Page 68 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
As soon as she begins to suspect the king led them down here to be slaughtered in some sort of Spettrale ritual, the sound of boisterous conversation reaches her ears. The firelight grows stronger, as does the stench of sweat, wine, and something sweeter she can’t place.
At the last few stone steps, the room reveals itself. The curved stone entrance hangs low, forcing them to crouch down to get inside. Standing to their full heights again, the place opens up into a high,carved-out cavern. Lanterns hang precariously on their hooks. An array of multi-patterned tiles have been slathered across the concave walls, as if patrons bring them to this place when they come upon extras.
What’s more impressive, though, is that someone painted the top of the domed ceiling to rival the night sky. Black brush strokes frame the highest tiles, thickening to span the entirety of the ceiling. Hand-drawn gold and white stars sparkle among the blackness, some with actual jewels embedded in them that twinkle in the lamplight.
“Marcus, a drink, if you please.” Cato glances at Dru and the bard. “For all of us.”
He faces his guards. “Except you three, obviously. I can’t be the only one with his wits about him.” He stumbles toward an empty table near the back wall.
Dru and Marcus head over to a white-marble rectangular bar beside the entrance, where the stout, hairy man behind it pours a dark, honey-colored liquid into a cup the size of her thumb for the customer beside them.
“What is that?” Dru asks as the woman he poured it for throws her head back and downs the entire contents. Notes of a sickly-sweet syrup hit the back of Dru’s throat.
“They call it Coinvolgente,” Marcus murmurs. “A powerful drug ground from the seeds of a rare flower found in grottos on the southwestern side of the island.”
The woman’s eyes glaze over almost instantly, her attention strewn about the room even as her companion continues to speak at her in drunken slurs. Dru’s almost envious, but she regrets the thought instantly. As much as she wishes she could forget some of the things she’s done, she’ll never go further than wine to do so.
Her past makes her who she is—she’ll be no one if she forgets it.
“I think I’ll stick to the Nettare.”
Marcus places his arms on the bar. “Smart. Coinvolgente is dangerously addictive.”
“And the Nettare isn’t?” she asks, lamenting how the soft edges from the potent wine have already started wearing off.
“It is.” He holds up four fingers to the barkeep once he finally looks their way. “Just the acceptable sort of addiction. One that kills you slowly over time rather than all at once.”
“Ah,” she breathes. “My favorite sort of addiction.”
The bartender sets four tankards before them. Discarding her empty horn from the festival on the bar, she grabs two of them while Marcus leaves a few coins. He takes the last two, and they head in the king’s direction.
Dru takes a longer look around at the patrons. “I’m still surprised no Phaedrans were invited here.”
“You shouldn’t be—they wouldn’t be welcome. Every citizen of Anziano, no matter their station, hates the Phaedrans. All the Imperium wants to do is take from them, to destroy their way of life. There’s nothing those people can give them that they don’t already have.”
Dru glances at Marcus, his mouth drawn in a thin, angry line. “An impassioned argument.”
His expression softens. “Once you’ve been around the Durevolian people long enough, you have trouble seeing it any other way.”
I realize that now.
“Finally!” Cato slams a hand against the table. “I thought I was going to have to go up there myself and demand all the Nettare in this place.”
“Patience is a virtue, Cato,” Dru reminds him, setting down a drink in front of him, while Marcus hands his extra drink to the bard.
“I never promised to be virtuous, Drusilla.” He takes a few healthy gulps of the wine.
“You might want to pace yourself,” Marcus suggests softly to him. “The first trial is tomorrow, and we can’t be sure the Phaedrans plan to follow the rules you instated.”
“Just one night, Marcus,” Cato complains. “One night I wish youwouldn’t be so”—he gestures up and down at him—“you. My gods, man, take a night off for once.”
Marcus stares at him but doesn’t answer.
Dru sips her own wine while the bard weaves a tale about a time in the Phaedran capital when he stole a donkey and rode him through the streets with nothing on but his lute. But Dru’s not listening.
As the wine winds newly through her mind and body, she watches Anziano’s elite drink themselves into oblivion on the eve of the first blood trials in a hundred years. Their expensive robes shimmer in the lamplight, their jewelry glittering on their necks, fingers, and wrists.I’m sure they used all the influence they had to keep themselves off that lottery list, leaving their fellow citizens in the lurch.
“I know that look,” Marcus says after downing half his cup. “You think too much.”
