But her heart was too exhausted and broken to care. Seeing Romeo had torn open all her wounds, and it was like her first days in the Cloister: dazed with grief, unwilling to believe that everything had gone so terribly wrong, unable to accept surviving it.
“Is this what you wanted?” Juliet demanded. “Was it for this that you saved me?”
“No,” Runajo whispered, looking haunted, and that only made Juliet angry, because what right did she have to mourn what she’d done, when she was not the one who suffered for it? When she’d done it for such little reasons?
“I always knew you were a murderer,” she said. “That you watched the sacrifices every year and called them holy. But I thought at least you wanted to stop the Ruining.”
“I do,” said Runajo.
‘Then do it,” said Juliet. “Find out where the necromancer hid that key, walk into the land of the dead, and bargain with Death. Make the death of my people worth something. Or is it so delightful bowing to Lord Ineo, that you haven’t even tried?”
“I can’t,” Runajo burst out. “It’s too late. The Mouth of Death has dried up.”
Juliet had thought herself beyond all shock, all fear. But Runajo’s words still stunned her.
“Dried up,” she echoed.
Runajo’s arms were wrapped miserably around her middle. “There’s no way to walk into the land of the dead anymore.”
“You could die,” said Juliet, fighting the traitorous wish to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I’ve even got a knife, if you need it.”
Runajo snorted. “Who knows in what state the normal dead meet Death? If such a one could bargain to end the Ruining, somebody would have managed it already. All we can do now is try to delay the end.”
That wasn’t enough. That was no excuse. Runajo had never, ever been content with what was possible; what right did she have to give up now?
“If we’re all doomed anyway, then what is the point of this slaughter? What is even the point of your sins?” Juliet’s hands were shaking, and she clenched them into fists as she leaned forward. “I had to be broken and enslaved before I would help Lord Ineo slaughter people. What’s your excuse?”
“I loved you,” said Runajo. Her voice was dazed, helpless, as if the words were bleeding out of her. “You were my friend. I wanted you to live.”
And Juliet knew that, she knew that, it didn’t change anything that Runajo was saying it with eyes like the nameless dead—
“If you had ever loved me,” she said, “you would have killed me when the Sisters told you to.”
Then she turned and fled. She couldn’t bear this knowledge any longer, that each breath took her closer to the moment she faced Romeo and slid a sword between his ribs—the moment when the walls died and the last city fell—
“Juliet. Juliet!”
She turned and saw Arajo behind her, eyes wide with concern.
“Are you all right? What happened?”
Juliet swallowed. She could feel Runajo’s order around her neck like a noose.
“There was a sacrifice,” she said. “The Catresou tried to stop us, and they failed.”
Arajo looked unhappy, her eyes darting uneasily side to side before she said, “People are saying—there are these rumors, but I know they can’t be true—”
“Yes,” said Juliet. “I kissed one.”
Arajo must have been expecting that, but she flinched. “Why?” she breathed.
The pure, heartbroken horror in her voice snapped Juliet’s anger back to life, and she realized that this order, too, had a way around it.
(Every order did. Every order but the one she most wanted to disobey.)
“If I were allowed to speak, I could say that I kissed my husband. I could say that Romeo is alive, and fights for the Catresou. But Lord Ineo has forbidden me to say that.”
Arajo looked dazed. “Why . . . would Romeo do that?”
“He married me,” said Juliet. “By your own customs, that made him part of my family.”
“But you’re one of us.”
“Not when I married him,” said Juliet. “You had not yet captured me.”
“Captured you?” said Arajo, and there was the beginning of anger in her voice now. “You were a slave to those monsters. We saved you.”
“No,” said Juliet, “you took me, because I was a weapon and you wanted to use me. I was a slave to the Catresou too, but at least they never sent me to kill my own kin.”
She was shaking with anger; she felt as if she might actually strike Arajo, and she whirled and fled before she could.
How dare she. How dare Arajo be upset that Juliet, for one moment, had not pretended to be grateful.
At least the Catresou had acknowledged that the Juliet was a sacrifice, her life and her death forfeit for the good of her people. The Mahyanai wanted to pretend they had done her a favor.
She realized that she was running back to the shrine of the dead. Numbly, she walked inside and knelt where she had so many times before, looking at Romeo’s name.
Once, she’d sworn to be more like him. To love his people, to protect them and make peace for them. It had seemed like the only way left for her to honor him.
Once, he had convinced her that if they simply loved each other truly, the world would change to allow that love. Now she knew that was a lie.
And there was no honoring the dead who were not dead.
She leaned her forehead against the wall and wished that she were Romeo. Maybe he would see another path out of this maze. Maybe he would know what to do.
But Juliet was only a weapon. All she knew was blood and obedience.
She had never really known anything else. She had dreamed, once, of being more. Of protecting the whole city, and not just her clan. But now that dream was dust and ashes twice over: she was bound to the Mahyanai, to the will of Lord Ineo. And the city itself was dying, and there was no way left to save it.
Once, Romeo had told her that the Mahyanai thought things beautiful even as they perished. It had seemed a lovely thought, kinder and truer than the Catresou’s insistence that only their clan mattered, because only they would live on after death.
Now all Viyara was perishing. Juliet thought of the shimmering white streets of the Upper City, and the twisting, grimy maze of the Lower City. The quiet halls of the Sisterhood, the still sepulcher of her people, the mangy cats ranging wild through the streets.
It was all still beautiful to her.
Suddenly, without meaning to at all, she imagined Runajo’s voice: Well, what are you going to do about it?
She wanted to give up. She wanted to throw everything away except her love and grief. She wanted to destroy the world that was so cruel and senseless, or else destroy herself so she wouldn’t have to face it.
But that was unworthy of a weapon. It was unworthy of the Juliet.
And it was unworthy of the girl that Romeo had loved.
So she would have to kill him. She swallowed, and thought dizzily but very clearly, I will kill Romeo.
The world was far too small for him to escape her forever. If she didn’t kill herself now to avoid it, then sooner or later she would see him again, and have to kill him. There was no longer any other possible ending to their story.
All she could do was try to make that death worth something.
16
ROMEO HAD BEEN HERE BEFORE, on his knees before the assembled Catresou, ready to die.
It seemed less terrible this time.
He was still afraid. He still, after everything, did not want to die. And he was still a failure: they had saved none of the prisoners at the sacrifice, the Catresou would be hunted even harder for this attack, and if Juliet ever saw him again, she would have to kill him.
But Juliet had kissed him.
She had kissed him, and when he had said that she couldn’t forgive him, she had whispered, You utter and absolute fool.
He hadn’t realized how much the whole world had become suffused with his des
pair, how the shadows of his grief had clung to everything he saw. But now that he knew Juliet still loved him, that she had impossibly decided to forgive him—
Now the whole world had become luminous, shot through with glory and delight. He stared at Meros and the other Catresou lords, these people who had bargained with necromancers and wronged Juliet and were going to kill him—and all he could think was that he loved them, he loved them, because Juliet had loved him first, and this clan was part of her.
“This was all my fault,” said Romeo, “I was the one who—”
Gavarin, kneeling beside him, cuffed him lightly in the head. “Don’t believe him. I started it. Don’t regret a thing.”
Meros leaned forward, raising his eyebrows. “You disobeyed the orders of the Lord Catresou. You know the penalty.”
Gavarin shrugged. “All of us knew what penalty we’d face.”
“But he was trying to save your people!” Romeo protested. “We all were! You can’t—”
“You don’t understand a thing,” said Gavarin.
“I understand that they want to kill you for trying to save Catresou lives, when the only reason that nobody else would save them is the orders of the Master Necromancer!” He stared around the room. “Is that really what your clan’s become? Servants of a necromancer, who won’t save their own kin if it displeases him?”
“You,” said Meros, “are not even one of us. And you would die for this, but it seems the Master Necromancer wants you. So that’s how we’ll dispose of you.”
Romeo’s heart pounded with fear and regret. He wanted to rage against Meros, against what he was doing to Juliet’s beloved people, but he knew that nobody would listen.
So instead he looked at Gavarin and said, “Thank you for letting me help you.”
Then Paris seized him by the arm and dragged him away.
It felt appropriate, to go to his death with Paris. He’d been prepared to die when they went to the Night Game together.
Paris had been prepared to kill him, when they first met.
“Juliet said that she forgave me,” said Romeo as Paris dragged him down the hallway. “And if she could forgive me, I’m sure she would forgive you too.”
He knew that Paris didn’t care anymore, but when he was alive, Paris would have cared so much what Juliet thought of him.
Paris would have helped them try to save the Catresou prisoners, when he was alive.
Now Paris was leading him to meet the Master Necromancer. They hadn’t left the house, but they were in a small, narrow corridor; Romeo guessed it connected two different buildings.
Had the Master Necromancer, all along, been living next door? Here in one of the rich neighborhoods of the Lower City that people called safe?
If Romeo had known that earlier, he might have been able to free the Catresou. Maybe he still could. If he could just manage to kill the Master Necromancer—well, the Catresou would still be fugitives, and Paris would still be living dead, and Romeo would still be facing death by Juliet’s sword, but at least he would have done something to keep his promises.
The thought steadied him. He just had to watch for his chance, and take it when he could.
He had nothing to lose by trying. Not anymore.
Then Paris hauled him through another doorway, and Romeo was face-to-face with Makari.
He wore the same simple clothes he had when climbing in Romeo’s window. He had the same affectionately exasperated expression on his face as he said, “Well, you have made a mess of things, haven’t you?”
“Makari,” Romeo said blankly.
He supposed he should have expected this—he’d known that Makari had gone back, after all—but he’d still been imagining that he would be alone when he faced the Master Necromancer.
“I’m going to end this,” he said. “I can stop this, if you help me. If we work together.”
Then he remembered that Paris was listening, was still a slave, and he gave him a fearful glance. But Paris didn’t seem to be paying any attention to him. He was staring at Makari, his face utterly blank of everything except respect, and he said, “Master, did you want me to—”
Makari made a sharp motion with his hand, and Paris fell silent. He was still looking only at Makari.
“You . . . command him,” said Romeo.
Makari heaved a sigh. “I suppose I had to tell you sooner or later. There’s little enough time left, anyway.”
“You have to set him free,” said Romeo. He felt dizzy, numb, like all the world was sliding around him. “You have to set him free now.”
“I can’t, you idiot. If he were free, then he’d be dead.”
“You got free,” said Romeo.
“I’m special,” said Makari. “Come with me. I’ll take you to meet the Master Necromancer.”
He strode forward, out the far door.
Romeo followed him, and halted two steps over the threshold. Outside the door was a hallway, and lining the hallway were men and women. He thought, for a moment, that they were statues—they were so still—but then their heads turned in unison to watch Makari walk down the hallway.
On every face was the same quiet, mindless obedience that filled Paris.
They were all living dead.
Horror seized Romeo and he couldn’t move. He was standing in a hallway filled with the living dead, and Makari—
Makari was at the other end. Casually, he looked back and said, “Paris, bring him.”
The next moment, Paris had seized Romeo in a grip like iron, and was dragging him down the hallway.
Romeo felt sick. None of this made sense. Makari was living dead himself; he couldn’t possibly think that it was good to keep those like him as slaves—perhaps he didn’t have a choice—
Perhaps he does. Perhaps he chose.
Romeo wanted to silence the thought, wanted to unthink it, but he had learned too many horrible truths in the past two months, had watched Paris learn too many as well. He couldn’t stop himself thinking, maybe, and though he wanted to flee and forget everything, he let Paris drag him after Makari because he needed to know.
“I thought for quite a while about how I should introduce you to her,” Makari said conversationally, as they turned the corner. “I mean, for a long time, I didn’t plan to introduce you at all. I just meant for you to die along with everyone else. Or not die, however you want to define it.”
“Who?” Romeo asked, his throat dry and his heart beating fast.
“But you know what?” Makari stopped before a door and turned back. He smiled, just the same wry smile that Romeo remembered, and ruffled his hair. “I’m glad I met you. Come in.”
He opened the door.
Inside was a small sitting room, and seated on a chair with cushions was a short, pale girl with golden curls.
Romeo knew her instantly. He had never seen her so closely with his own eyes, but Paris had been so indignant that the image had passed clearly through the bond: the living dead girl, kept in a glass cage in Lord Catresou’s secret laboratory.
“Is she the Master Necromancer?” asked Romeo.
Makari laughed. “Of course not.”
“Then who is she?”
“When they kept her as a prisoner, the Catresou called her the Little Lady,” said Makari. He walked forward, then dropped to his knees before her. “In truth, she’s my lady and always was.” His fingers caressed the girl’s cheek. She leaned forward—her eyes still blank—and kissed him.
Despite all the terrifying, strange things that Romeo had seen in the last few minutes, this was what seemed most unsettling: the worshipful delight on Makari’s face as he looked at the girl. A thousand times over, Makari had rolled his eyes and muttered about those fools who think they love. Romeo had always believed it was part of who he was, to sneer at love and those who fell in love—and if that had always been a lie—
“Makari,” he said, “what is going on?”
Makari swung his head back to give him a patient look. “Yo
u really haven’t figured it out by now?” He stood. “I’m the Master Necromancer. This is my lady, for whom I am going to tear down the gates of death. And you are lucky enough to be my friend.”
It felt like there was ice spreading through Romeo’s stomach, through his lungs and his fingers and his whole body. He knew what Makari was saying. On some level, he’d known it since Paris called him master. But he just couldn’t believe—
“No,” he said. “You wouldn’t.”
“I don’t know why you’re so shocked,” said Makari. “Your friend Justiran’s a necromancer too. Or was. Paris, don’t let him leave the room. I’ve got a story to tell.”
Paris’s hand landed on Romeo’s shoulder again. Romeo shuddered at the steady, implacable grip.
He suddenly remembered how shattered Paris had been, when he learned that the old Lord Catresou was conspiring with necromancers. Romeo had pitied him, but not really understood that pain. Had even thought him foolish for being so desperate to deny it.
Now he understood.
“I was once a love-struck young idiot like you,” said Makari. “I was sixteen years old and I lost my heart to a Catresou girl. That clan hasn’t improved in a hundred years, I assure you.”
“A hundred years?” Romeo said blankly.
“Oh,” said Makari, his mouth slicing up into a grin, “didn’t I mention it? This was before the Ruining. But not before the Catresou became utterly insufferable. They forbade me from meeting her, of course. I didn’t intend to listen. I had an entire plan for us to flee together, to a place where neither of our clans could bother us. But then her own father—your dear friend Justiran—told her that I was dead. And she killed herself.”
Slowly, absently, the Little Lady raised her hand to rub at the base of her throat. Makari caught the hand and kissed it.
“From the way he carried on, you’d think no one in the world had been bereaved before,” Makari continued, his voice thick with disgust. “And because he was a Catresou, he thought he could master death. We made an alliance, the two of us, and for five years stole ancient books and crossed the world looking for answers. Then we raised her back to life. And the Ruining started.”
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