Act I Scene XVI
By morning, I have the beginnings of a plan. A bad one, but a plan nevertheless.
It begins with tracking down that rogue gold-tipped arrow from last night.
As the sun rises through stained glass windows, I discover a pair of scarlet pants about a hundred times nicer than the ones I wandered in with, along with a silk blouse that laces at the sides.
Both look like they might have been neatly folded before being tossed through my mirror and landing in a heap on the floor. Along with a note.
I borrowed these from Mattia until we get you to the costume wing, so for both our sakes, please do not cut them up. And ditch that shabby jacket. You’re embarrassing both of us.
After proudly donning my jacket over the blouse, I head for the door, but I catch myself sticking my legs out in front of me a few times.
I’ve never worn color before and can’t seem to stop looking at the vivid hues of red.
Something about it makes me feel guilty, so I pull my gaze upward, awkwardly ignoring the unsigned contract on my vanity on my way out.
I discover the other auditionees already in the common room, at last putting names to their faces and wishing they’d stop looking at mine like it scares the daylights out of them.
The siblings, who I learn are twins, are called Thyone and Phileas—championing Players Parrish and Arius respectively. According to both, their Reveler uncle turned them out and warned them not to return unless one of them was dead and the other had acquired a role in the cast.
Titus’s chosen champion introduces herself as Tig, a strikingly tall, willowy girl with umber brown skin and curly hair. She makes it known several times over that Sil himself spotted her from the crowd and insisted Titus audition her last night.
Then there’s Mattia’s champion—Linos, a boy with a quiet, commanding presence and tanned, broad shoulders. He shrugs when asked about his upbringing, mentions he has siblings and something about Players’ salaries.
Guess I’m not the only one who showed up out of desperation last night.
We’re all about the same age, and that’s where the similarities end.
But I am far more concerned about what they all share in common, since at some point between last night and this morning, their eyes brightened, gleaming almost gold.
I’m certain the twins shared the same cold black eyes just yesterday. This morning, both glitter in a way that unsettles me. Linos rarely looks up, but I caught a flicker of it in his, too.
“Y-You’re all—” I stammer. They startle, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve spoken to them. “Your…eyes?” That isn’t the question I meant to ask, or a question at all. I’m not used to being included in conversations. One of the twins cocks her head, confused.
THYONE: “Of course. Didn’t you do a Craft binding last night?”
Gods above. Do I even want to know?
RIVEN: “Uh—a Craft binding?”
THYONE: “With your mentor.”
I’m going to kill Jude. “What?”
PHILEAS: “An exchange—borrowed power during the casting call.”
TIG: “You didn’t think they’d make us compete as mere mortals, did you?”
Wait, Jude did say something about that last night—that the other Players would gift portions of their power to their chosen champions. If you let me, I’ll give you mine.
There’s the smallest, tiniest chance I should have asked for clarification before screaming at him to get out.
The doors open, and the other auditionees file out. I follow them through.
The dining hall welcomes us with a clatter of silverware, the scent of fresh fruit, and a dozen ornate tables perched alongside a wall of glass that looks out to a beach.
Immediately, there are two things I don’t like about the scene outside.
One: the water. Jude was right—we’ve moved so far away from the District, we’re on the damned coast. The tide is coming in, dark waves slapping against high, sharp rocks in the distance.
The clouds are just as foreboding here as they are in the North, an ominous haze rolling over the black sea. This is not what fogs the enormous glass panes, though.
It’s the second thing I hate about the dining hall: Hundreds of thin, desperate faces surround us from the outside, their eager breaths clouding the glass.
Revelers. The Playhouse must leave its gates open more freely South of the Cut.
Clammy hands push against the windows, reaching for us.
Some of them stumble over one another just to get a look.
Most of them don’t even seem to blink, their eyes hollow.
Is this what life is like in South Theatron? A frenzy of obsessive Playhouse fanatics, wasting their every thought and breath on the Players? Is that what I’d become without my mark?
TITUS: “Well, if it isn’t Alistaire! We were just talking about you.
” I jump at the sound of my alias and almost drop the fruit I was spearing onto my plate.
Titus leans back in his chair at the Players’ table, where they all cluster like a gathering of overdressed swans.
He points a fork at the windows. “Get used to it. I know it feels like being in a fishbowl, but truth is, they’re the ones who can’t help it.
” He smirks wickedly. “How’d you sleep? See any ghosts? ”
RIVEN: “No ghosts.” I answer the second question instead of the first. Because the truth is I think I slept better than I’ve ever slept in my life. No thanks to Titus, whose groans and declarations of vengeance toward whoever shot that arrow could be heard anywhere in the Playhouse.
This morning, though, the only sign of his injury is the slightly bulging heel of his left boot, probably bound in gauze beneath the leather.
TITUS: “Disappointing.” His smile falls. “If you see her, tell Gene I still have her earrings and that I won’t be returning them.” Without awaiting a response, Titus goes back to warning his castmates he’ll be making up most of his lines tonight, as he’s not bothered to review the script.
My eyes narrow. There are only four Players in the dining room.
“Where is Jude?” I ask Arius a little too urgently as he passes. And what the hell is a Craft binding? I almost scream.
His fair brows draw together. “Heard him arguing with Sil this morning.” Perhaps noticing the unabated terror I fail to prevent from crossing my face, he offers a reassuring smile. “I’m certain he’ll be back soon. He argues a lot. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
My hands clutch the plate I’m holding so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t crack.
He’s gone to turn me in. I refused his deal and now…
I try the dining hall door and find it locked. The hell? I just came through here—
ARIUS: “Is everything all right, Alistaire?” He tilts his head as I yank on the handle with all my might, his mane of golden hair falling to one side. “Here, why don’t you find somewhere to sit, and I’ll go check if—”
I ignore him and storm over to the empty table in the corner, where I can at least keep one eye on the door. Worse comes to worst, I bet one of these table legs could break the glass panes. The Revelers outside will panic, causing a distraction and giving me a chance to—
TITUS: “Watch the council go and blame us for it! It’s a casting call. This is just what happens.”
He crumbles the newspaper on the table in a fist and tosses it, just close enough for me to subtly kick it under my table and snatch it up. As I flatten the article out beside a plate I no longer have the stomach for, I listen to the Players.
ARIUS: “One of their temples burned to the ground, Titus.” The legs of his chair scrape the marble as he seats himself at their table. “Their council was taken underground.”
What? I stare at the crashing waves beyond the crowds outside, wishing I could see home.
PARRISH: “All this drama isn’t going to help Jude’s case for opening the Cut.” She drags a fork over her plate, a line forming between her brows. “Their rulers will take one look at the damage to the District and refuse treaty negotiations with him.”
MATTIA: “Pretty sure Jude already refused negotiations with them.” She spears a strawberry. “Not diplomatic like Gene was, that one. I bet you my best jewels this ends in blood.”
TITUS: “Why wait for them to open their wall? I say we just go. Perform in the North for those who will have us and bury those who won’t.”
My eyes widen at their words, and I keep one ear out while turning my attention to the report.
12 dead, declares the headline. hundreds injured after casting call mayhem. players fled. Below the words, an image that vaguely resembles the District is printed in black and white. Fallen columns, tufts of smoke, ash, and ruin.
Is this what all those dismissed auditionees got up to in the District after we left?
My teeth clamp together. If the District fell under attack after our departure, there’s a chance my brother was called in to help manage the destruction.
I wonder if Haris got my message to Cassia, if help is already on the way. Never in my life have I had to rely on a Reveler. Now I’m at the mercy of one.
And a Player. The Lead Player.
ARIUS: “You think Sil will let you sacrifice half our audience, Titus?” He shakes his head in answer to his own question. “You must be kidding.”
Why are they talking so casually about crossing into the North? They can’t. They can’t cross the Cut. We’re safe from Players in the North.
We have to be.
TITUS: “The North is full of self-righteous zealots who’ve publicly shamed us with their marks. They’re practically immune to our Craft. Killed how many of our own? Tell me how you expect to win them over.”
MATTIA: “We won’t.” Her voice is bold and resolute. “We won’t win the North, not while territories like Syrene still stand. It’s time to give up that fantasy. Their so-called resistance threatened our cast yesterday.” She looks pointedly at Titus, who grimaces.
My gaze flickers up at the mention of Syrene. Its people have a long and bloody history with the Players, beginning with the forging of the treaty and ending with a nasty dispute over the placement of the Cut.
Titus scowls. “So what would you have us do?”
MATTIA: “We take them by surprise. Before they dip their blades in Eleutheraen gold and come here. Give me six days, and I’ll bring you the North on a platter.”
I fight to hold still as the horror of Mattia’s words settles in.
I’ve always been taught that Players kill for three reasons: a threat to their cast, a blow to their ego, and, on rare occasion, for pure spectacle.
It occurs to me the North as a whole could fall into all three of those categories, if they refuse the Playhouse entry now that the treaty is up.
ARIUS: “So long as there’s a chance of you getting skewered with an Eleutheraen spear, Mattia, I wouldn’t count on Sil letting you out.” Some of the tightness in my chest releases. North Theatron isn’t defenseless. We have Eleutheraen gold.
PARRISH: “Or any of us.” She sets her chalice on the tablecloth. I almost think she looks sad. “Ever.”
TITUS: “I say we just cross and tour. The threat is mild! Our schedule isn’t public, and their armies will never move fast enough.”
Tour? Schedule? They can’t possibly mean to perform in the North before—
“Good morning!” calls a rich voice, muting the conversation as Sil sidles through the double doors. Outside, the Revelers break into hollers and applause. “I hope everyone is well rested?”
The director’s eyes hover on me just a second too long before he continues. “Pardon the interruption, but it’s a full day ahead. Everyone is dismissed to costume fittings and will report to the auditorium immediately after for an assessment in stage combat and Reality Suspension.”
The deathless arts. I assume that’s what Jude meant when he said he could help me.
I press gently at my ribs, which somehow healed miraculously during the night.
But it’s that single warm breath that filled my chest, the way that ice seemed to melt and dislodge from my lungs that I can’t seem to shake.
My mind fixes on it, on the moment I step out of this Playhouse and leave the lingering consequences of my curse at its gilded doors.
With another pleasant smile, Sil turns and vanishes the way he came.
“I’ve never died before,” chimes Phileas at a neighboring table, a peculiar sparkle in his eye.
Died? Wait, isn’t the whole point not to—
“Can’t be much worse than living,” jokes Tig, though I notice she set her fork down rather quickly.
The dining hall begins to clear out, and the queasiness in my stomach starts to feel like a ball of lead as my mind flips through everything I’ve read on Craft over the years. Maybe the deathless arts can help me, but I would do well not to forget their main purpose.
Death.