Something like a rag meets my nose and lips. My grip on my knife loosens.
And everything goes black.
Intermission: Scene V
When I awaken, I see stone walls and rotting wooden beams lined with torches. Across the worn floorboards, a heavy oak door. A map on the wall. Two windows, crusted with ice, frame a furious snowstorm. It’s dark outside. Still night, then.
I can’t move—my hands are bound tighter than a sailor’s knot on both armrests of a chair. Who’s to say how they dragged me off the Diolkos and to wherever this is without raising suspicion, but it’s almost impressive.
Actually, no. I coaxed a Player through a railway station and onto that train. It takes more to impress me now.
Somehow, these garbled thoughts bring a huff to my lips and the word “mediocre,” before the rest of my brain wakes up.
“I’m sorry the accommodations don’t suit you,” says a voice with a laugh, and I lift my eyes to see a figure illuminated in the now-open door, the night dark and encroaching around him. A drift of snow rushes in, and I shiver as Dorian pushes the door closed and stalks forward.
I feel eyes on my back, hear chatter—there are people behind me. One of them whispers something that sounds like, “Don’t look her in the eyes.”
“I cannot stress this enough, but capturing me is truly useless,” I say, realizing how dry my throat is when the words come out in a rasp.
To be fair, Iamfrightened, but after being held prisoner in the Playhouse by immortal monsters, being kidnapped by humans feels more like a time-out.
Dorian blinks at me, a passive smile drifting across his weathered face. If I look close enough, I almost think I can see wheels turning just behind that unsettling gleam in his eyes. “I don’t think that’s true. Have you seen this?” He hooks a finger at someone behind me, and I hear heavy steps. Then Dorian is holding a newspaper. He taps the front page. “When morning comes, this headline will be in every newspaper across Theatron.”
It reads:
who is alistaire hunt?
My lips silently mouth the words along the top line.Audiences shocked after auditionee replaces Lead Player Jude Stepharros in one of the most convincing Mimicry performances seen to date. A classic Playhouse trick, most say, though speculations about Jude’s absence at the stage door have given birth to rumors about the Lead Player’s health…and whereabouts.
Still, with no face of her own yet to be seen onstage, it begs the question: Who is Alistaire Hunt?
“It would seem you have a curse,Alistaire,” Dorian says loosely.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I mutter, pulling on my bindings. They don’t budge.
“Anatural, the Playhouse would call you,” he goes on. “And that creates a most unique problem for us. You’re marked, you see.” I wince with disgust when he presses two fingers to my collar and tucks it back, revealing the blistering, but healing, skin. “Or…you were.”
I try to look over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of the cloaked audience behind me.
Sothisis the notorious resistance.
I don’t know why I imagined Dorian as young. Up close, I decide he can’t be younger than sixty, a hard ruggedness to his form and weathered face that suggests I am far from the most intimidating thing he has encountered.
“If you were to take the place of Jude Stepharros—” Dorian says, interrupted by my burst of laughter, which he ignores. “If you were to take his place in the cast and news were to—and itwill—break that you arenotfrom South of the Cut…well, that would make you, Riven Hesper, the very first Player from the North. Inhistory. Certainlythe only marked Player to set foot onstage.”
“You make it sound glamorous,” I feign. Cracking jokes makes it feel less serious. I know where he’s going with this. There’s never been a Player who hailed from North of the Cut.
Andcertainlynot one who happens to be the daughter of the dead Peacemaker.
“The political upheaval alone would cripple Theatron. Throw the entire philosophy of the North into jeopardy.” That unserious, singsong voice again. His eyes lock on mine. “Should you take Jude’s place, your presence alone could very well open the gates wide to the North for the Playhouse.”
I say nothing as his words crawl over my skin, seep into my bones.
“Is that what you want? Are you truly that selfish?” Dorian almost sounds sincere, until his voice drops to a snarl. “I guess we should expect nothing less from the Playhouse.” He pauses. “Your Player-worshipping traitor of a father would be proud.”
It feels like I’ve been slapped across the face.Player-worshipping.Traitor.
What is he talking about?
