Page 9 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
Once her horse settles, she finds Ovi on her hands and knees, gulping in labored breaths. It’s not the first time either of them has been knocked from a horse, but Dru knows it doesn’t make landing on her back any easier.
After Ovi finally catches her breath and Dru helps her into the saddle again, Dru takes a good look at the stranger. She closes her eyes and sighs, frustration burning in her restless limbs.
“Out of our way, bard.”
Ovi hits her shoulder with the back of her hand, whispering through pained breaths. “Don’t be rude.”
Slinging his lute over his back, he juts out his lower lip and interlocks his fingers in prayer. “Please, take me with you. I won’t be a burden.”
“Any addition to our caravan would be a burden,” Marcus argues.Glad we’re on the same page about something.
The bard takes a step toward Marcus. “But I won’t be! And I can serenade you with my songs.”
Dru stares at him.He can’t be serious.
“That could be nice,” Ovi insists quietly.
Dru turns her head to whisper, “Iwillsmack you. I swear it.”
Ovi purses her thin lips, green eyes bright with held-back laughter.
The bard fumbles with a small bag from his pocket, shaking it. The pouch jingles with coin, likely everything he made tonight without the tabernae having the opportunity to take its cut.
“I can pay.”
“It’s not about money,” Marcus says.
The bard falls to his knees. Dru scoffs; it’s a bit dramatic, even for a starving musician. “Please. If the Namicans don’t kill me, the Phaedrans will have me arrested for singing an Obliviscaturian song.” He points to himself. “Look at this face: I won’t fare well in prison.”
“That’s true,” Ovi mutters.
Marcus pauses. “Fine.”
Dru glares at him over the bard, who’s too distracted climbing to his feet and dusting himself off to notice.
Seeing the look, Marcus guides his horse to come up close beside her so they won’t be overheard. “It’s not for charity. He may be of use to us at the Mercato Bridge.”
Dru seals her lips tight, trying not to breathe too deeply. By all rights, the man should smell only of smoke and sweat. But at this distance, she can’t help breathing in his scent of sandalwood andolive oil. The olive oil is new, but sandalwood she remembers far too well.
Clearing her throat, she turns her face aside to take stock of the bard. At her back, Ovi tightens her grip around Dru’s waist.
As much as she hates the bard—admittedly for no better reason than his profession—they can’t ignore his offer. At minimum, they’ll have to pay their way across the bridge, to purchase provisions. And while the ride to Anziano’s not long, the terrain makes it difficult to traverse, especially if they have to stay off the roads.
She grips her horse’s reins. “You want him? He’s all yours.”
Without waiting for a response, Dru digs in her heels and the horse takes off.
CHAPTER THREE
DRUSILLA
With Ovi’s arms wrapped around her waist, Dru leans forward, the hooves of her horse beating at the road.
Ovi speaks into her ear. “You could’ve been nicer.”
Dru turns her head to the side. “You’re right, I could have. But when have you known me to be the nicer of the two of us?”
“True, you’d be a hardened soldier without me.”
