Or two, more commonly, the mortal’s remains are scrubbed off the arena floor.
I guess triumphing in such a grandiose performance is too tempting for creatures that delight in blood and ego. Cassia says this is why all the original Players are gone, their lives eventually lost to their own hubris, their places taken. Every Player in the cast today was once mortal.
Even Jude.
“Whichever contender makes it to the finale will compete with me,” he says. “You, love, are here to ensure there’s no match in the arena. Once all the contenders are gone—”
“Dead,” I offer helpfully.
“Once you’re the only oneleft,”he rephrases, “thenI tell Sil the truth. That you’re marked! That you don’t qualify. Sil won’t want the bad press—there’s already so much tension with the North. He’ll send you away quietly, believe me.”
RIVEN: “Believeyou?” He must be kidding.
JUDE: “The Great Dionysia will be forfeited. I’ll hold my place as Lead Player, andyoucan go home.” He steps back and takes a low bow, peeking up to offer me a roguish grin.
Jude hasn’t chosen me inspiteof being marked. He’s chosen mebecauseI’m marked. And probably the only marked within a mile of the Playhouse tonight.
My eyes narrow. “I thought it was anhonorto kill in the arena.” Isn’t that why Players throw their gruesome festival anyway? Every Great Dionysia builds the Lead Player’s reputation. Some theorize each kill makes them stronger.
And for some reason, he wants out of it.
My mouth drops open, a mocking grin pulling at my lips. “You’rescared, aren’t you?”
“Dear heart, I fear one thing in life, and it is not death.” Jude’s own smile strains at the edges, like some dreadful thought has caught him off guard. Come to think of it, he hasn’t stopped smiling once this entire conversation. “I have reason to believe someone in this Playhouse wants me dead.”
“Yeah. Me.”
“Unfortunately,”he goes on, “the only way I can ensure afairmatch in the arena is if there isn’t a match at all. Just a little favor, you see. Do we have a deal?”
Adeal. Only a Player would make this sound like anything other than ahostage situation.
I’m not sure what possesses me. My hand grips the hairbrush from the vanity, brings it over my head, and hurls it at Jude with all my might.
It bounces pitifully off his shoulder. He stares at the brush as it clatters to the ground at his feet. “I’m relieved you’ve chosen to be mature about this.”
Before he so much as looks up, I launch at him, blade aimed for his eye this time.
Jude curses and grips my armed hand like he’s swatting a fly, lifting me right off the ground until I’m eye level with him.
“Okay!”he relents as I kick viciously at his legs, his touch burning through my sleeve. The Player’s eyes flicker nervously to the clock, then back at me. “A trade, then! There must besomethingyou want. Money?”
“No.”Rage and exhaustion weave into the refusal that comes out of my throat as he begrudgingly sets me down, my ribs searing. “I don’t want your godsdamned—” My voice breaks, and I cough violently into my elbow, lungs wringing.
When I pull away, the ice from my lungs has wrapped its way around my throat.
Jude tenses, steps back. His eyes scan me up and down, uncertain and seeming to take me in for the first time. A revelation dawns plainly on his face. “You’re unwell.”
I clench my teeth, ball my fists.
He nods. “Dying, then.”
Some desperate part of me responds to those words. I never say them out loud.
His eyes narrow in suspicion; a warning threads his tone. “Why did you come here?”
I try to lie, pointlessly open my mouth to make a claim about stealing prized stage props or something. But my tongue won’t form the words. The truth falls out. “I wanted to find…I wanted the—” I know I’ll regret this. “Script.”
Jude’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “TheScript?”
