The note falls flat, cracks right in half. Then turns into a string of curses that sends Jude hollering with laughter. “Well, you might try breathing first. Again, yes?”
He takes a dramatic inhale for me to mimic and repeats the note. I follow suit, and the sound feels smooth in my vocal cords, strong and easy. Jude’s pitch goes up, and mine shadows. Then back down, and I follow again. “There! Good!” he applauds, and in spite of myself, I laugh, the corners of my mouth pulling up for the first time in I’m not sure how long. Something loosens in my chest. I feel ridiculous, in a nice sort of way.
A peculiar expression crosses Jude’s face. “You know, Alistaire,” he says, head tilting, “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you smile before.”
Just like that, my chest tightens again and I stiffen, defensive. “What of it?”
But Jude just loosely shrugs. “It was worth the wait.”
The selection of quips and insults I was preparing to hurl back at him shrivels. That almost sounded like a compliment. I think I’m supposed to saythank you.
But Galen’s stern warnings toneversing chime through my head instead, and I tense. Plucking the little book off the table, I go to return it to the shelf. That’s when I catch a peek at the spine and the words printed finely at the bottom, below the title:
Acceptance of Change
I look where Jude pulled the story from: a shelf with a largeAengraved over it. Below it, more labels on the spines of each book.
Admiration, Agitation, Amazement, Amusement…
They go on and on. “Jude,” I say, quiet. “Say this is not what I think it is.”
These stories are organized. By their intended evils and manipulations.
When I turn accusingly back to him, Jude’s jaw tightens. He lifts his head proudly. “We’re Players. We’re the keepers of story, and we use them to—”
“That’s not yourright!” I shout, voice clapping against the stone ceiling. “It’s true, then.” My eyes spin around the library, catching gold plates dotting every inch of it. “The audience doesn’t stand a chance. Youchoosewhat they feel. You manipulate our thoughts and emotions until—”
JUDE: “Why do you assume the worst for how we use them?” He makes a sweeping gesture around the shelves. “Don’t you think we’d have taken ownership of the entire world by now with access to this many stories if we wanted to?”
“Who’s to say you haven’t tried?” I snap, pointing to where my mark used to be. The mark that used to protect me from manipulation like…
My eyes fall back down to the book in my hand. “Are you using it on me—right now? To make me feel—”
Jude stands quickly. “No.No, Alistaire, I wouldn’t—”
RIVEN: “How many of these stories do Players know?”
JUDE: “I— It depends. I think Parrish only knows the ones she likes. Titus rarely follows the scripts anyway…”
RIVEN: “And how many doyouknow?”
Jude chews his lower lip. “Lead Player has to know all of them.”
Do you know where the word “actor” comes from, Riv?The memory of Galen helping me with my coursework as a child comes back with startling clarity.It traces back to the same root as “hypocrite.” Players costume their words just as much as their faces.
I turn my eyes to the shelves. Too tall, too many to count. All of them full with glossy tales, words coated in sugar to soften the manipulation of their magic. The vileness of Craft.
Jude steps toward me, but I back away. “It doesn’t matter how you use them,” I say. “This is power no one should have.Least of allcreatures like you.” With that, I head for the stairs.
“You’ll be relieved to know that you’ll be home soon, Alistaire.”
The cold shift in his tone freezes my steps on the stairs. I turn.
“What?” I say.
Any remorse has vanished from his expression, replaced by that usual bored aloofness. “That treaty your council so loves. That keeps us out.” There’s something in his eyes I can’t read as he tilts his head. But I don’t like it. “They tracked its expiration rather poorly over its five hundred years.”
Howwrong? It ends in four days when the Playhouse crosses into Syrene and I can—
