“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-becoconspirator. 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 seenext 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 bychoice, 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 willnothave the council execute Jude.
It’s not enough. I want so,somuch 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 performanceformy life.
“Why did you go to the Playhouse?” Augustus inquires, not believing me.
