Endless Water, Starless Sky

by Rosamund Hodge

  “I’m sorry,” he said desperately. “I’m sorry.”

  Juliet flexed the shoulder. “It’s not bad,” she said.

  Runajo had managed to obtain some of the Sisterhood’s healing ointment for both of them; the cut on Romeo’s face was already gone completely. But deeper wounds took more time to heal.

  Rome still looked haunted; he raised a hand, then snatched it back. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Juliet put a hand on his face, and rubbed her thumb against his cheek, in the spot where her sword had once cut his skin open.

  “I have hurt you,” she said. “I have hurt a lot of people. I can’t forgive myself. But I can forgive you.”

  Romeo smiled, and he was the one who kissed her next. Kissed her, and did not stop.

  Juliet remembered their first night together, how it had felt like they were the only people in the world. How she had pressed her lips to his and forgotten her name, forgotten her clan, forgotten everything but the boy in front of her and the cascading joy of his touch.

  It was not like that now.

  She could still hear the ragged echo of Catresou wedding songs. When Romeo slid off the first layer of the Mahyanai wedding dress, she felt another twinge of the wound in her shoulder. She knew that each touch, each kiss was hers only because of the alliance they had forged. That it was part of the alliance, as fragile and fierce and dearly bought as the walls girdling the city, holding back death for one more day.

  In all her dreams, Juliet had never imagined she might have this gift: that this joy might be not just for her, and not just a secret to be shared with Romeo. That it could be part of her duty as well, a payment of debts and a promise for the future.

  That here in this bed, they could be making peace between their peoples.

  28

  JULIET WOKE IN THE ARMS of her beloved.

  She had greeted three dawns in Romeo’s arms before. But every one of those mornings she had woken a dozen times before dawn, twitching awake each time Romeo shifted or she heard a noise from elsewhere in the house. In half-awake snippets, she had watched the sky grow pale until it bloomed with cold morning light, and she had pushed Romeo out of her bed in her haste to get him safely away.

  This morning, she woke once before dawn, her heart pounding with sudden, nameless fear. But Romeo was sleeping beside her, and she remembered that she was his wife. That she did not have to fear discovery. That she was meant to be in his arms. And she lay back down beside him and slept until the risen sun was bursting through the chinks in the curtains.

  When she opened her eyes again, Romeo was already awake. Morning sunlight danced in his dark eyes as he gazed at her with delighted reverence.

  “I married you,” he whispered.

  Juliet smiled, and reached to touch his face. “You did.”

  But the world was dying still.

  And those who lived had to pay the price.

  Juliet had barely finished breakfast when Runajo, white-lipped, came to give her the news: Inyaan, the new Exalted, had decreed a weekly sacrifice.

  “They have worked the equations,” said Runajo. “It’s the only way to maintain the walls.”

  Juliet’s mouth felt dry and sour. “Even after Sunjai’s sacrifice?”

  “Of course even after,” Runajo said bitterly. “Did you think we’d live another way?”

  Her pain ached through the bond between them.

  “Then we end it,” said Juliet.

  The words hurt. She had never had so much to lose, in all her life. But she was the Juliet and she was the key to death and now that the Mouth of Death was dry, she was the only hope to stop the Ruining.

  And she had always, always mattered less than what she could do for her people.

  “When do we go?” she asked.

  “I don’t know if we have to go anywhere,” said Runajo. “You might just need to open the way into death and let me go through. And not yet. Now that the Sisterhood will talk to me, I want to try some more research. We only get one chance at this. I need to be sure.”

  “Is it safe to wait?” asked Juliet. “When the Ruining is so strong?”

  Runajo laughed bitterly. “Inyaan’s pouring out enough blood to keep us alive another month at least. You can’t imagine how the Old Viyarans love her. They’re lining up to offer themselves for sacrifice. I think we can wait a little longer.”

  But Juliet could tell that Runajo thought the time they had left was more little than longer. She thought of this when she watched Vai argue down Lord Ineo, negotiating on behalf of a new-forged clan than might not last another year. And when she walked the streets, and saw mothers caring for children who might never grow up. And when she leaned against Romeo, and listened to his heartbeat, and wondered how soon the final end would start.

  On the third day after her wedding, Lord Ineo dismissed her before she had expected. She meant to find Runajo, to ask how her research was going—but then a servant told her she had a visitor waiting for her in one of the sitting rooms.

  It was Vai, holding a gleaming, straight-edged razor.

  “I hope that’s not a challenge,” said Juliet.

  “No,” said Vai. “I’m here to ask a favor.”

  “Why?” asked Juliet, genuinely curious. They had never been friends or enemies.

  “Well, I hear you’re a woman.”

  “Romeo tells me you are too,” said Juliet, eyeing her cautiously. She knew there were a lot of strange customs among the various peoples in the city; she couldn’t say she felt at ease with this one, but she had learned to live with the Mahyanai, after all.

  “There he’s wrong,” said Vai. “I’m definitely a man. I have the braids and a dead brother and a vow to prove it. Did he tell you that, too?”

  “Yes,” said Juliet. “Romeo thinks it’s very touching.”

  Vai grinned. “Not you?”

  Juliet often needed to watch her tongue these days, but after a moment’s hesitation, she decided that Vai was not one of the people who preferred her quiet.

  “I think it’s an utterly abhorrent custom,” she said. “Demanding that your girls renounce their womanhood so they can raise up bastard heirs to their families?”

  “Says the woman who wields a sword,” said Vai. “Not to mention those spells on your back. At least I was given manhood before I was compelled to fight for my people.”

  Juliet crossed her arms. The words cut closer than she would have liked.

  “And you?” she demanded. “Do you thank your family for what they did to you?”

  Vai was silent a few moments. Then: “My grandfather was also born a girl,” she said, very softly. “He died when I was nine, but I still remember him. He told me once that he was never so happy as on the day his mother declared he would be her son.” She sighed. “It’s a finer thing to be a man than a woman, or so my mother told me. I should have found it easy to be just as delighted as my grandfather. But I never could.”

  “You didn’t come here to tell me that,” said Juliet.

  “No.” Vai pursed her lips. “Did Romeo tell you that there’s no one left of my people but me and my mother and my grandmother?”

  “Yes,” said Juliet.

  “I made a vow to be a man so long as my family needed heirs. If my father were still alive, and got a son on my mother, then I could stop. It’s a very traditional loophole. But my father’s dead. I’m the man of the family, and that means my word is law. Or should be; I’m not sure my grandmother has ever quite accepted that. But if I declare that our women can pass down an inheritance—well, she won’t accept it, but my mother might after we bury her.”

  She held out the razor to Juliet.

  “I’m not helping you kill your grandmother,” said Juliet.

  Vai rolled her eyes. “As if I would suggest such a thing.”

  “I don’t actually know you well enough to be sure you wouldn’t,” said Juliet, but she couldn’t help smiling.

  “I’m asking you to help shave my
head,” said Vai. “That’s what the women of our people do: shave our heads when we turn thirteen, and never let a single hair grow after. And it’s meant to be a thing that women do for each other, but . . . my mother won’t while my grandmother lives. My grandmother won’t ever.”

  “And I’m not your kin,” said Juliet.

  “No,” said Vai. “But you’re a woman. And kin to Paris, who was going to be mine. And you know what it means to pick and choose the duties that you pay to your family.”

  I didn’t get to choose those duties, thought Juliet, but that wasn’t true. She had chosen to love Romeo and try to make him her Guardian. She had chosen to help Runajo in the Cloister. She had chosen to win the Mahyanai’s loyalty.

  Even in her childhood, when she had done nothing but what she was told—she had chosen to be so scrupulously obedient. (And she was uncomfortably aware that even if she had a chance, now, to find her way back to being that girl—she wouldn’t want to.)

  She took the razor. “I’ve never done this before,” she said. “I will probably cut you.”

  “Well, don’t try to shave me,” said Vai. “I can take care of that myself. Just cut the braids off. That’s the part that’s ceremonial.”

  Slowly, carefully, Juliet began slicing off the braids one by one.

  “Thank you,” Vai said quietly as she worked.

  “Paris cared for you and he was mine for a little while,” said Juliet. “These days, I think that makes us close enough to sisters.”

  It was strange, for Romeo to wake without desperation.

  He could hardly remember what it was like. He’d been desperate to save the Catresou, to atone for his sins—before that, to find the Master Necromancer, to save the city and avenge Juliet—before that, to find a way to be with Juliet—

  Now he could wake in her arms and fear nothing.

  There was also nothing for him to do now. The Catresou might count him as kin, but he could do nothing for them, besides exist as Lord Ineo’s son and Juliet’s husband.

  That was how he found himself going back to the Little Lady.

  “I don’t think I ever properly thanked you,” said Romeo.

  The Little Lady stared back at him with empty blue eyes. Romeo knew now that she had once been a Juliet, but he couldn’t stop thinking of her by the first name that he’d known for her.

  But that wasn’t really a name, was it?

  “You saved Juliet,” he said. “You saved us all. I know you probably didn’t do it for my sake or hers, but . . . thank you.”

  She was silent.

  “What’s your name?” he asked. “They tell me you were once a Juliet, but . . . is that what you want to be called?”

  Still she didn’t reply.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “But I’ve heard Juliet and Runajo talk. I know we’re all going to die soon. And when I’m dying . . . I want to remember the name of the person who let me live long enough to marry Juliet.”

  “I want to die,” she said, and the back of his neck prickled.

  He knew that he was very ignorant about necromancy and the land of the dead. That Runajo was the one who should be questioning the Little Lady. That Juliet should be the one deciding what to do about what she said.

  But she looked so lonely and so lost, and he remembered how they had sat together locked in the room where Makari placed them, and it had felt like they were prisoners together.

  He remembered what Makari had never asked her.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked. “I owe you my life. I will help you any way I can.”

  For several silent moments, he waited, and he started to think that she wouldn’t answer and that it had been a useless question—

  “Take me back,” she said. “Open the door.”

  She still spoke in the same soft, dead tones. But now she was looking at him, directly into his eyes, and his heart jumped and thudded against his ribs.

  “How?” he asked.

  “I can’t find the way,” she said. “I can’t go back. But you could lead me. You are the key.”

  29

  My dearest Juliet,

  I will not beg you to forgive me. I do not have the right, when I do not regret. But I will beg you to understand.

  The Little Lady—Justiran’s daughter, the other Juliet—spoke to me. She told me what I think you know: that if she is to rest, somebody must open the doors of death and lead her in. But she told me something else: when Paris and I broke the bone key with a knife covered in my blood, its power passed to me.

  We are now both of us the keys to death.

  And that means one of us must take her to rest. And I do not think the one who goes will return.

  I know you are angry, and you have every right. I have wronged you greatly; I should have told you, and let you make this choice. But you are the peace between our peoples. You are the one who can protect us. So that means I should protect you.

  And I am selfish, and I cannot bear to live without you again.

  The Little Lady says that if I lead her back to rest, the Ruining will end. I hope she is right. But if you read this letter and the world is not healed, you may still need to follow after me, and do what I could not. So know this: the Little Lady told me that for the two of us, opening the door is as simple as spilling blood and calling on Death.

  I do not know what waits for me in that darkened kingdom. But I know that whatever I may find, if there is any way, then I will wait for you.

  With deepest love and resignation,

  Romeo

  JULIET, STILL SITTING IN BED, stared at the page. At the graceful handwriting she knew so well. Her body felt numb and cold, her fingers like weights, her heartbeat like falling stones.

  He had left her. He had left her.

  And now he was dead.

  She did not doubt that he had managed to open the gates of death. Romeo had his weaknesses, but he had never, ever failed to do the impossible. And since she was alive and breathing, she knew he had not destroyed the world by doing so.

  She did not know if he had saved them.

  She did not know if she could ever forgive him. She thought this, and knew even as she thought it that it was a lie. Nothing could make her hate him for being too kind and too brave—for doing what she would have done in a heartbeat, if she had been given the chance.

  Last night he had whispered into her hair, Do you know how much I love you?

  She had laughed as she replied, Of course I do: a little more than reason.

  And you, he had asked, how much do you love me?

  A little more than vengeance.

  And now he was gone. A death she could never avenge.

  She realized that she had been waiting to weep. But her eyes were still dry. So she got up, and dressed herself, and went to find Runajo. She had fallen asleep over a stack of ancient books, her dark hair loose and tangled.

  Juliet shook her awake. “Has anything changed?” she demanded.

  “What?” said Runajo, sitting up. Then she looked at Juliet’s face. “What happened?”

  “Romeo discovered that he’s also a living key to death. Because when he broke the bone key, his blood was on the knife. So he’s taken Justiran’s daughter and gone.”

  The words felt jumbled and meaningless in her mouth.

  “Romeo went into death?” said Runajo. “But . . . he didn’t read any of the records, he doesn’t have any idea how to talk to Death—”

  “You don’t either,” said Juliet. “He wanted to stop me from going first.”

  Runajo grimaced. “Of course he did,” she muttered.

  “We need to find out if he stopped the Ruining,” said Juliet. “Because if not, I’ve got to go after him.”

  “Well,” said Runajo, “I suppose we’d better find someone who’s just died, and see what happens.”

  “People don’t die on command.”

  “You have a knife,” said Runajo, running a hand through her hair. “Or we c
ould check the gates into the Lower City. If the Ruining is ended, the revenants should all have died again.”

  As they walked through the streets together, Juliet strained her ears with every step, twitching at every tiny noise. If the Ruining had ended, would there be a commotion? A terrible silence? Would anyone have noticed yet?

  Without the Ruining, what would the world look like?

  But she wasn’t going to find out. Because when they got to the gates, and looked down into the Lower City, they saw the mass of revenants still pawing at the doors. They saw the white fog swirling among the houses, despite the dazzling morning sun.

  Juliet sat down heavily on the cobblestones. A moment later, Runajo sat beside her.

  “It might not happen at once,” she said gently.

  “You let me read that manuscript,” said Juliet. “You know how fast it happened last time.”

  The sun was so very bright. It didn’t seem right, when Romeo was dead.

  She remembered Justiran’s daughter saying, I want to die, and she thought viciously, I hope you think your death was worth it. I would have lived ten thousand years without rest, rather than be his death.

  I have been his death.

  Gingerly, Runajo laid a hand on her shoulders.

  And then, at last, Juliet started to weep.

  “I won’t take you with me,” Juliet said that evening.

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Runajo. “I was the one who read the manuscripts—”

  “And told me what they said. ‘Death will parley with those who pass the reapers’—tell me, which of us has killed reapers?”

  “Which of us,” demanded Runajo, “has been trained in that lore?”

  “That girl who bargained with Death,” said Juliet, “she wasn’t a trained Sister, was she?”

  “She was one of the Ancients, a servant of their Imperial Princess,” said Runajo. “She probably knew a lot more of magic than you.”

  “Or you,” said Juliet. “And if I don’t succeed, you can read my father’s notes, make a new key to death as he made me, and have a second chance. You know it’s logical.”