Act I Scene XIV #2
He’s less intimidating when kneeling at eye level, his features softer in the dimming light.
This close, I guess it’s easy to see what the world obsesses over, a devastating sort of beauty that puts his statue in the District to shame.
One of those faces built for the stage, all sharp and dramatic angles, curved lips that seem permanently tilted up in a grin.
A long, straight nose offset by a delicate ring.
It’s no wonder they warn us not to look Players in the eyes, gilded and brilliant and ready to hypnotize an audience.
I’ve noticed they all seem to come in different shades, though.
Parrish’s, sparkling like a jewelry box of rare amber.
A terrifyingly close look at Titus’s reminded me of a volcano, burning and roiling.
Jude’s, though, glint like sunlight through storm clouds.
Realizing I’m staring, I throw my gaze to study the floor. It feels absurd admiring Jude, maybe wrong. He’d probably laugh, say something cruel and pitying.
“I know you don’t believe me.” His voice cuts through my thoughts.
“But I don’t plan to hurt you. I need your help, Alistaire.
The other Players are going to spend the next three weeks training their champions to be lethal and gifting them much of their Craft to do so.
If you let me, I’ll give you mine.” He lets out a breath.
“I never wanted to be Lead Player. It’s a death sentence. ”
A death sentence. In spite of myself, my resolve softens. I know how that feels, for death to hang over your shadow.
The salve prickles along my skin, and the soreness dwindles—it’s probably some sort of pain sedative. But this isn’t what startles me. It’s that, as he ties the bandage taut, the sharp, cold splintering in my lungs dissipates, that mysterious ice dislodging from my rib cage.
I gasp a deep breath, and—and warmth fills my lungs.
Stunned, I lift my chin, savoring the strange, comfortable feeling that weaves between my ribs.
“The rest of me now—” I don’t mean the words to come out so ragged, but I don’t care.
“I—I mean, thank you but…I need you to fix the rest of me.” In the wake of some of the ice relenting, my resistance is magically forgotten.
“You wanted a deal, didn’t you? Then reverse this—whatever it is. Now.”
The candles sputter again. Several go out entirely. Jude swears and goes for the matches on the mantel. “We’re past curfew.” He lights one of the candelabras that hover over the hearth. It goes out again just as fast. He gives up, looks at me.
As the last candle dims, all I see is the golden hue of his irises, which are more frightening in the dark.
“In your time here, keep away from the shadows. You’ll notice the lights in your bedroom are always on, even when you sleep— Out!
” He grasps the last candle, rushing its light to a corner where a thick shadow emerges from the darkness in the shape of a long, taloned hand, like a monster waking.
“Patience, love! We’ll just be a moment. ”
He isn’t talking to me. I move away until my back meets the wall. What is that?
Sil’s warning comes to mind. All Players and auditionees alike are to stay out of the dark.
“Nyxene. The Playhouse’s Stage Manager,” he says, and I realize I asked my question out loud. “She is one of many reasons to not break the rules. There are things that move in the Playhouse after dark that mean you harm.”
“What is she? A…a guard for Players?”
“Players hardly need guards,” he says, indignant. “Alistaire, because you’re…you, I think I need to state this bluntly, and hear me when I do: Nyxene protects Sil above all else. Do not—ever—lay a hand on Sil. She will rip the marrow from your very bones.”
I return a look of reasonable confusion and utter horror until he elaborates. “She’s here to keep things in order. But she’s godsdamned violent about it.”
Any wild ideas I had about getting that Script away from Sil slip further out of reach. Jude may be an actor, but I don’t get the sense he’s lying about this.
I inhale sharply as the darkness shirks away from the light. Satisfied, Jude sets down the candle and straightens as if nothing odd has happened.
JUDE: “Do you mean it, Alistaire? I’ll help you, and you’ll keep our deal? You’ll see the casting call through to the end?”
Yes. I feel the word on my tongue. Yes, I will. And then I’ll go to school; I’ll get a job. I’ll have a home and friends, and I’ll find a place in this world just for me.
“Okay,” I whisper. “If you—if you can fix me, I’ll…” I swallow, taking in the cage around me. “I’ll see it through.”
A chill rolls down my spine at the slow grin working its way across Jude’s features.
“Lovely,” he says in a smooth tone, one that gives me the impression Jude is used to getting what he wants. Then, strangely, he goes for the fireplace.
Confused, I watch as he plucks an iron from the mantel and pushes the hot coals around. “This may hurt, by the way.”
“This may—” I lower my brow, tasting unspoken context in the air. “What?”
He straightens from where he’s crouched by the fire, iron in hand. “You’ll never make it through the competition marked.”
He wants to destroy my mark. My vow to truth and protection against the Playhouse. The mark that keeps me from becoming like the Revelers who spend their days worshipping the Players. The mark that keeps me from bowing to Jude.
The thought sickens me, and I press my back to the wall, pointing at the door. “Get out.”
JUDE: “Now, Alistaire, let’s not be rash—”
RIVEN: “Now. Go.” My next words turn into a shout. “And don’t ever suggest that again—”
JUDE: “There’s stage combat tomorrow. You cannot use our Craft or suspend your reality with that mark. You’ll die.”
RIVEN: “You do realize—” I lower my voice to a hiss. “My freedom means nothing outside these walls with a ruined mark.” I’d be more ostracized than I am now.
JUDE: “There must be something you want—”
RIVEN: “Something more than my life?” I grit my teeth. Even my curse isn’t worth that. “What do you want? What will it take to let me out of this?”
Jude’s smile is paper-thin now as he stands slowly. “The gods themselves could plead your case at my gates, and I would not open them. You will not leave this Playhouse as long as I live.”
The words set a chill in the air.
RIVEN: “Leave.” The word comes out as a whisper but fills the room as if I’d yelled.
JUDE: “Perhaps sleep on it—”
RIVEN: “Gods, I said leave.” I snatch the letter opener and turn to chase him away this time, though Jude is already halfway out the door and barely manages to save his toes when I slam it after him.
I press my back to it, breathing until my vision adjusts to the dying light. Though it’s still easy to see my problems doubling tenfold in front of me.
So long as he lives.
I won’t just have to escape Jude. I’m going to have to kill him.
But Jude has underestimated me, too. I’ve spent my entire life studying the Players. My father gave his life to ensure they stay caged inside this theatre.
And Jude has no idea who he’s let into the Playhouse.