“But they’re expecting a show, and we might as well give them one.” He nods encouragingly. “Fight back, Riven.”
“No.” The word rushes past my lips. “I…I can’t.”
His brows fall, like he’s misheard. “You can.” Apprehension curls around his voice. “It’s okay. I’m ready.”
“I won’t.” My voice strains. I reach for the courage to speak words I couldn’t last night. “I won’t fight you. I’m done with this script, Jude. And with every other.”
His costume falters, dissolving from his true face all at once, like every other thought has cleared from his mind, and I know I’ve struck a chord.
He’s heard those words before, from Gene.
Jude’s expression twists with disbelief, and his attention darts to the windows, as if Sil is right there at the glass, watching us, still pulling the strings. In the breath of a second, his demeanor goes rigid with resolve. “Then I suppose I will have to convince you.”
“Funny,” I say. Something in his tone makes me want to reach for the arrows resting at my hip, but I force my hands to stay at my sides. “Because I came to do the same thing.”
His eyes flash up to our surroundings again as he grits his teeth, maybe nervous that his masking of our voices has slipped, that Sil will hear me. A muscle feathers in his jaw as he turns his gaze back to mine, taking in my words. My intent.
I want freedom.
And Jude—Jude has always chosen power. His cast. Me.
His eyes stir like storm clouds, and I can feel he’s on the precipice. His promise last night rings in my head.I will play whatever role I have to if it means holding on to you.
His face goes cold, and my stomach sinks. He’s made his choice.
He will play the villain in tonight’s performance, just as Sil wanted.
Act III: Scene XXIX
“So be it,” he says, his hands balling into fists.
At the dark shift in his voice, I take a defensive step back.
JUDE: “There are three things I will have you know before the end of this, Riven.” An edge cuts into his words as he recites the line. “One, thatthisis not your home.”
He throws his hands out, gesturing widely to the windows, where the illusion of the District awaits outside. Instantly, they shatter, glass scattering everywhere. A piece bites into my palm when I duck to cover my face.
JUDE: “No matter where you go, no matter who you become, and no matter what you do, you willalwayscome home.” He bites down on each word. “Home here, where we belong, home to the Playhouse.”
At that line, an anger in me wakens. Being trapped here in the Playhouse. Being planted in the real world like a festering wound. Being used like a chess piece.
Donotlet Jude have control over the illusion,Sil’s voice prompts in my head.
I move fast, doing exactly what I did on this day ten years ago when I was marked: I start to shove the worktable over, only now, with the strength of the Player I know I am. My arms thrust it at Jude with a force that pins his back to the wall.
The crash of the impact shudders through the stone walls as I grip the handle of the door and summon a command under my breath. The foundations of his illusion splinter, rumble. A groan peels my attention back to Jude, who pushes the workbench off, jaw tightening, the proud glint of a challenge accepted in his eyes.
The walls shake as I slip outside and slam the door shut on him. His mirage collapses, the houses and streets he conjured crumbling to ash.
“Methexis,”I utter, and my Craft rushes in response.
I need to buy time before Sil realizes something has gone wrong. Make it seem like I’m fighting back until I can get Jude to reason with me.
I kneel and speak to the ground.You are not dust,I tell the rubble as it swirls uneasily, like something living is beneath it.You are limestone. You are war-torn. You are an ancient city.
Two can play at his memory game. I saw his recollections, too.
The dust rises, solidifying into tall, cracked columns topped by heavy marble domes. I sing to the stone until it smooths into a winding path between dry grasses. The tips of my fingers prod at the sky, summoning a white moon and a foreboding wind. The scent of fear stifles the air, sharp and bitter.
