After what feels like hours, I spot the first candelabra, a beacon in the night. The dimly lit corridor ushers us into the Playhouse Archives. I follow Jude past marble shelves and to a set of steps that lead up, past the arena entryway, until eventually I spot light peeking through the seams of a closed door at the top.
We burst through it and into the brightly lit Playhouse lobby.
I fall and roll, landing on my back. Spots flare across my vision, obscuring the ornate molding and marble columns encroaching over us in blessed light after hours in the dark.
All I can think about is how nice it feels to bewarmagain.
“Okay,” Jude gasps beside me, seeming to catch his breath fully for the first time in days. “Easy part’s over.”
He sheds his disguise but says to keep mine on.
“You’rethe one they want to execute,” I argue.
“Yes, and hopefully with a trial. If the other Players see you before I can explain, I promise there’ll be no trial.” He ducks over to the window, where the uproar of protests and fire swells outside. “They’re down there,” he concludes grimly, and we head for the grand doors.
The hall, laden with massive chandeliers, twisted staircases, and rolling red carpets, feels like a walkway to the gallows. Ahead, the Playhouse entrance looms, the dance of fire and shadows just beyond the stained glass windows on either side. Indiscernible shouting slithers through.
“Why doesn’t the cast just move the Playhouse away from here—leave the North?” I whisper as we walk, but my feet feel heavier with each step. Nervous. The rising chaos of whatever is happening outside is enough to make me pause, reconsider.
“They can’t without me.” He presses both palms to the heavy doors. “We’re all sitting ducks at the moment. Alistaire?” He stops short. “You may have to do this next part on your own.”
I return a reasonably confused look as Jude throws open the Playhouse doors.
First, everything goes silent.
The distinct clip of Jude’s step echoes as he strolls across the terrace to the gutting hush of held breaths and eyes turning on us. The Playhouse sits at the bottom of the incline, and as we go, my eyes sweep uphill and over the masses on the other side of our gates. They watch me back, a blur of faces. Ten thousand people? Twenty? I can’t see where they begin or end.
Sil is locked in some sort of heated conversation at the gate’s entrance, though the overwhelming silence gives him pause enough to turn. His shoulders fall when he sees Jude.
JUDE: “Good evening, everyone! I hear I’ve been sorely missed.”
Sil says nothing. He just runs, embracing Jude like a prodigal son returning home, and then turns to me like he’s about to do the same before thinking better of it. His face changes, deep, sad lines cutting into it. “Oh, Alistaire.” He shakes his head, apparently seeing right through my Mimicry. “What have you done?”
I search for the rest of the cast, but they aren’t outside. Just faces—from both the North and South, I wager—so many faces staring at us.
“Sil,” a hard voice orders from the gates. “Your Player has come home. Open the gates.”
I turn toward the voice, and when I see who stands on the front lines, the world stills.
Eleni. The woman—Dorian’s companion—who escaped Jude’s hand just days ago. She’s uniformed in black and silver to represent the council guard. My eyes follow the argent patterns sewn into her sleeves, trying to calculate her rank—patterns that crawl up to the open neck, revealing a glittering, golden symbol there at the base of her throat.
She’s marked.
I scramble to put the pieces together. Dorian’s hunters have been long condemned by the council and named traitorous to Theatron. They refuse marks for the sole purpose ofneedingto outwit a liar, should they come across one. Somehow, this woman has positioned herself into the leadership of both, poised to play whichever side suits her. Which, given that she’s marked, is bold. She can’t lie if caught by the council. Or, at least, she’d have to get awful clever with her words.
Sothat’show she survived Jude’s Compulsion.
Jude must process all of this with the same frantic speed that I do. Eleni knows everything. About what we’ve done.
Worse, she knows who I am.
“Alistaire,” Jude says at last, never taking his eyes off her. “Go inside.”
“I’m sure we can work this out,” Sil calls back easily.
“Open the gates,”Eleni repeats. Her stare is focused on Jude, like she can still see Dorian’s blood on his hands.
The small army behind her is nestled in the crowds, clad in the same uniforms. Their hands are weighed down with Eleutheraen chains, blades strapped at their sides. Deployed by the council, no doubt at the insistence of Syrene’s ruler.
