Act III Scene III
The main doors beyond our cells open, and several men armed to the teeth with Eleutheraen gold file into the holding area.
“This is quite an escort for a walk upstairs,” I state as the men draw me out of my cell by my chains like a dog on a leash.
“We aren’t going upstairs,” offers Jude, who I ignore. “Are we, gentlemen?”
They don’t respond. They’ve probably been given strict instructions not to speak to us.
And even stricter instructions not to look at us, because that’s when a thick folded cloth is pressed over my eyelids. I scowl as the men tie it at the back of my head, plunging me into darkness.
“Where, then?” I ask our captors, not Jude. I never want to hear Jude speak again. But of course, he answers anyway.
“By law, any witness to the crime in question holds the right to be present for the trial—”
His voice is capped by a cough and a struggle. I can’t see what’s happening but have a decent idea when what feels like a rag is forced across my lips and tied too tight at my neck.
Someone kicks the back of my leg, and I stumble into a walk as they guide us up some stairs.
With no vision and no way to communicate, I’m left to mull over those final words.
Any witness to the crime in question.
My entourage picks up speed, forcing my legs to move faster. I feel the sun warm my hair and hear the bustle around us. We’re outside.
Our presence gains notice with each step.
Curses fly at me. I feel spit on my neck and calls for my execution. A remark flutters past my ear: “See how it feels,” someone says.
I want to scream, I’m one of you, but gag against the rag binding my mouth.
The men prompt me into a crammed space, and a door shuts. Wheels beneath me turn and gain speed. Who’s to say how much time slips away before we’re carted out, then made to walk what feels like a few hundred more steps.
The anticipation in the air is akin to the beginning of a show, and the hairs rise on the back of my neck. The commotion of an audience swarms outside.
A gentle hand unties my gag, then my blindfold. Sil’s are the first eyes I see. The only thing more alarming than these circumstances is the relief I feel upon seeing his face. It’s guttural. Like being picked up by a parent after falling and scraping your knee as a child.
“Where are we?” I ask, throat tight.
“The First Act. This is the original arena stage in Theatron,” Sil explains, moving to untie Jude’s bindings. Because he removed mine first. It feels significant, and I can’t place why. “Players performed here when they still walked freely.”
Not that I could guess this by the windowless stone room we’re enclosed in. But I remember reading about The First Act Theatre in the District well enough. I’ve even passed it, a hulking stone arena, long forgotten and crumbling from neglect. “They used to put Players on trial here.”
“They used to execute Players here,” Jude offers helpfully, blinking until his eyes adjust to the light. “Witnesses have a right to see the trial. Generally, if a Player has been accused, you can imagine the witnesses are many.”
“How many?” I ask.
Sil ignores the question and throws our gags and blindfolds to the ground, then turns and looks pointedly at me.
“Alistaire.” He rests his hands on my shoulders.
Disgust doesn’t creep through my bones like it should.
The touch almost feels comforting. Whatever Sil is to me right now, he’s not my enemy.
Which almost scares me more than the trial ahead.
Whatever he’s about to say is lost as a woman uniformed in black and silver appears at the door. She says nothing but motions us through, noticeably avoiding our eyes.
Sil swallows his words to me and offers instead, “Break a leg.”
I feel my audience before I see them.
The tunnel we pass through spits us into an outdoor arena built of weathered stone and shaped like a bowl. The rims of the bowl are full; we’re surrounded by the company of what seems like thousands. I can’t bear to look at their faces, but I feel their eyes all the same.
I expect screams. Curses. Something. Instead, eerie silence stretches over the crowd.
The stands where my accusers sit have fallen into disuse. Thin rays of sun light the circular platform ahead as I march, keeping my eyes on Sil’s back until we reach its center. It’s dusty and cracked, a ring of Eleutheraen gold encircling the stage we stand upon.
Jude is guided off to my left. I spot a place near him where the line of Eleutheraen gold is broken by a hair. Unsealed.
Sil stands just behind us at the center.
Once, Players performed on this stage. Later, their blood spilled on it.
Which purpose it will be used for today is anyone’s guess.
The audience rises to their feet. Many from South of the Cut have come in support of the Playhouse, judging by the number of metallic theatrical masks I spot in the rows.
Survive this, I chant to myself. I made it this far. This isn’t how I’m supposed to die.
A line of seven men and women file out of the opposite tunnel. Theatron’s council, robed in black and silver. They seat themselves accordingly at a table far upstage. The crowd sits when they do.
Finally, the magistrate enters and stops before us, with slicked-back silver hair and eyes like a fox.
Those eyes lock on me and stay there until she calls, “Jude Stepharros. You stand before the council, accused of breaking your contract and violating Theatron law by crossing out of Playhouse grounds before the start of the Great Dionysia.”
I innocently pretend not to notice the accusing glare he sends my way.
“Alistaire Hunt,” she goes on. “You are charged with the illegal misuse of Craft by a Player and the murder of a council-appointed official—”
“She was marked. So I can’t have killed her with Craft,” I snap back. “And I am not a Player,” I add before Sil can stop me.
“You are not anyone,” the magistrate says, not taking the bait. “According to the city census and Theatron record, you do not exist.”
The air grows very still. Jude shuts his eyes beside me, but I feel Sil watching keenly.
“Alistaire Hunt,” she demands. “Who are you?”
For the first time in a while, the scars of my mark burn, wishing to tell the truth.
I seal my lips shut, and the magistrate smiles.
She knows she’s onto something. “These are significant accusations against the Playhouse, Silenus,” the magistrate states, turning her attention to Sil.
“A Playhouse Plague. A council-appointed official dead at the hands of a Player—”
“She is not a Player. She is an auditionee,” Sil argues back.
“Yet, with her Craft, she brought perhaps one of the most notable plagues Theatron has ever seen. How do you explain it?” The magistrate eyes him, daring him to answer.
“I admit, Craft has taken a particular bond to her blood. She is a natural,” Sil answers, steady.
Slowly, the magistrate turns toward me. “A bond to her blood so strong, she may have influenced a woman to execute herself before thousands of witnesses—”
“The woman was marked,” Sil says, voice hardening. “Alistaire could not have used Compulsion to influence her.”
“Then how do you explain her death?”
Even as she says the words, the realization runs cold through me. Craft bonding so close to my blood, strong enough to kill a marked woman…because I am a marked woman, perhaps able to use Craft on a marked because I’ve been forced to do it on myself.
There’s something I’m missing here—a piece I’m sure I’m not seeing.
Still, I tuck the possibility away under my growing pile of secrets.
The magistrate extracts a scroll from her belt, unfurls it, and reads it aloud.
“Early evaluations anticipate the Playhouse’s Dark Days Plague has damaged the vision in an estimated four percent of the affected city’s population.
Many more claim madness by the shadows of your hand.
” I shut my eyes, like that will block out the words.
She must be referring to those who were close to the Playhouse, to that strange darkness that I brought. Thank the gods it didn’t kill anyone.
It wasn’t me. It was something else.
“Your Craft bled into the ground, darkening streets and infrastructure alike. You have damaged every last crop within the city limits, unleashing an unprecedented shortage over its population,” she announces.
“An act of defense,” Sil argues. “Alistaire’s work, while admittedly excessive, came in response to an unauthorized siege on the Playhouse. She is not a Player. She does not fall under such laws.”
The crowd stirs again. It’s ludicrous but, technically, he’s right.
The magistrate’s face hardens. There’s a glimmer in her eye that makes nausea churn in my stomach.
“Your claims only hold steady if you can prove she isn’t one of yours, Silenus.
And to do that, you will need to prove she is someone else.
As I’ve said, there is no record of you, Alistaire Hunt.
No name, no family, no appearance in the census.
You come from nowhere. Unless you can prove otherwise, the court has no choice but to assume illegal dealings of the Playhouse and try her as such—”
“She is not a Player!” shouts Jude.
“And I am not Alistaire Hunt,” I say.
My voice strikes the arena like a whip. I stride forward.
RIVEN: “My name is Riven Hesper.”
My chains clink as I pull my hands up, grip my collar, and yank it aside, where the raw scars of my mark shine beneath.
RIVEN: “And I am the marked daughter of the Peacemaker.”