Act I Scene XII
Galen will never know what happened to me.
My heart races as I find myself in a long, dim passageway. I whirl back to the mirror, but the glass swallows up the image of Jude, and he’s gone. When pounding on the glass and screaming insults doesn’t summon him back, I give up. No one, especially Jude, is coming to save me.
With a deep sigh, I drop my fists and turn. The only path forward is a flat, dark tunnel lined by mirrors.
Did I really think myself so smart? That I could march into the Playhouse and leave just as easily?
My vision adjusts, and I spot the shadowy outline of a swaying curtain at the end of the hallway. I creep forward, Jude’s offer still taunting me. Do this one thing for me, Alistaire, and I promise you will safely return home. Healthy.
Players always lie. But what if—what if this one isn’t?
The possibility of this being some sort of elaborate execution occurs to me as I part the curtain. I’m a marked. On Playhouse grounds. They’d be within their rights to do whatever they want with me.
Beyond the curtain, an arena awaits, pitch-black but massive judging by the echo of whispers and vague shapes of high dome walls.
Movement to my right sends my hand for my knife—but it isn’t there.
Damn you, Jude.
“Gods, I hate waiting here,” whispers a raspy, feminine voice on my other side.
A sound like thunder cracks overhead, and I wince as white light blooms around me. In each of the pocketed arena entrances, an illuminated figure stands. There isn’t time to determine anything beyond that they all look like they belong here, striking and beautiful and, well, presumably unmarked.
We’re not on the Playhouse stage. At least, I don’t think it can be—it doesn’t look like any of the solagraphs I’ve seen, save for the cracked marble at my feet. I’m standing on a low, circular platform, rings of tiered seating rising up around me.
The arena. Players have fought to the death here.
Pulling in a shaky breath, I count six entrances to the arena floor, including where I just emerged from—but one looms larger than the others, and it’s empty.
Overhead, the Playhouse symbol hangs in polished gold—a cracked mask, with one side stretched into a delirious grin and the other wilting into a tragic frown. An arrow piercing through both.
The other auditionees all seem to find me at once with similar baffled expressions that read: Why is that one here? I wince away from their eyes, backing closer to the curtain.
A second crack resounds with the beat of a drum. The five Players file onto the raised platform towering directly above us, their places in the podium ring framed by gleaming white columns, each overlooking their contender.
Then comes a thunderous roar of applause from every corner. Incandescent limelight flashes, revealing faces in the audience, so many I can’t begin to count. They all blur together: eager eyes, wide smiles, open mouths gleefully screaming the names of Players. Revelers.
Heart pounding in my ears, I steal a glance at the podium ring above me, my loathing gaze locking on Jude.
He winks.
SIL: “Ladies and gentlemen!”
The voice fills the amphitheatre as applause crashes in around me. The director marches through the sixth entrance and into the arena.
SIL: “Congratulations! You should all be proud. A round of applause for this casting call’s auditionees!”
His words somehow carry over the waves of applause as he announces each name. My mind is buzzing too loudly with anxiety to note them, but I cringe when he calls out Alistaire Hunt.
This feels too real now. It was foolish to even consider Jude’s offer.
And I have a terrible feeling it’s too late to get out of it.
As the cheers settle, Sil moves on. “The five of you were handpicked. You each have someone to thank for that.”
The other contenders share grateful glances with their respective Players. I duck my chin to glare hard at the ground instead.
“All that said, tonight marks your final chance to leave,” he goes on.
This catches my attention, and I look up to stare at the director.
“No one leaves the Playhouse beyond tonight. You’ll each find a contract in your room, to be signed by tomorrow. The Playhouse leaves the District at midnight.”
My mouth pops into a smile. Jude will have to slice my hand off before it picks up a pen and signs that contract. Though, given the Playhouse’s reputation, I decide not to give him that idea.
“Now! A few ground rules.” The strangely comforting timbre of Sil’s voice takes on an edge. I listen closely. In all my time studying the Playhouse, I’ve come across mentions of The Rules, but they aren’t actually listed anywhere.
“Rule one!” Sil announces. “Never wish an actor good luck. You might as well wish disaster on all your castmates.”
Hints of laughter flutter at the edges of the arena. Noticeably, none of them come from the mouths of Players. I raise an eyebrow. From my understanding, this is little more than an old theatrical myth—a superstition.
“Rule two,” Sil continues. “All Players and auditionees alike are to stay out of the dark. Whether a rehearsal room, stage, or even your own dressing room, never enter a dark space in the Playhouse. Follow the lights. The Playhouse is a different place after hours, and our Stage Manager doesn’t take kindly to those who disregard the rules. ”
Wish everyone good luck and make my escape after dark. Got it.
“Finally, and consider this the most important,” says Silenus. “Never break the fourth wall. For your safety and for others.”
A tinge of frustration clouds my mind when he doesn’t elaborate. The fourth wall is referenced in several historical accounts of the Playhouse. None are clear about what it means.
Silenus nods approval at the lack of objections. “This year marks a Great Dionysia festival.”
TITUS: “Make it a good one, everyone. Last time didn’t go so well.”
The heckling Player shrugs when the rest of his cast pins him with iron stares.
My brow falls as I draw the connection. The last Great Dionysia was canceled when a Lead Player—Gene—died onstage two nights before the finale. With one less Player in the cast, Jude, an auditionee at the time, won her role by default after stepping in to save the performance.
That last performance is memorialized in the District Museum, a chronically overcrowded exhibit.
I managed a square look at it once, though.
It’s a massive thing, framed in gold. In the solagraph, a faded rendering of Jude kneeling at the edge of the stage, a limp Player clothed in silky layers of white cradled in his arms like a dove.
His mouth is parted open, singing her into eternal sleep.
Realization dawns on me. Jude’s mentor died in his arms, and he took her place. He’s never competed in a Great Dionysia. And it seems he still really doesn’t want to if he’s trapped me here to get him out of it.
I peer up at him. He doesn’t look back, but a muscle feathers in his jaw.
What are you hiding?
Sil clears his throat. “Over the next few weeks, the Player who selected you will put you through a number of trials to measure your strengths in three areas: Compulsion, Reality Suspension—”
Titus interrupts with a proud holler. The deathless arts, my mind translates. Could that help me? Is that what Jude meant?
No. It doesn’t matter. At this point, I’m lucky if I can get out of here with my life.
“—and Mimicry as we embark on a three-week tour. You will train closely with your mentor.” I cringe at the thought.
“Of course, it does you good to gain the favor of the audiences you perform for. But I urge you to remember, this is a casting call, and the winner will be decided upon by myself. So bring me your best.”
I’m going home, I assure myself as a nervous, hollow feeling churns in my stomach. Sil will undoubtedly eliminate me first if I do stay and take Jude up on his offer. There’s no way around it. I don’t belong here.
“Should one of you—by my selection—survive to see the finale, you will compete against my Lead Player.”
Eyes swivel in my direction. Then above me, at Jude. Whoever wins will face him.
“Kill my Lead Player in the arena, and you have a place in my cast, and all the Craft that comes with it.” Immortality, he means. Beauty. Power. “And in turn, your mentor becomes our next Lead Player.”
The other Players stand a little taller and prouder at this reminder. Jude’s freedoms, his prestige, his power—it all falls to whichever one of his castmates trained his killer.
I wonder how he sleeps at night. I don’t think I would.
Granted, maybe that’s why he’s trapped me here.
ARIUS: “Sil, you make it sound so serious.” The Player’s gentle eyes drift over the arena, at us. “There’s some blood, darlings, but it’s a great party.”
TITUS: “And besides!” He leans forward, bracing massive forearms on the ledge. “Maybe one of you doe-eyed runts will manage to oust that pompous ass.”
There’s a round of distinctive gasps as Titus targets a particularly arrogant smile at Jude.
JUDE: “Perhaps a demonstration, then, Titus!” The room startles when Jude’s voice strikes the amphitheatre, the pitch glassy and commanding. It’s the first time I notice the lyrical clip of a Syrenian accent, a territory west of the District in North Theatron.
Interesting.
Jude leans forward, the rings on his fingers gleaming under the spotlights as he grips the ledge and challenges, “I’m sure any one of them would be thrilled to scrape what’s left of you from the stage floor.”
Titus huffs. “Good, it’ll give you an opportunity to earn your fucking place.” I raise an eyebrow. Also interesting. “Besides, it’ll take the rest to mop up your tears once you’ve lost so much as a button.”
JUDE: “This vest is worth more than your—”
MATTIA: “Enough.” The oldest Player smacks her hand down on the railing, calling order back to the room and silencing both of them. To be fair, if I’d spent hundreds of years listening to such drama, I’d probably be fed up, too. “Save your bickering. You can threaten each other later.”
Then, to my horror, Titus’s gaze flicks down to me. “Unless that one wins. More complicated that way.”
I’m about to open my mouth to ask what exactly happens if this one wins—but Sil answers before I need to.
SIL: “Yes, if…Alistaire—” He clears his throat, like he still can’t fathom that I’m here. “Should Alistaire be our winning contender and not wish to challenge her own mentor, she may challenge a different Player for their place instead.”
I almost turn to shout at Jude and ask why the hell he wouldn’t choose someone who might stand a chance in this competition, if his contender could just challenge a different Player anyway.
But I answer my own question first.
If his contender is strong enough to win, they’re not going to want just any role. They’ll want the Lead Player’s role.
And he wants out of this.
When the chuckles in my direction dissipate, Sil delivers the last of his speech: “You can all worry about what’s ahead later. For now, I suggest you get acquainted with your castmates. Let the show begin!”