Act I Scene V #2
He’s not the sort of man you’d expect from the likes of the Playhouse.
He doesn’t have the golden eyes or the monstrously exaggerated features of a Player.
His eyes are a soft blue, hidden behind a pair of silver spectacles.
In fact, he looks altogether normal, wearing a suit as black as his hair is white and a smile that glimmers with pride.
He’s smiling. Doesn’t he see the blood?
My breaths come in pitiful wheezes, each one an icicle piercing my lungs.
“For your sake,” Silenus says on his way down the stairs, far too spry for an old man. “I hope this late entrance is no indication of your onstage timing.”
Gods, he thinks I’m here to audition.
The ridiculous notion of making a run for it flies across my mind as the director approaches, stepping cleanly over the dead bodies like they aren’t there.
I slam my palms to the stone, wincing as I push onto my knees, holding my side and bending low at my waist. I think I’ll break in half if I straighten any more.
“Please, please, none of that!” Silenus says a little too kindly. “My Players don’t mind such displays of admiration, but it isn’t necessary for an old director.”
The assumption sends my hands into tight fists. I consider the odds of strangling an immortal director and winning.
He thinks I’m bowing to him.
That anger will be the death of you, Galen’s voice reminds me.
The gates may be only a few feet behind me, but I’m on Playhouse grounds now. I’ll die right here if I’m discovered.
I clear my throat and slowly, agonizingly, force my spine straight.
RIVEN: “Hello.” I don’t mean for the word to come out like a gasp.
The director tilts his head, curious. For a horrifying moment, I wonder if he recognizes me.
Sees my father’s face in mine, like so many do.
I’ve read that Players rarely recognize the faces of mortals, too tied up in their own vanity.
I wonder—hope—whether the same applies to their director.
Whatever he is…human or deity or perhaps some unholy mix of the two.
SILENUS: “Apologies for the inconvenience.” His eyes drop to the bodies behind us. “Nuisance, the lot of them. They tried the same thing inside only an hour ago. Slaughtered four auditionees before Titus threw them out! Nasty business, the whole thing.”
My eyes widen at the casual reference to Player Titus. Could he have been the voice I heard? Silenus is not a Player, so I doubt it could’ve been his. Though whatever power he wields must be unfathomable.
A power that may very well rest in the book he casually pulls from his suit pocket. My breath freezes in my chest at the sight. The Script.
The director makes an amused hmm sound in the back of his throat as he consults the book, while I gawk at its gold-rimmed edges, at the ethereal glow that flickers from its pages like a sunrise.
A mortal cannot fix what an immortal broke. The healer’s words ring in my ears.
As the director plucks a pen from his suit pocket, a notion of immeasurable foolishness hits me.
If that book has the power to control the Players, surely it can undo the curse of one.
SILENUS: “Well, you might as well come in.” He looks up, his smile a little too generous. “The show’s just about to start, you know.”
No! I think, panicked. I can’t go in. He doesn’t know I’m marked. What happened to my attackers would be merciful by comparison to what they’ll do to me inside.
RIVEN: “I—” I can’t, I want to say. Get out of this. Get out of— “I’m hurt!” I wheeze a breath. Send me home. “I’m—uh—in no condition to—”
SILENUS: “Pity!” He doesn’t sound all that pitying. “Well. I’ll leave you to it, then. Should you change your mind, I’m sure one of my Players can stitch you up inside.”
And I’m sure I’d rather dive headfirst into my own grave, I think.
With that, Silenus glides back into the Playhouse, vanishing through the doors, though they don’t close behind him. They stay wide open, waiting.
Gathering my common sense, I turn to leave, but my first step draws several curses from my lips. My feet wobble beneath me, unsteady.
It occurs to me I’m more than a little hurt.
I grip the golden gates to steady myself, and they burn beneath my palms. I won’t make it home like this. I won’t make it two blocks. The only thing that stings worse than my ribs is my pride.
One of my Players can stitch you up.
I look back to the doors, open and overflowing with golden light. Hesitation holds me in place. I need more than just my ribs stitched up. My breaths come quicker, my eyes fixed on the Playhouse.
A mortal cannot fix what an immortal broke.
Don’t, Riven, Galen’s voice whispers in my head. But for a moment, all I see is the Orkestrian Academy. All I feel is freedom that I’ll never taste if I can’t find a way to reverse this poisoning.
I stare at the Playhouse, streaming with sunshine in the dead of night.
In my mind, I picture that Script. My fingers release the gate.
If I do this, I’ll need to be quick. Stealthy.
The first stair twinges. The second one outright hurts. The third makes my lungs feel like they might explode.
“Fuck it,” I say out loud. This poison is going to kill me anyway. Galen knows it. Cassia knows it. I know it. We just don’t say it.
And I will not die without having tried everything.
For the first time in a long time, I utter a prayer to any of the gods who are still listening. My heart pounds relentlessly, but as I reach the top step, I almost think my feet start to feel lighter, like my bones know a remedy awaits somewhere inside this godsforsaken house of lies.
The soles of my feet land in rhythm with the music as I force myself across the marble landing, right up to the Playhouse doors. My mark pulses, hidden beneath my jacket, feverish now, like my heart is in my throat. The Eleutheraen gold in my blood knows better. I know better.
I’m not sure if it’s in my head, but I hear it again—that voice, carried by the wind, calming and strangely reassuring.
“Sorry, Galen,” I whisper.
I hold my breath and step into the Playhouse.