“I’ve lost enough on the Players, thanks,” I say, throwing a look to the black water below, and the wall rising out of it. Despite its name, the wall wasn’t built high to keep the Players out. It was builtlow,sealed with Eleutheraen gold to ward off Players. I’ve heard rumor that the Cut gained its name because they dug so deep that they accidentally severed Theatron in two.
I hope it does run that deep. That it’s enough.
The gate groans open, and Jak takes several exaggerated steps backward to offer me an extra-wide berth. Everyone acts scared tocatch what I have. Like the Player magic that poisoned me will simply leap into anyone who gets too close.
I ignore him and tug my coat tighter as I pass over the other side of the footbridge.
The District of Dionysus greets me with a strange mix of activity—some shoppers make panicked last-minute purchases, while others seem to be putting on a show of indifference to the news, like the world didn’t shift under the weight of a single announcement—or maybe that’s just denial. It isn’t hard to spot the exuberant Playhouse worshippers flocking into shops to purchase offerings of jewelry and fine wine. Thoughthatisn’t particularly new.
I cast a sideways glance at the news racks as I go, full of sensational headlines about the Playhouse’s looming return:
500-year treaty ends, terror begins; will the playhouse breach the cut?
no new agreement reached with players; north braces for attack
playhouse to return to district for first time in15years: what we know so far
“SPOTLIGHT FALLS ON PLAYER JUDE!”bellows a newspaper hawker over the piercing whistle of the nearby Diolkos Railway.
Enormous, marble statues of famous Players line my path as I breeze past a man trying to barter a playbill signed by the entire cast. Across the street, another woman rivals him, selling copies of the Playhouse treaty.
I duck low while passing the courthouse, just nearly taking an elbow to the face, but my eyes graze over a few of the signs as I round the corner.
NO PLAYERS
Our world is not your stage
The protests have spread almost as quickly as the Playhouse’s announcement.
I feel eyes on me as I pass by the most recently erected statue, built in honor of their Lead Player, Jude Stepharros. Face chiseled to sharp angles, hair so artfully tousled it almost looks as if it wasn’t made of stone. It stands some twenty feet tall at the center of a rippling fountain, rare gems and coins cluttering the water below his carved sandals—offerings. A dreadful waste, if you ask me. I consider dipping my hand in the water to swipe a few, but I’ve heard doing so can invoke all sorts of terrible curses.
I can barely afford the curse I have.
“Riven!Riven Hesper, you come here,” rasps an all-too-familiar voice that catches me mid-step. I turn. The words don’t come from the statue, mind you, but from the man propped against its base.
Haris. He’s dressed in the same garish robes as always—a discarded costume from the Playhouse that he claims was as red as the auditorium curtain when he snatched it, though with time it’s faded to the same gray as everything else. I can’t recall a time I’ve seen him wear anything different. Once, when I brought him an old change of clothes my brother left behind, Haris looked at me like I’d suggested stripping off his own skin.
“Hi, Haris,” I say, wrestling my bag from my shoulder. “I was just looking for you.”
Haris may be a Playhouse fanatic, but he’s also just about the closest thing I have to a friend, the only person around here who doesn’t call me cursed.In fact, he’s under the bizarre impression that I’mblessedto have been touched by a Player. Granted, the rest of them assume I was deemed unworthy, and that’s why the monster’s golden blood is slowly killing me. Maybe they’re right.
As far as Playhouse worshippers go—Revelers, we call them—Haris is hardly the worst I’ve encountered.
He smiles, revealing rows of even teeth as he whispers, “It’scoming, Riven.”
Pity fiddles at my heartstrings. Every performance he attended—thirty-two, he claims—is written on his face. The same telltale sign of every Reveler: a filmy coating of gold over each pupil.
During one of the Playhouse’s tours, Harisliterallyfollowed the theatre as it traveled from city to city. On foot for hundreds of miles. At night, he camped outside its gates, leaving the Players expensive offerings with every last bit of coin to his name, including the deed to his house.
And worse, he couldn’t help it; Haris was never marked.
“I can hear them,” he whispers, grinning wider and raising his most prized possession: a hand mirror. He prays to the Players through it daily. “They’re cominghome.”
If I wasn’t marked, I’d probably look and talk just like him.
“Oh, I’ve heard,” I mutter and glance up from rifling through my bag. “That’s why I’m here—I brought you something.”Now, where did I put it…
Most days, I bring Haris whatever food I can hustle out of the house without too much notice—he’s often so absorbed with thoughts of the Players it doesn’t occur to him to eat. Today, though, I brought him something even more important.
