Act I Scene IX
The story goes that Players used to capture humans just to drag them around as their own personal audience, sometimes tearing their eyes out to carry in a jar after the humans’ legs finally gave out.
And the mortals would go willingly, their minds too blissfully numbed with Craft to notice what was happening.
I’m pretty sure Haris would beg for such a fate.
But I am marked, and I know what’s happening to me.
Suddenly, I’m a child again, dragged away by a Player.
The thought sends my heels digging into the ground in a panic.
Jude stumbles, the alarming strength of his grip nearly ripping my arm from its socket and making my ribs sear with the strain. He spins around. “Do you want to die?”
RIVEN: “I’m still deciding.”
SILENUS: “Jude?”
Jude hurries faster down the corridor, dragging me along as I curse at him; his long legs are impossible to keep up with. Even through my sleeve, his touch burns and sends my skin crawling. The pinch in his brow tells me it hurts him, too.
There’s a blur of golden lanterns poking out of a dark plum-colored passageway, then a sharp turn, and a mahogany door he shoves open with his shoulder. I catch myself on the wall as we pummel through it.
The door shuts with a creak, like it hasn’t been used in a while.
Pain radiates along my spine as I straighten and take in my new cage: a smaller oval-shaped room, elegant and draped in lush velvets and walls of silvery brocade. Pristine violet drapes are drawn tight above a vanity with a tarnished gold mirror.
This space feels personal. Not only by the hairbrush on the side table, stiff with age, or what looks to be sleeping quarters down a narrow corridor, lit by candelabras that cling to either side. And not even by the distinct smell of lavender perfuming the air.
But rather, by the crowning centerpiece of the room: a portrait hung over the fireplace.
The woman in the painting is all doll-like porcelain features with rich brown curls.
She’s wrapped in crushed velvet, her diamond-shaped face and dazzling eyes piercing me through the chest. A deep shade of mauve stains her lips, one that I bet matches the tube of lipstick standing guard on the vanity.
Anyone in Theatron would recognize her. Gene Hunt was the Playhouse’s renowned Lead Player, before the catastrophic performance that ended her career and life in one blow. Patrons claimed she fell mad, breaking character and screaming nonsense at the audience, warning them to run.
Moments later, she died onstage. No deathless arts were used to prevent it.
Jude Stepharros was the mortal auditionee who replaced her. My eyes fall on him, trying to picture this monster ever being human as he paces the room, one hand pressed to his temples. “We don’t have much time. Tell me your name.”
Time for what? I narrow my eyes, more and more suspicious.
JUDE: “Your name.”
RIVEN: “Call me Alistaire.” A statement. Not technically a lie. My grandmother’s name is the first to come to mind. I’m not about to give him mine.
Jude frowns. “Is that your real name?”
I bite my tongue. “No.”
He exhales, annoyed. “Fine. What shall Alistaire’s family name be?”
My eyes dart to the painting. “Hunt.”
“Hunt?” He gestures wildly at the portrait of the dead Player, Gene Hunt. “Endless names in the world, Alistaire, and your mind can’t conjure one outside of these walls? Gods, I’m doomed.”
My brow lowers at that last part. “What?”
A knock at the door sends my hand flying to my Eleutheraen blade. I point it up at Jude again. “Get me out of here.”
He returns a cold, easy look, arms hanging indifferently at his sides as the doorknob rattles. “If I were you, I’d put that away.”
The door cracks open, and in a move I know I will regret, I sheathe the knife in my pocket. Something tells me I won’t be getting that Script away from Silenus with Jude around.
SILENUS: “Ah, there you are!” His head pops in, and he pushes the heavy door all the way open. My heart hammers furiously.
JUDE: “Sil! Do you know, we’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
The director turns a curious, hesitant smile my way.
SILENUS: “Well, who have we here? I never forget a face. We met earlier, yes?”
JUDE: “Alistaire, meet Silenus.” His voice is bright and cheerful despite the menacing glare I’m shooting his way. “Our director.”
SILENUS: “Sil! Please, call me Sil. Silenus makes me feel ancient.”
I scoff. “Well, historical records would imply you—”
“Sil,” Jude interrupts, coughing. “I’m glad to hear you’ve already met Alistaire.”
The director’s eyes wash over my tattered clothes and oversized boots. “Yes, Alistaire…?”
“Hunt,” I say, hating myself. And thankful he didn’t ask my name.
“Hunt.” The director’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes flickering to the portrait of Gene Hunt. “We lost the last one of those we had. Any relation, I wonder? Perhaps that’s why you look familiar.” He tilts his head, examining my face.
I stare murderously back at Silenus until Jude steps slyly between us. “I was just showing Alistaire her rooms.”
SILENUS: “Oh?”
RIVEN: “What?”
Silenus’s kind gaze turns scrutinizing as Jude clears his throat. “She’s a…natural.” For an actor, he doesn’t sound very convincing.
The director tries and fails to hide his surprise. He looks at me again, closer this time, as if waiting to see if I’ll wither away or drop dead right in front of him. And suddenly, it doesn’t matter that I shouldn’t care for the opinions of a monster like Silenus. The shock on his face stings.
“Jude,” Silenus begins, quieter this time. “I thought perhaps you’d like to speak with a few of the auditionees I selected—”
JUDE: “Why waste my time? My mind is made up.”
About what?
SILENUS: “I—I guess it’s no trouble, then.” His eyes finally tear away from me and land on Jude. “I only came to let you know Mattia is about to dismiss the crowds.”
“Let her!” Jude says a little too quickly, coming to stand beside me. “I’ve chosen my contender for this year’s Great Dionysia.”