Bright Smoke, Cold Fire

by Rosamund Hodge

  Runajo couldn’t help wincing. It was expedient to obey the Sisters and make little mention of how she regarded the gods, but it was not honest.

  “Comfort your skeptical heart with this,” said Vima. “It can’t be done by the living. Do you not know the purpose of reapers? To restore the balance of death and life, by killing all they find alive. It is the presence of death in life that summons them.”

  Dread seeped through Runajo’s chest. “Like ghosts?” she said numbly. “Or necromancy?”

  Her fingers curled as she remembered the procession of souls, the warmth of Juliet’s hand in hers. Had that been what summoned the reapers and killed two Sisters?

  “A Mahyanai girl, believing in ghosts?” said Vima. “Truly, the end of all things is upon us.”

  “You had me sit a vigil for ghosts,” Runajo said tartly.

  “It’s true there are stories of lingering souls,” said Vima. “But I don’t know of any power that could allow them to resist being pulled into the Mouth of Death. And I don’t know how long a single act of necromancy would take to draw reapers. Truly, your best hope would be a great horde of revenants. It has never been known to fail.”

  Runajo kept her breathing even, careful not to show how desperately relieved she was. “Then if I summoned revenants, I could summon a reaper.”

  “Be more direct,” Vima advised. “Become a revenant, then summon the reaper yourself.”

  “If I could do it and keep my mind, I would consider that plan,” said Runajo, and was surprised when Vima laughed softly. Usually people didn’t take so kindly to the way she talked.

  “Is it possible?” she asked after a moment passed and Vima still hadn’t reprimanded her.

  “I doubt it,” said Vima. “Even those raised body and soul by necromancers are pitiful, ruined things. Nobody comes back whole from death. There was a time when nobody came back at all, but the world is broken now, and we are running out the cracks.”

  Runajo remembered dark water all around her, and the spirits of the dead striding silently past, and her fingers tightened on the edges of her sleeves.

  The world was made from the blood of gods. The world was bleeding out.

  “You say the world is broken,” said Runajo. “Do you think, then, that someone did this? That the world isn’t just running out?”

  “It has always been running out,” said Vima. “The gods do not possess infinite blood, so their power to sustain the world must someday end. But this living death that nibbles away at our world . . . I wonder if it is something else.”

  “What?” asked Runajo, leaning forward.

  But Vima shook her head. “Whatever it is, we can do nothing but shed our blood and die like the gods.”

  Runajo’s shoulders slumped. “That’s not enough.”

  In the dim light, she could just see Vima’s lips curving in a smile. “Do you know why I asked for you as an apprentice?”

  “I didn’t know you did,” Runajo said cautiously, wondering what this meant.

  “Oh, I demanded you. Because I looked at you and I thought, Here is a girl who will become either a blood Sister or a necromancer. You have that will, to slice the world until it suits your purposes.”

  Runajo felt sick. She had already become a necromancer. She would become the nearest thing to a blood Sister—one who cut open the neck of a sacrifice—when she brought Juliet to be killed.

  “I thought it was honorable,” she said, “to cut throats for the solemn sacrifices.”

  “I notice you don’t deny the necromancy,” said Vima, and Runajo’s heart thudded painfully, but there was only amusement in her voice.

  “That will to sacrifice and to do what you must,” Vima went on, “it’s not a bad thing. But I have seen girls with that will break themselves upon it. And you, I think, might fight so hard you would break the world.”

  It shouldn’t be a disappointment that Runajo had yet another keeper who wanted her to sit quietly and be uselessly good, but it was.

  “So I should kneel in the dark and mutter lamentations instead?” she asked bitterly.

  “Since we all are dying,” said Vima, “yes.”

  Vima kept her busy studying the lamentations all day. They never got past the first three lines—which were the same in every lament—because Vima wanted every note and syllable to be perfect before they went further. So over and over, Runajo sang the words:

  “Down and deeper, lost into silence,

  Beneath the light, beyond the sun—

  Alone, O my beloved, where have you gone?”

  The song had been beautiful when she first heard it, but by the end of the day, she was completely sick of it.

  At last she was free, and that evening she slipped away to Juliet’s secret room. Juliet had been quiet all day—Runajo had felt very little through the bond—but when Runajo entered the room, she was on her feet and looking restless.

  “Where do we go?” she asked.

  “Nowhere,” said Runajo, handing her the food she had smuggled out of the dining hall. “I need to read the scrolls. Did you look at them? Before the Ruining, scholars came to the library from all over the world; they’re not just meant for Sisters.” She pulled open the pack. “Wait. Can you read?”

  “We are neither imbeciles nor barbarians,” said Juliet. “I can read. But I have no training in the old tongues.”

  She was still standing, still holding the little basket of food, looking strangely awkward.

  “Well, then sit down,” said Runajo, and hastily added, “if you want.”

  She didn’t notice whether Juliet did or not; she was too busy sorting through the scrolls. The first one she pulled out seemed to be damaged: the metal caps on its ends were dark and corroded, while its body shone with a dim, greenish light. When she said, “Open,” the letters that appeared were flickering and blurred. She wasn’t even entirely sure what language they were in.

  That had been a waste of nearly dying. She had grabbed a few extra scrolls at the end without properly examining them; this must be one of them.

  But the other scrolls were no better.

  She had tried to take everything that mentioned death and revenants. The first scroll was nothing but laments for the dead gods—the names were different, but it used the words of Vima’s chants: Down and deeper, lost into silence. She skimmed through it very quickly—she didn’t need to know how much the Ancients loved the gods.

  The next scroll recorded the trial of someone who had attempted necromancy and raised a revenant.

  So necromancy had been possible, before the Ruining. No—not quite possible, because what the would-be necromancer had raised was only a mindless, shambling corpse. The dead wife he had wanted to raise remained beyond his grasp, her soul safe in the land of the dead. Or simply not existing anymore.

  Juliet’s voice broke into her thoughts. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Hm?” said Runajo, looking up from the glowing letters.

  “You were going to turn me in, weren’t you, after we survived the library?” Juliet didn’t sound angry, just curious. “We’re alive. What are you waiting for?”

  “They’ll kill me too,” said Runajo. “Or at any rate, punish me, and I won’t be able to read the scrolls anymore. I need some good answers first, so I can convince them to keep exploring the library. So I can save the city.”

  “You don’t ask for much, do you?” said Juliet.

  “No,” Runajo said, and nearly went back to her reading, but she couldn’t quite look away from Juliet’s face, expressionless except for the little wrinkle where her eyebrows had pulled together.

  “You’re surprisingly calm about being turned in,” said Runajo.

  “Don’t you remember?” said Juliet. “I’m already dead. And I always knew my life would be poured out for others. I don’t mind seeing Romeo again.”

  “Why do you think you’ll see him?” Runajo demanded. “I thought outsiders couldn’t walk the Paths of Light.”

 
“They can’t,” said Juliet. “Neither can I. So we’ll have a little time together, before we fade into nothing.”

  Runajo stared at her. “What?”

  “Only those with true names can walk the Paths of Light,” Juliet said patiently.

  “And only the Catresou know how to bind names to people, I know, I have heard your superstitions before,” Runajo said impatiently. “But you’re . . .” She trailed off as realization hit her. “You’re the Juliet.”

  “Yes,” said the Juliet. “I have no other name.”

  The Paths of Light were folly and superstition, and Runajo did not believe in them at all. It still made her utterly furious to see this girl calmly explaining how her family had stripped her of everything, and not resenting them for it in the least.

  “So you give up your life and your death for them?” she said. “I thought you believed in justice.”

  “I give them up so I may protect.” Juliet’s mouth twitched up. “I thought you believed in prices.”

  “I believe you’re stupid,” Runajo said, “if you can for one moment reverence something that treats you so unjustly.”

  Juliet snorted. “The Paths of Light are not a person. They did not decide to cast me out.” Then she looked Runajo in the eyes. “Confess to me and tell no lies. If there were such beauty—you don’t have to believe in it, but if there were—you’d not despise it, would you, though you could never touch it?”

  “I could never accept,” said Runajo, “that there was such injustice at the heart of the world.”

  “Yes, you do,” said Juliet. “You still agree with your sages, don’t you, that your soul goes out like a candle when you die? You love that beauty you glimpsed as a child, though you don’t believe it will save you.”

  “That’s different,” said Runajo. “That was . . . that is just the way of things.”

  “It is the way of things that I cannot walk the Paths of Light,” said Juliet, “and yet I count myself more blessed than you, because at least I know they exist.”

  I count myself blessed that my family never tried to destroy me, thought Runajo, but she didn’t say anything. She could feel Juliet’s belief, passionate and overflowing, and she couldn’t entirely want that to go away. It seemed to be her only consolation, and soon she would be dead.

  Soon she would be dead. The thought made her feel a little dizzy. She had thought that she was used to death, because of the long years she had spent watching her mother and father die. But because they had taken so long to die, they had been dead in her heart long before they closed their eyes. Now she tried to imagine Juliet gone, and her mind stuttered. If those eyes closed, that barely leashed energy stopped—

  Juliet had seen justice. She had held infinity within her mind. And yet in a moment she could die and stop existing. It made Runajo want to scream against the order of the world, and she had thought herself resigned to it years ago.

  I don’t need to turn her in yet, she thought. There’s still the necromancer to catch, the scrolls to read. And when I do tell the Sisters about her, maybe they will want to keep her alive for a while, so she can help more of us get down to the Sunken Library.

  Maybe. If I can convince them.

  She went back to her reading.

  I have to convince them.

  25

  “PARIS TELLS ME YOU KNOW something of the Catresou arts,” said Vai to Justiran.

  After escaping the Catresou compound, they had gone back to Justiran’s house. Even though it was the middle of the night, Justiran was still up, carefully mixing powders in a pair of little glass vials.

  “Something like that,” he said mildly.

  “Good.” Vai dumped the satchel they had filled with Lord Catresou’s notes on the table. “Tell us what he’s planning.”

  “It’s likely to take more than a few minutes,” said Justiran, raising his eyebrows.

  “Well, we need a few minutes to plan our next move anyway,” said Vai.

  “Take the evidence to the City Guard?” said Romeo.

  “Not yet,” said Paris.

  “If this is to protect your family,” said Vai, “well, I do sympathize. But we have to stop them.”

  “No,” said Paris. “It’s to get the Master Necromancer. I really don’t think he’s Catresou. You said that the Night Game had been running almost since the Ruining, right?” He looked at Vai, who nodded. “We’ve had four Juliets since then. If the Catresou were behind it this whole time, they would have already carried out whatever plot they needed this Juliet for. And when I overheard Lord Catresou talking, he mentioned something about a ‘Little Lady’ they were using as leverage.”

  “The girl in the cage,” said Vai.

  “Probably,” said Paris. “And they said they couldn’t speak to the Master Necromancer just yet. That’s not someone living in the Catresou compound, taking orders from Lord Catresou. If the City Guard raid the compound, they won’t find him.”

  “Then we get in and unmask the Master Necromancer first,” said Vai. “Sounds impossible. I like it. Except it is pretty impossible. You don’t happen to remember anything else extremely useful that you’ve omitted to mention until now?”

  “Er,” said Paris.

  “That was actually a joke,” said Vai.

  “I’m not good at jokes,” said Paris. He’d remembered last night, as he was trying to fall asleep, and he’d been trying to get up the courage to say it ever since. “I think my brother goes to the Night Game.”

  They both looked at him. Paris was horribly aware once more of his naked face; if he couldn’t wear a mask, he wished he could get used to it.

  “My oldest brother, Meros,” Paris went on, and even after everything, it still felt like a betrayal to name him in front of outsiders. “I heard him talking about the Night Game. With my other brother.”

  That dinner after Tybalt’s funeral, when Amando had complained about being old enough to “join in your Night Games.” At the time, Paris had assumed they were talking about prostitutes. But now—

  “Meros Mavarinn Catresou?” said Vai. “That’s excellent. I know where he lives. I can rob him.”

  “How will that help?” asked Paris.

  “They send out invitations,” said Vai. “That’s the story, anyway. The invitations name a meeting place—different for every guest—and when you go to the spot and present your invitation, you’re blindfolded and taken to the Night Game.” He shrugged. “So they say.”

  “Then we go in his place,” said Romeo, starting to sound excited. “Find out what they’re doing and stop them.”

  Vai looked at Paris. “Your brother—does he need to be saved from the Game?”

  Paris had steeled himself for mockery, but Vai’s quiet voice sent a wave of hot shame washing over him. He should be used to knowing these things about his family by now. He wasn’t.

  “I don’t think Meros wants to be saved,” he admitted.

  “Do you mean that?” asked Vai. “Because I assure you: I plan to do as much damage to the Night Game as I possibly can, and if you don’t ask me to spare your brother, I won’t take any pains to keep him alive.”

  Paris flinched. “I don’t want him dead,” he said. “I thought you meant—I don’t believe he’ll listen to us.”

  Vai nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Why ask about him in particular?” asked Paris.

  “Because there’s nothing that will stop me from doing my best to destroy Lord Catresou,” said Vai. “Your brother, I don’t hate so personally.” He wrinkled his nose thoughtfully; it was a curiously young expression on him. “So. The three of us, against the Night Game.”

  “You’ll want to hear this first,” said Justiran, looking up from the table. His voice was low and grim.

  “What?” asked Paris. This was going to be bad, he could tell.

  “I know what they were doing with the Juliet,” said Justiran. “They wanted a key to the gates of death.”

  Pari
s waited for him to say more, but Justiran only looked around at them grimly, as if he’d already given them terrible news, when it was nothing they didn’t already know.

  “But they’re already necromancers,” said Romeo, evidently thinking the same thing as Paris.

  Justiran shook his head. “This is worse. You’ve heard legends, haven’t you, of heroes who walked into the land of the dead while still alive?”

  “Yes,” said Paris. “But that’s . . .” And he meant to say not possible, but then he remembered how the land of the dead had appeared around them when Romeo tried to bond with Juliet.

  “I believe it was actually possible once,” said Justiran. “I used to study the Ancients. Their word magic gave them incredible power. Perhaps even the power to walk into the land of the dead. Most of that knowledge was lost when their empire fell, but the Catresou spells for creating a Juliet are a remnant of that art. These papers? They describe how to adjust the adjurations written on a Juliet’s back so that she will also become a key to the gates of death. So that she can bodily walk into the land of the dead.”

  “But why would they need to?” asked Paris. He could feel a flare of hot, murderous rage from Romeo, but it was still important to think through the situation logically. “We already know how to walk the Paths of Light.”

  “You are forgetting that they’re evil,” said Vai. “I don’t think the Paths of Light are their concern.”

  “And they already know how to bring back the dead,” said Paris, glaring at him.

  “That’s a very good question,” said Justiran. “Clearly, they want to accomplish something more drastic than necromancy.”

  “Could they be trying to end the Ruining?” Paris asked hopefully. That would at least be an honorable motive.

  “There is nothing honorable about destroying your own daughter,” said Romeo. His fury was fading from the bond, but there was still plenty of it left to color his voice.

  “I didn’t say it was right,” said Paris.

  “I can’t tell what they intended,” said Justiran. “But whatever they meant, I don’t think that opening the gates of death would end the Ruining. The opposite, in fact.” His fingers drummed against the table. “I’ve long believed that the Ruining started when the first true necromancer raised somebody from the dead; that such a fundamental violation of the world’s order destroyed the balance of life and death. Maybe it was once safe for the Ancients to walk into the land of the dead—though who knows what precautions they might have taken—but now? I suspect that any such attempt could destroy the separation entirely. When they came back from their journey, there might be no difference at all left between the worlds of the living and the dead.”