Act I Scene XVIII
Already I know this will end badly.
Unbearable layers of leather cling to my skin, laced up my back.
I blame Jude for the clumsy measurements as the buckles on my gloves catch again.
We march to the tune of Arius’s heavy boots as my eyes search for an exit that doesn’t exist, on our way to a challenge that Jude insists I won’t survive.
They usher all five of us auditionees down a dimly lit hall, through a narrow door, and up some steps. “This is the right wing of the stage,” explains Arius ahead.
I can see the stage clearly from here, a massive white platter that rounds in front of the audience, melding into a secondary rectangular platform near the back.
A brilliant red curtain is held at bay by golden rings on either side.
Beyond the stage, a sea of empty velvet seats stretches farther than my eyes can see. There must be thousands.
TITUS: “Welcome!” His voice booms throughout the auditorium as he and Parrish enter from the opposite wing, met with a thunderous greeting from the other auditionees.
Titus looks excited, which I decide is not a good thing.
TITUS: “Come now, gather round!”
My foot hits the stage, and a shock like lightning cuts through my ankle. It isn’t necessarily unpleasant; rather, an almost effervescent feeling shivering up my calf. I shake my ankle until it goes away.
Mattia charges across the platform, a merciless double-ended blade in her grip. She tosses it to Titus as if it weighs nothing.
TITUS: “Stage combat often ends in Reality Suspension. You won’t use it for all combat on the stage. But when you need it—” He swings the blade over his head, the sound slicing through the air and raking along my nerves. “You’ll want to know what the hell you’re doing.”
“Think of this as a trust exercise,” Parrish says. “You’ve all had the chance to do a Craft binding now, so follow the rules, and you’ll be just fine.”
Well. That doesn’t bode well for me.
Parrish’s gloved hands reach for the leather belt strapped at her torso, retrieving two thin silver knives about the length of her arms. She moves across the stage, having exchanged her skirts for a flare of black gauze that flutters cape-like behind legs that move with the sharp speed and precision of a spider.
TITUS: “You’ll need to know Reality Suspension for certain types of performances, mostly Tragedies. Remember, Comedy is not the antithesis to Tragedy. Everyone endures suffering, hardship, loss. Everyone dies.”
PARRISH: “Some of us just know how to have a good laugh about it.” She winks.
Hold on. What does that—
TITUS: “First, a demonstration! Watch closely.”
Uncertain, I take a few steps away and collide with someone at my back. Whirling, I find Jude, his olive skin looking rather pale.
JUDE: “This—” He nods at Titus and Parrish, who have begun to walk cool, calculated circles around each other, the former adapting to a noticeable limp on his left side. Jude lowers his voice. “Is why that mark is going to kill you.”
My heart starts to thud in my ears.
TITUS: “What is Tragedy? Why does it exist?” His voice reverberates off each slat of marble, coming back tenfold.
“Mortals are simple creatures. Fewer things grip hold of an audience like the inescapable reminder of their own shared fate. Their eternal quest to understand what the journey toward the end means.” He’s speaking to us, but his eyes never leave Parrish, apparently his opponent now.
“Reality Suspension is not something you learn to do. It’s something you learn not to do. ”
PARRISH: “You make us sound lazy.” Her head tilts, childlike. “Stalling?”
Without warning, Titus brings the blade down in a swift blow, scarcely missing Parrish’s head. She ducks, striking for his torso with one of her blades, laughing at his attempt.
RIVEN: “Jude.” My voice comes out in a whisper as Titus runs at Parrish. Those are real weapons. “What is happening?”
He doesn’t answer, his eyes following the fight unfolding before us.
This doesn’t look like mere stage combat. They’re trying to kill each other.
TITUS: “Don’t turn your back on your opponent.
Reality Suspension requires at least two bodies—if one of you dies onstage, your life has to temporarily go somewhere living.
So for Dionysus’s sake, hold eye contact.
” He dodges one of Parrish’s strikes. “This is why we do Craft binding. We’re all connected on the stage, and one life will depend on the next.
If you can’t trust your partner, you’re as good as dead. ”
I glance up at Jude. I am extra dead.
Titus jabs Parrish with the center hilt of his weapon, forcing her back.
Showing little reaction to what looked like a hard blow to her hip, she rolls onto her feet.
One of her blades goes flying as their shadows waltz across the stage, Parrish’s anklets jingling with each step.
The blade clatters on the ground beside the curtain as she shifts, wielding the other cleanly like a sword, her expression one of mere annoyance.
TITUS: “And if the script says you’re done for—” Titus corners Parrish to the edge, the orchestra pit looming at her back.
He swings again, and everyone gasps, excited.
This time, Parrish doesn’t block; her feet are a smidge too slow.
Titus lunges and swipes his good foot behind her ankle.
She lands on her back with a huff, her second knife sliding away from her grasp. He wastes no time springing over her.
There’s an unmistakable, intimate second of shared silence between them, their eyes meeting, fusing. Parrish doesn’t look frightened. In fact, I think I catch her sticking her tongue out at him mockingly.
TITUS: “Then you calculate the moment you fail exactly.” His gaze narrows. “And you don’t fight it.”
Titus utters a word under his breath that I think only Parrish can hear. Then, without hesitating, slides the blade clean across her throat.