“Riven,” Jude says, breaking me from my stupor. “If you trust anything of me, then let it be that I’m sorry.”
My laugh bounces against the rusted ceilings above us. “Nowyou’re sorry,” I say, gesturing widely at our current situation.
“You may not believe me. I expect you won’t, and you shouldn’t. I’m full of Craft and lies. It isallI know. But I swear to Dionysus, Riven, I am sorry. You aren’t—” Jude blows out a breath. “You aren’t what I expected you to be.”
I reach for my rage but come up empty. There’s just hurt.
“Well,” I say at him. “You areexactlywhat I expected you to be.”
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 awalk 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 toexecutePlayers 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.
