. So there must be a reason they’re allowing them to participate.
The Imperium plans to use them for sport, she realizes, stomach churning. No slave of the Imperium could muster enough strength to have a chance against an ordinary well-fed citizen, much less a trained soldier like those who volunteer. And even if an ordinary citizen is chosen, nothing stops them from naming a slave as their proxy.
“And so, in the name of peace and comradery, I will now sing a Phaedran song of glory in the gods’ names.”
Your gods, she wants to say aloud but again holds her tongue. There’s something about this particular priest that draws deep rage from her each time he speaks.
The moment the bard strums the first chords and the priest opens his mouth, Dru stiffens. They’ve chosen the war ballad the Imperium soldiers sing after each conquest—a purposeful choice, no doubt, but ironic, considering they never could conquer Anziano.
Her breath stalls in her chest, the words and melody seared into her mind . She hid for three days beneath the smoking cinders of her home, forced to listen to them play that song night after night. Until they moved on and the Faithless found her, severely dehydrated and fighting off infection from her wounds.
Closing her eyes, she tries to think of better things, but all she sees are the decaying bodies of her people, the smell of burnt flesh haunting her memories.
Marcus knows it too—most of the Faithless come from villagesdestroyed by the Imperium legions. He reaches over to take her clenched hand in his and grasps it tight. She lets him, her chest loosening a fraction at the contact.
Knowing he feels the same pain, but reached out to her first… it means more to her than he can ever know.
Once the song ends, Dru opens her eyes and extricates her hand from his, crossing her arms loosely beneath her chest. His warmth lingers while she focuses on breathing normally, feeling his eyes on her.
The head priestess gets to her feet again, wide eyes shining. In her arms, she holds a branch laden with green leaves and white flowers. She turns to face the priest so he can grasp the branch with her, and Dru notices bright yellow swirling inside the white petals. Like a burst egg yolk.
Another one of the Tredici hands her a torch. She holds it to the base of the branch, where it immediately ignites. Together, they drop it into the large bronze fire basket at their feet and grasp hands as the flowers shrivel under the heat of the flames. Gray smoke curls out of it, permeating the air. It bleeds into the sunlight where it turns white.
“With this sacrifice of the sacred plumeria,” the Tredici priestess says, her voice low and strong, “the Valorem Blood Trials have been blessed by the gods, both old and new.”
At her words, the other Tredici women abandon the altar to pull on the dark purple robes set out for them.
The last one, they offer to who she assumes to be the head priestess. After tying it off, she nods at yet another holy woman, who passes to her sisters each a bronze bowl small enough to fit in the palm of their hands. One by one, they dip their bowls in the ashes of the plumeria plant, lining up in a half-circle around the altar.
The high priestess takes her place in the middle of them once more. “Come forth and take part in this blessing. For beauty was destroyed so blood could be shed. In her name, Lode Laran.”
Those from Anziano hum again in response.
The Durevolians standing closest to the altar approach the women. Each Tredici dips their middle finger in the ashes before pressing it onto the person’s chest, directly below the collarbone. It appears they’re marking everyone with a symbol, with those who receive the blessing displaying the ashen circles as they turn away.
The Phaedrans stay where they are.
Whether an act of rebellion or curiosity, Dru pushes to the front, placing herself in front of the high priestess.
Recognition, of all things, sparks in the woman’s golden eyes. She leans close and draws the circle on Dru’s chest in black ashes, murmuring, “La morte affligge i coraggiosi, Drusilla Valerius.”
Fear hastens her pulse. “How do you know my name?”
But she doesn’t reply. The two women stare at each other for a moment, something familiar yet unknown passing between them. Dru opens her mouth, though she’s not sure what to say—until the high priestess pulls back and moves on to the next person.
Dru walks away slowly. Not a single thought plagues her mind except what that might’ve meant, and how this strange woman could possibly know her full name.
She heads in the direction of the king, the ashes already placed upon his chest. Cato wears the same outfit as Marcus, the silk indigo instead of black. Lean, gentle muscles peek out through his open shirt, his bronze crown perfectly placed on his head.
“What did you think of the ceremony?” he asks once she’s beside him, taking the place of one of his guards. Unable to help herself, her gaze finds Marcus as one of the Tredici priestess’s fingers lingers a moment too long on his chest.
“An overwrought spectacle. But hopefully it placates the Imperium.”
He snorts a shallow laugh. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Dru pulls at the tie around her waist, trying to loosen it even the smallest bit.
“I didn’t mention it before at the palace, but you look beautifultoday.” He says it pragmatically, with little emotion attached. But she knows he means it.
