Act III Scene IV
At first, a hush settles on the arena.
Then all hell breaks loose. Around me, spectators from North and South alike jump to their feet in protest. The council shouts for the magistrate, and the magistrate shouts for order.
I can’t bring myself to look at Sil, certain what I’ll find there: disappointment. Shock. Maybe betrayal. It unnerves me to admit Sil may be the closest thing I have to an ally now.
My throat tightens where my mark was, a written confession for all to see. A ruined mark is abominable in the North. And destroying it intentionally—unthinkable.
Moments pass in mounting chaos until the magistrate, somehow, brings order back to the court.
She turns to me, her pace abrupt and her face full of disbelief as she grips at my collar and examines the scars closely.
A moment or two passes before she pauses, then clutches my jaw roughly with one hand.
There’s a snap of movement at my left, and I hear Sil mutter a sharp warning to Jude while the woman examines my eyes. Her hand feels like a block of ice, the touch leaving me nauseous.
Finally, she releases me, breathing hard and turning to the council for guidance. “She is marked. She was, at least.”
“Riven Hesper.”
I turn at the sound of my name to the robed, aging man seated at the center of the council. He raises a wrinkled hand and motions me forward.
I approach cautiously, one step at a time, taking in the council at last.
These are the revered bloodlines of Dionysus’s first followers? Their faces are unremarkable, human.
Councilor Augustus Bouras, overseer of Parodos, I presume based on where he sits. He gestures for me to stop when I’m within arm’s reach.
“The spitting image of Michail, then, aren’t you?” His eyes track every angle of my face, like he’s imagining what it would look like were I not full of Craft. “Your father was a dear friend, Riven. Theatron felt his loss greatly.”
The scrutiny of Councilor Augustus’s gaze is not nearly so startling as the hatred looming in the eyes of the girl a few seats removed from him, no older than sixteen. I can guess who she is by her age: Moira Atticus, successor to her father at an unexpectedly young age. Ruler of Syrene.
Just as quickly, I recall Jude’s casual confession. I wonder if she suspects him of her father’s murder. Regardless, she has enough reason to hate us both.
“What?” she says flatly, noticing me staring.
“I’m sorry,” I say, inclining my head and turning to address the rest of them. “For what I did.”
Her throat bobs, eyes hardening. “Every word from your lips is a lie.” Her family swore its hatred for the Playhouse—and has ruled Syrene with that hatred for a long time. I look to Sil for instruction, but he’s gone entirely still and offers no help.
“Forgive Moira’s brashness,” Augustus cuts in with a lighthearted laugh. “You know how the young are.” He seems to be speaking more to Sil than me. “In any case, death comes for us all!”
“Not for her, it doesn’t,” Moira seethes, the edges of her words elegantly clipped.
“Moira,” Augustus cautions.
“Is that why you did it?” she goes on. “Betrayed your people. Everything you were raised to believe in.” There’s something more behind her words than anger. I hear confusion, sense a sadness deep behind her lowered brow. “For this? For immortality?”
She’s asking more than that. I’m her would-be coconspirator. Galen never named to the council who would be delivering Jude to Syrene, but she must know now it was supposed to be me.
And I failed. Badly.
“Immortality,” I repeat, a smirk on my lips. “I may not live to see next week.”
“Yes, the Great Dionysia,” says another councilor next to Moira. “You and your bloodbaths, Sil.”
“Why change a favored tradition?” Sil replies with a laugh.
“Your brother is a good man. He’s served the council well,” adds the councilor of Orkestra at Augustus’s side. “He can corroborate your relation to the Hesper family?”
“He cannot,” I say coldly.
“And why is that?” Augustus demands.
RIVEN: “He’s dead. At the hands of your council guard.” I deliver the words like a scripted line, making sure the pitch of my voice carries through the arena, even as it breaks.
Murmurs swim through the air. I tune them out. I don’t hear anything. I haven’t even had a moment to say the words out loud.
Galen is dead.
A droplet of gold stains the ground, and I struggle to bring my bound wrists up to wipe my eyes. Augustus studies me, and I wonder if it’s sympathy I see lurking behind his cloudy gaze.
“Did you find yourself in the Playhouse and enroll in the casting call by choice, Riven?” he asks. It’s a leading question. His eyes slide to Jude.
And there it is. I could tell the truth and end all of this right now. Jude would almost certainly be executed. By no means would I walk free, but my contract with the Playhouse would be voided.
Looking over my shoulder, I find Jude’s eyes. He lowers his head, bracing himself.
Then, slowly, he nods at me. Go on, he seems to say. I dare you.
My lips move, but no words break past my teeth. A grip like a vise works its way around my throat—a feeling I know all too well. Splinters of anger claw up my neck.
I will not have the council execute Jude.
It’s not enough. I want so, so much more than that now.
I want revenge.
And suddenly, I know exactly how I get out of this.
“Yes,” I answer. “I entered the casting call by choice.”
Shock descends over all seven faces before me at the lie as I prepare to deliver the performance of my life before thousands. And perhaps, the performance for my life.
“Why did you go to the Playhouse?” Augustus inquires, not believing me.
RIVEN: “For a seat at the table.” I raise my chin. “A Player hurt me when I was young. Cursed me, you might have heard. Like many of you, I heard no music growing up, read no story, lived in fear of the Playhouse’s return. And I am tired of being afraid.”
I gesture at Jude with my bound hands.
RIVEN: “Their Lead Player isn’t guilty of breaking his contract. I am for forcing him to leave the Playhouse. To show him the world outside. And look how he’s returned without a soul harmed.” It’s a miracle Jude doesn’t snort at the blatant lie.
I angle my body outward, appealing to the crowd, silently unleashing my Craft, reaching for their heartstrings and giving them a gentle tug. Testing if I can.
RIVEN: “My father died at the hands of the Playhouse, for his desire to seek peace between two worlds at each other’s throats.
” My Craft flows through me, warming behind my eyes.
“But my brother died at the hands of the North, the result of their fear.” My voice climbs, higher and louder, as I shout to the crowd.
“The Playhouse is not going anywhere. So why shouldn’t the North have a seat at the table?
Why shouldn’t you have your voices heard? ”
Their glassy eyes focus on me, captivated. I wonder if my speech has sought out true sympathy from them. Or if it’s my own Craft looking back at me, if their tear-stained faces are wet with faux grief I have imposed.
Maybe their marks can’t protect them from me.
I walk the platform, eyes up and chin high.
RIVEN: “I seek to become the first marked Player,” I say, laying it on thick.
“To represent truth and trust as a voice from North of the Cut in the Playhouse. To watch over their efforts and uses of Craft and to bridge the gap between Theatron’s people that too many lives have fallen into already. ” Go on. Believe me.
My feet move downstage, to the front of the platform.
RIVEN: “Not only will I become the first marked Player.” I stop and steady myself, gathering my breath. “But their Lead Player.”
I can’t strip the Playhouse of its power until it’s my power to yield. As Lead Player.
RIVEN: “I challenge Jude Stepharros to the Great Dionysia.”