I fight to hold still as the horror of Mattia’s words settles in. I’ve always been taught that Players kill for three reasons: a threat to their cast, a blow to their ego, and, onrareoccasion, for pure spectacle. It occurs to me the North as a whole could fall into all three of those categories, if they refuse the Playhouse entry now that the treaty is up.
ARIUS: “So long as there’s a chance of you getting skewered with an Eleutheraen spear, Mattia, I wouldn’t count on Sil letting you out.” Some of the tightness in my chest releases. North Theatron isn’t defenseless. We have Eleutheraen gold.
PARRISH: “Or any of us.” She sets her chalice on the tablecloth. I almost think she looks sad. “Ever.”
TITUS: “I say we just cross and tour. The threat is mild! Our schedule isn’t public, and their armies will never move fast enough.”
Tour? Schedule? They can’t possibly mean to perform in the North before—
“Good morning!” calls a rich voice, muting the conversation as Sil sidles through the double doors. Outside, the Revelers break into hollers and applause. “I hope everyone is well rested?”
The director’s eyes hover on me just a second too long before he continues. “Pardon the interruption, but it’s a full day ahead. Everyone is dismissed to costume fittings and will report to the auditorium immediately after for an assessment in stage combat and Reality Suspension.”
The deathless arts. I assume that’s what Jude meant when he said he could help me. I press gently at my ribs, which somehow healed miraculously during the night. But it’s that single warmbreath that filled my chest, the way that ice seemed to melt and dislodge from my lungs that I can’t seem to shake. My mind fixes on it, on the moment I step out of this Playhouse and leave the lingering consequences of my curse at its gilded doors.
With another pleasant smile, Sil turns and vanishes the way he came.
“I’ve never died before,” chimes Phileas at a neighboring table, a peculiar sparkle in his eye.
Died? Wait, isn’t the whole pointnotto—
“Can’t be much worse than living,” jokes Tig, though I notice she set her fork down rather quickly.
The dining hall begins to clear out, and the queasiness in my stomach starts to feel like a ball of lead as my mind flips through everything I’ve read on Craft over the years. Maybe the deathless artscanhelp me, but I would do well not to forget their main purpose.
Death.
Act I: Scene XVII
“They must have every piece ever worn in here,” says Thyone, moving between costume racks ahead of me. Her brother, Phileas, pinches expensive suits and elaborate dresses as we go.
“Do you think we’ll get to wear these?” Phileas asks with wonder in his voice.
I hope not, I think, eyeing a particularly gaudy contraption with a train the size of my bedroom at home.
The costume wing is a yawning golden chamber, two stories up from the dining hall, jam-packed with thousands of opulent fabrics and colors hanging upon long, mahogany rods. One wall is stacked high with bolts of silk, gossamer, leather, and velvet. The opposite is lined with mirrors and pedestals. In between, a frightening display of mannequins dressed in costumes.
Even the mannequins are built to the Players’ muscular statures. My mind wanders once more to thetestahead. One Jude is certain I won’t survive.
“When do you think we’ll see the prop room?” Phileas wonders aloud.
I’m wondering the same thing. I need to get my hands on that Eleutheraen arrow.
“Touch someone else’s prop, costume, or otherwise, and you’ll have to answer tome,” replies an elegant, humorless voice. I look up from the red coat I’ve been pocketing a gold button from to see a tall man with a broad chest and large framed glasses. “Or the Prop Master. And I promise you, Marigold is scarier.”
Noted.
CICERO: “You can call me Cicero. I’m one of your costume designers.” He eyes the three of us. “They’re sending you in groups? Oddly considerate for the Players. All right, come along.”
I cough, lowering my voice as I follow the costumer. “If one of the Players—” I pause, choosing my words carefully, sidestepping a lie. Jude sent that arrow down to the Prop Master last night.Marigold. “If one of the Players asked me to retrieve something from the Prop Master, how would I do that?”
Cicero stops short, turns. The pure and utter alarm etched into his expression is decidedly not comforting. “Marigold? Now, which of the Players did you anger so badly to deservethatfate?”
So the storiesaretrue.
“She’s real?” Thyone pipes up. “Is she really more beautiful than the Players?”
“If you value your life, you won’t let the Players hear you say that,” Cicero says with a harsh laugh and continues down the aisle. “She was human once, I’m told.”
