Page 63 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
She notices many of the masks bear the green face of the ancient Durevolian god the festival is named for: Munifico, the god of bounty and harvest. Others wear the golden face of Laran, goddess of war. Dru wonders if those who wear Laran’s face have set out to make a statement, or if it’s part of the tradition.
Marcus is somewhere in the crowd, duty-bound to the king’s side for the night. Dru asked Cato if he wished for her presence as well, given how vulnerable he’ll be among so many Phaedrans. But Cato insisted she go out and enjoy all the festival has to offer, as he had tedious royal duties to attend to before he could be free to do as he wished.
And, given she’s found herself a competitor in the blood trials, this may very well be her last night alive.
She nearly laughs at the idea. The Faithless teach their soldiers to believe every day is their last and to do all they can while still alive. But she hasn’t felt the heavy hand of that particular promise since the night at the tabernae in Nusquam.
A playful scream draws her attention up. The balconies outside people’s homes crowd with boisterous partyers grasping cups in their hands, lit lanterns swaying from hooks underneath. Music wafts from the open doorways in gentle strums and airy whistles, loud drunken laughter accompanying it.
A sort of gambling row populates the furthest alley from the temple. Tables of dice games, a Phaedran game called latrunculi, and many others garner the most patrons. With the exception of sports betting, gambling has been outlawed in the Imperium, despite the most elite continuing to do it among their ilk.
Dru wishes Ovi was here to see this, the sting of her death fresh in her mind. She would’ve loved the spectacle of it all—the drinks, the debauchery, the costumes. But she especially would’ve loved that they had no responsibilities tonight. No orders to complete, no target to find and torture or kill. The purpose of the festival is enjoyment for enjoyment’s sake, and Ovi dreamed of living for only that.
Sorrow slices at her stomach. Despite all the people around her, she’s never felt more alone.
Shaking her head to rid herself of the pain in her heart, she promises instead to enjoy herself in Ovi’s name. To live through her for one night, and damn the consequences.
The Tredici occupy the space in front of the temple’s closed doors, their spectacle gaining the notice of many nearby partygoers. Swathed in purple robes and donning plumeria flower crowns over their loose locks, they begin to engage in a strange, beautiful dance.
Their humming penetrates her from where she stands by the fountain, vibrating along her body and singing in her blood. It reminds her of the second night she was here, when she was drawn to the black cave after spreading Ovi’s ashes.
That same pull yanks at her now. Calls to her like a requiem.
Were they there that night? The cave’s darkness was absolute, but they could’ve been hiding inside somehow.
Despite how drawn she is to them, something gnaws at her thoughts, rooting her to where she stands. For no logical reason, she feels akin to these women. Which is absurd. She only met the high priestess—who, in so many words, told her she would die—at the Spettrale ceremony.
Yet, as she watches them, her worries begin to fall away.Enjoy all the festival has to offer, Cato bade her. She’s not often one to let go ofinhibitions, but Catodidgive her an order. And it’s what Ovi would do; if it were up to Ovi, they’d already be at the front, throwing coin at the Tredici’s feet or dancing alongside them.
Relaxing her control, Dru joins the growing crowd spellbound by the dance. All thirteen women flit lithely around an open flame caged within a metal basket similar to the one they used in the ceremony the other morning.What burns inside there tonight, I wonder?
The humming grows louder the closer to them she gets. It vibrates along her bones and sets her skin ablaze. A sensation she’s never felt before swells inside her, filling her with… acceptance. A foreign but not unwanted sensation.
Wariness manages to take root again all the same, sinking its claws into her mind.
She catches the eye of the high priestess, whose golden gaze widens in recognition beneath the dark coal around her eyes. Her red-painted lips part, her wavy blonde hair tame compared to how she wore it at the ceremony.
“We will now choose someone from the audience,” she calls out, her voice carrying gently across the square, “whose future shall be foretold in fire.”
The women spread out amid the crowd, dancing between each person until Dru can no longer see them. People gasp and giggle in delight at the spectacle. The high priestess, however, looks only at Dru.
One blink, and the woman stands no more than an arm’s length before her. Dru swallows her gasp.
Taking Dru’s hand, the high priestess separates her from the crowd, leading her to the front of the temple. Her skin burns pleasantly from the contact, her mind emptying.
“What is your name, child?”
“Drusilla Valerius,” she finds herself saying.As you well know.
“And from where do you hail?”
“Obliviscatur.”
The woman glances back. Sorrow draws down her eyes and mouth. “And why have you come here?”
The haze over Dru’s mind clears enough for her to answer, “I do not know.”
The woman studies her. “Yes, I don’t believe you do. Come, sit.”
