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 estimatedfour percentof 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 ofdefense,” 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 sheisn’tone of yours, Silenus. And to do that, you will need to prove she issomeone 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 isnota 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.”
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 itintentionally—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.
Theseare 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.
