Page 67 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
The bard glances away from his paying customers at the sound of his name. Seeing who called for him, he hurries to pick up his coin-filled pouch, swinging his lute around his back and running over. The crowd voices their disappointment but moves on quickly to a woman juggling pugio daggers.
The bard bows. “At your service, my king.”
Dru snorts and Marcus clears his throat.
“Don’t tease him,” Cato chastises. “In fact, the two of you could do with a bit more kowtowing in my presence.”
“That’s not going to happen,” she can’t help saying, right as Marcus concurs, “Absolutely not.”
Cato barks out a laugh. “At least there’s consensus.”
He steps away from the heart of the festival. “Onward.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DRUSILLA
Cato leads them through the square and down the main road of Notevole, two of his guards flanking either side and the third at his back, while Dru and Marcus bring up the rear. One of the guards appears to be around her age and has Marcus’s build, with a shock of thick red hair tied at the nape of his neck. The other guard boasts a slimmer form and shorter hair, speckled with grays. The third in front of them has skin nearly as dark as the night around them, his head shaved.
All keep vigilance around their king.
With the night deepening, the glow of the lamplight grows fuzzy at the edges of her vision.Or perhaps that’s the Nettare. The balconies become less and less crowded the further they leave the festival behind, their footsteps echoing louder against the cobblestone.
A horde of Phaedran soldiers stumble out of a tabernae, supporting themselves against the building. One vomits on the ground, leaving it behind for someone else to clean up. Dru grimaces.
How many Phaedrans fill the streets tonight, acting as if they haven’t come to Anziano to watch the destruction of the Durevolianpeople over the course of the Blood Trials? To take pleasure in their deaths for their own entertainment?
Dru finishes the rest of her drink to put a stop to those thoughts, if only for one night
As they turn a corner down an alleyway, the sounds of merriment all but disappear. Her body floats down the street as if caught in a river current, the lamplight blurring around her so much that she stumbles over a raised cobblestone.
A strong hand grasps her arm to keep her from falling, and she looks over to find Marcus. A seriousness envelops his features. She doesn’t normally allow herself to lose control like this, but she’s been wound tight for so long—years now, if she’s honest with herself—she finds it too tempting to let go. To make the memory of Ovi proud, like she promised herself she would.
And a part of her knows Marcus will never let anything happen to her. He may not feel for her the way she does—did—for him, but she trusts him completely. She always has.
Instead of telling her to keep her wits, he reaches for her. Her breathing grows shallow as his fingers brush the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck, his warmth spreading from where he touches her. She stares up into his eyes, barely able to find the blue of them in the dark. Her lips part slightly on their own accord—he glances down at them, digging his fingers into her hair. Her breath catches inside her chest.
A moment later, he pulls the ties of her mask and it falls from her face. He lets it drop to the ground before loosening the ties of his own. Stellae, she missed looking at his face.
“There.” He wraps an arm around her and pulls her to him. “I’ve got you.”
Her heart beats loudly inside her chest at the contact. She hates how incredible his warmth feels, how much she craves his touch. The impulsive, inebriated part of her wants to erase the distance between them, to capture his lips with hers.
In a moment of clarity, she banishes the temptation; not onlywould it be unwanted, but it would complicate things that can’t afford to be so.
“Ah, here we are.” Cato gestures at a short, splintered door barely hanging on by its hinges once they catch up.
The seven of them find themselves at the back of an old stone building. The scent of flour and yeast spills out onto the road, and she could swear it’s warmer where they stand. One of Cato’s guards yanks the door open the rest of the way?—
—to unveil stairs leading down into the dark.
Some of the haze from the wine wears off as Dru’s instincts kick in.
Extricating herself from Marcus, she stares down into the maw long enough to see the darkness isn’t pervasive. The soft glow of firelight reaches up through the gloom, daring them to climb down.
Cato pays the murk no mind. After one of his guards steps down first, the king yanks his mask off and follows. Marcus puts out his hand for her to follow after the bard, which she does after only a moment’s hesitation. Marcus wouldn’t have allowed them to come here if it wasn’t safe, not with the risk of putting the king’s life in danger.
They descend deeper than Dru would’ve thought possible. She watches the dim walls around them for possible snares as the gentle scent of old, wet stone replaces the odors of the bakery. She nearly falls once or twice from how steep the steps are, but she manages to hold herself up against the wall. Marcus waits behind her patiently, wordlessly.
