Page 64 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
She points to a wooden stool placed far enough away from the fire.
Feeling as if her body’s not hers to command, Dru does as she’s asked, perching stiffly on the edge of the stool. The longer she sits there, the more aware she becomes. Fighting for control of her movements and her thoughts has her wondering if the priestesses do, in fact, possess real magic. If so, she’ll have to be careful with what she says, and hold fast to whatever’s left of her willpower.
“Give me your arm.”
While her mind hesitates, the arm without her Faithless tattoo—which she’s once again hidden beneath a leather cuff—thrusts itself forward.
The high priestess grasps her wrist with one hand and flicks the other over the fire,pluckinga handful of flames from it. As if grasping petals. Dru blinks at the sight, but it doesn’t change. Horror rises inside her. Not at the fire itself, but at the thought of being so close to real magic.
This was a mistake.
It could very well be a simple parlor trick. Or it could be the humming magic her mother told her about that’s controlling the fire. The kind that can harness the elements.
The high priestess holds out her palm for the spectators to see, the flames dancing just above her skin. Her throat vibrates slightly, though Dru can’t hear anything over the other sounds of the festival.
Without warning, she tightens her grip on Dru’s wrist and slams the inferno onto her forearm. The crowd gasps; Dru tries to pull away, wriggling, but the other woman’s grip is like stone.
When her arm doesn’t burn like it’s supposed to, she finds thepriestess’s eyes.
They’re white.
Dru can’t look away from them as the woman speaks. “Your path has led you here for a reason, Drusilla Valerius. You will find both love and loss, destiny and destruction.” She flicks her hands dramatically over Dru’s brow. “You are an heir, but one born from flame, not blood.”
Heir? Heir of what?
Dru tries to pull her hand away again, but it doesn’t budge. An overwhelming but foreign sense of purpose invades her, permeating her body, her every thought. It feelswrong. Fear fights for control of her mind now: fear of what the flames will do, fear of what the priestess’s prophecy means, fear of the magic trying to force all her secrets past her lips.
The priestess removes her hand and the natural gold of her eyes returns. Her chest wilts, as if what she did drained her.
“The gods have bestowed a gift upon you: the ancient symbol for loyalty”—Loyalty?—“in recognition of your service to our beloved king.”
The high priestess drags Dru off the stool and thrusts her hand into the air above their heads, displaying the symbol for all to see. The audience claps and cheers, having no idea what’s passed between them.
As control over herself returns, Dru gasps, chest heaving as if she just sprinted up a mountain. Her body tingles like it’s been left out in the cold too long, and her eyes burn. But she concentrates on her breathing, calming that first until the rest eventually follows.
Standing exposed in front of the faceless masses, Dru feels naked. As if the gods themselves have joined them to cheer on this charade. Her arm continues to tingle the longer the priestess holds it, though it doesn’t hurt. Not like it should.
This is normal, she tells herself.They do this every festival; I’m merely the fool they chose for it.It’s the only explanation. The future foretold by the high priestess was vague enough that some mightbelieve it to be true, and powerful enough to keep the rapture of the crowd.
Before Dru can question her own logic, the other women dance out in front of them, a new song low in their throats. The high priestess drops her hand, letting it fall to Dru’s hip.
With the crowd distracted, the high priestess guides her behind one of the temple pillars.
She focuses her intense gaze on Dru. “I know you.”
Dru takes a step back. “No, you don’t.”
“There’s no point in arguing. I know more about you than you know yourself. But that matters not tonight—the king is in danger.”
Dru straightens. “At this moment?”
“No, in the trials.”
She relaxes. “I know this.”
The woman shakes her head. “You do not know everything. If his enemies are to succeed, much will be lost. Be careful of who you trust.”
One of the few people she’s unwittingly allowed herself to get close to immediately comes to mind: the bard. He hasn’t proven himself to be guilty, but neither has he proven himself innocent and worthy to be at the king’s side.
