My mouth turns dry. “I— No, I don’t—”
JUDE: “Then I’ll teach you.”
RIVEN: “I can’t.”
JUDE: “Why not?”
RIVEN: “I don’t know how to sing.”
Jude blinks a couple of times, as if not believing me. “They don’t even allow you tosing?”
RIVEN: “It summons Players.” I once saw someone lose their tongue for it as punishment. “Surely you must know some of this—you’re from Syrene—”
JUDE: “I amnot.” His voice lashes the air so suddenly, it startles us both. It occurs to me too late that I shouldn’t admit I know of Jude’s history. He presses his lips together, apologetic, and quietly adds, “I’m fromThymele—when it was still Thymele. NotSyrene.”
It’s true, then. No wonder he hates us.
“But you weren’t—you weren’t a Playerback then,” I utter uselessly. “It’s not like you werehunted; the North would never—”
“Such moral high ground, you and the North have!” Jude laughs, a bitter edge to it. “When I was small, this group came to my parents’ home one day.Beggedus to take them in, and we did. They waited until nightfall to make their attack.”
He describes the ordeal with little more interest than he’d discuss rehearsal.
“I don’t remember all of it. They bound us—me, my parents, my little sister—forced Eleutheraen gold down our throats: tocleanse us,they said.Then slit my family’s necks.” He shrugs. “Similar attacks across the city heralded the end for Thymele, long before your armies came. But please, tell me more about how much holier the North is than the rest of us.”
Silence stretches between us for a moment. “How did you escape?” I ask quietly.
“I don’t know.” Jude stares at the table. “It feels like I shouldn’t have. But I did, alone.”
Alone.For a strange moment, the word slices through my anger.
I hate Players,I remind myself.I hate Craft. I hate—
None of these thoughts are enough to stop my hand from reaching for Jude’s before common sense can catch up to me.
Jude goes still, eyes flickering to the place where my palm rests over his rings. Probably a breath from laughing and pulling away. So I do it for him, wrench free to tuck my hands into my lap before I can embarrass myself further.
He catches my hand instead and tugs it back, as if to argue with the thought, fingers closing firmly around mine. I can’t help but notice the sharp pinch of his Finders Keepers ring pressing into my skin, gleaming warmly in the light.
Jude might be horrible. Violent. A Player. But Cassia might have been right, too.
There’s no winner in war, and the North is far from innocent.
“I’m sorry,” I say, alarmed by my own words—that I mean them. I’m not sure why.Ididn’t hunt down his family or force Eleutheraen gold down his throat.
Guilt drapes over my shoulders. I’m going to do somethingmuchworse to Jude.
Can I?I’m suddenly not as sure. He doesn’t look like an evil, emotionless monster in this light. He looks lost.
But monsters can look lost, too.
I succeed the second time I try to pull my hand away, and Jude clears his throat.
“So, no one’s taught you how to sing.”
I shake my head, desperate to get out of here all of a sudden. Somewhere far away from Jude and the heavy guilt building in my chest.
JUDE: “Mimic this sound.” His eyes shift, simmer to a brighter gold when he casts a soft, entrancing hum from his throat. Reluctantly, I try.
