Bright Smoke, Cold Fire

by Rosamund Hodge

  “Wait,” said Romeo. His eyes were wide; the light swirling off the key glittered in them. “We could also use it to walk into death, couldn’t we?”

  “She’s not there anymore,” said Paris. “It’s been too long.”

  “Lord Catresou said—”

  “He’s a liar. A murderer. I don’t believe him.” Paris drew a shaky breath. “We can’t bring her back. That would just make her a slave again. And you can’t join her. She wouldn’t want you to die, and—and—”

  He’d lost everything else. He couldn’t lose Romeo.

  Romeo stared at him. Then he nodded, picked up the knife, and held it out to Paris.

  “They’re your family,” he said. “You should get to set it right.”

  The knife was slippery in his grip. Paris thought his hands were sweating, and then he realized that the hilt was slick with blood. Romeo’s blood.

  His family had so much to answer for.

  He slashed the knife at the key to death.

  The blade caught against the bone. There was a stomach-churning moment where it felt like the knife and the key were still, and the whole universe was rotating itself around them.

  With a tiny, dry crack that Paris felt through his whole body, the key snapped.

  Light burned everything up.

  Paris woke up with Vai poking one of her fighting sticks in his hair.

  “Open your eyes,” she said. “I know you’re not that dead.”

  All the memories came back in a rush, and Paris bolted up. “Romeo—”

  “Still unconscious,” said Vai. “He’s lost a lot of blood. I bandaged him up, but it doesn’t look good.”

  They were still in the sepulcher. But this time, there was no swirling of light and shadow, no magic about to be unleashed.

  Now there was a squad of the City Guard, and there were Catresou being cuffed, their masks stripped from them. Paris saw Lord Catresou standing in the corner—his face bruised, his nose bleeding—and he looked away with a shudder.

  He turned back to Romeo. He was like Vai had said; unconscious, very pale. The blood had started to soak through the bandage on his arm.

  “You’re awake,” said Xu, stepping toward him. Her uniform was still immaculate, for all that she’d just led guards into combat. “That’s good.”

  “I have to go,” said Paris, gripping Romeo’s shoulders and starting to raise him. “I have to get him to—I have to get him home.”

  She’d helped them, and Vai seemed to trust her, but he didn’t think it was a good idea to tell her about the strange magic that Justiran could work with ink.

  Xu nodded. “That injury is no small matter,” she said. “You need help?”

  “I’ll help,” said Vai, sliding an arm under Romeo’s shoulders.

  Xu half smiled. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to come back for questioning,” she said to her. “But you.” She looked at Paris. “I will need to hear your testimony against Lord Catresou.”

  Paris swallowed, not looking toward the prisoners. The whole city would know him for a traitor to his kin.

  “I understand,” he said.

  “Don’t worry,” said Xu. “The worst is over now.”

  Paris nodded, thinking bitterly that she could say that only because she wasn’t Catresou. He knew that he should feel relieved—all Viyara had nearly died—but all he felt was tired and sick at heart. He might have destroyed his clan. He was sure that they would never take him back.

  After all that had happened, after all he’d learned, he wasn’t sure if he could go back.

  As he and Vai carried Romeo up the stairs, he wondered if it was really true that the threat was over. Because if the Master Necromancer had been at the sepulcher, he had been masked like the rest of the Catresou men, and not taking an active part in the ceremony. He hadn’t stepped with Lord Catresou into the darkness as he opened up the door into death.

  And there was the Little Lady—the strange, doll-like girl locked up in Lord Catresou’s laboratory, neither dead nor alive. Had the Master Necromancer gone to find her? Who was she, and what was she to him?

  Then—as they left the sepulcher—Paris glanced to the right and saw somebody slipping away between the buildings: a tall Mahyanai man in simple dark robes.

  Paris nearly lost his grip on Romeo. Because he had never seen the man before, but he recognized that lean, angular face from Romeo’s memories.

  Mahyanai Makari.

  “What?” asked Vai.

  Makari was already gone, vanished into the half-light of the early dawn.

  “Nothing,” said Paris, his heart pounding. There was no time to go chasing after him. They had to get Romeo back to Justiran’s house as quickly as possible.

  But as they trudged back through the streets, it was all Paris could think about.

  The Master Necromancer had brought back Makari.

  He had brought him back as a slave, just like Tybalt. It was horrible, it was unthinkable, and Paris probably should have expected it.

  How would he tell Romeo?

  When they arrived, Justiran looked over Romeo carefully, painted three symbols on his forehead, then announced he would be fine once he woke up and put him to bed. As soon as Justiran came back downstairs again, Paris looked at him and said, “You know magic.”

  “Yes,” said Justiran.

  “What you did for Vai, and for Romeo . . . I’ve never heard of any art like that.”

  Justiran raised his eyebrows. “You learned that when we met. What are you asking now?”

  “The people that the necromancers bring back,” said Paris, “I know they always come back as slaves. Is there a way to free them?”

  “Who is it?” asked Justiran.

  “Romeo’s tutor,” said Paris. “The dead one. I saw him alive at the sepulcher, I’m sure of it. If he can’t be saved—it will destroy Romeo.”

  This, Paris was very sure about. Romeo had only just barely pieced himself back together after losing Juliet. Paris had felt how important Makari was to him as well. If he found out that he was alive and yet worse than dead . . .

  “I have to save him,” said Paris.

  “You can’t,” said Vai, her voice flat.

  Justiran examined them both. “There may be a way,” he said, and went out of the room. A moment later he was back, carrying a bone medallion on a chain. The medallion was intricately carved with a mess of swirling, twining lines that wove all around each other, and seemed almost on the verge of forming a picture. Paris found he was staring at it and had to force himself to look away.

  He wondered if this bone would crumble as easily as the key had.

  “I made this for somebody else,” said Justiran, setting the medallion on the table. “Only . . . well, I never had a chance to test it out. So I don’t know for sure. But I think it might help your friend.”

  “What do we do with it?” asked Paris.

  “Just touch it to his skin,” said Justiran. “That should be enough. If it works.”

  “It won’t,” said Vai, and for once there was absolutely no laughter in her voice. “Those things they bring back are puppets. Not people anymore.”

  “I have to try,” said Paris.

  “No,” said Vai. “You have to stay alive, and that means not doing anything stupid.”

  He wanted to say, You don’t understand. But of course, Vai did understand. She had killed at least two people brought back by the necromancers—one of whom had been her brother—and both of them had returned as killers. She had every reason to believe it was impossible to save them.

  But Romeo would never not believe that Makari could be saved. So Paris owed it to him to try.

  “Promise me,” said Vai, stepping closer, “that you won’t do anything stupid.”

  “I promise,” said Paris.

  Trying to save somebody wasn’t stupid. Especially when he had an actual plan.

  “Good,” said Vai. “I’ve got to get back to my men. But I will be seeing yo
u again, and if I find out you broke your promise, I will make you regret it.”

  Then she left, and Paris was alone with Justiran. As Justiran started cleaning up the mess that they had made over the course of the night, Paris sighed and looked out the window.

  Halfway down the street, Mahyanai Makari looked back.

  30

  IT WAS BARELY DAWN WHEN two Sisters came to Runajo’s cell. They had dragged her out before she was half-finished waking; they already had Juliet with them, and they took the two of them down to one of the great halls where the Sisters often chanted prayers together. The entire Sisterhood had been gathered; at the front of the hall stood the High Priestess, her face grim.

  “You know why you’re here,” said the High Priestess, when Runajo stood before her. Her voice was flat and emotionless.

  Runajo’s heart started pounding. “Yes,” she said, except she didn’t. Juliet had been kept just outside the room; that seemed to argue that she wouldn’t be asked to kill her this instant. But she couldn’t be sure.

  The High Priestess looked at her for a moment, as if searching for something; then she let out a breath and said, “Strip her of the habit she has defiled.”

  She was being cast out. Runajo knew she was meant to feel ashamed, but all she felt was deep, utter relief. If they were casting her out, they weren’t going to make her kill Juliet. Nobody but a Sister of Thorn was allowed to cut throats in sacrifice.

  Sunjai came forward, along with another novice, and she met Runajo’s eyes for a moment. Her face was set; Runajo couldn’t tell if she was angry, or gloating, or sad.

  She stared right back. It didn’t matter what Sunjai thought. None of the Sisters mattered to her anymore. She was being cast out of the Sisterhood, which meant her plan must have succeeded.

  Unless they just wanted to cast her out before killing her. She dared a glance at Miryo, but the novice mistress’s face was unreadable.

  When she was naked, the two novices shoved Runajo to her knees and held her in place.

  “Mahyanai Runajo,” said the High Priestess, “you have disgraced your name and defiled your sacred calling. You are no longer worthy of this Sisterhood, not even to die on our knives; therefore we cast you out, unmourned and unremembered, to live as you can with your shame.”

  The High Priestess stepped closer and looked down at her. “Have you anything to say?”

  According to the ceremony, Runajo should now confess that she had done wrong and kiss the High Priestess’s feet. She would receive in return the promise that after ten years of public penance, she would be allowed to petition to die as a sacrifice, redeeming herself in the eyes of the gods.

  “I am not ashamed,” said Runajo. “I have no regrets.”

  A moment later, her head was ringing from the High Priestess’s strike. Then the Sisters hauled her to her feet and turned her around to face the crowd.

  She could feel everyone’s eyes upon her. She was not ashamed, but her skin crawled.

  “Go,” said the High Priestess.

  There was an empty path through the center of the crowd. As Runajo walked down it, she kept her chin up, her hands loose at her sides, her steps neither swift nor slow. She had done nothing wrong. She would not act as if she were ashamed.

  But she was relieved when she got to the door, and there was waiting a Sister with a red tunic—hers, from before she had joined the Sisterhood. Someone in her family must have saved it.

  They would all be laughing, because they had all predicted that her joining the Sisterhood would end in disaster.

  I will avenge this, Juliet said silently, and Runajo was startled by the cold fury in her thoughts. I will find a way.

  It’s all right, said Runajo. I knew what I was getting into.

  And there was Miryo. “Come with me,” she said, and led them down the corridor.

  You should have killed me when you had the chance, said Juliet. Now I will be just as dead, and you have lost your place.

  I didn’t want it anymore, said Runajo.

  What of Viyara? asked Juliet. Do you think you can save it when you’re dead?

  Runajo felt a sudden stab of grief as she remembered Vima laughing at the idea of her of becoming a revenant.

  I can’t do anything more to save it from in here, she said. The Sisters will never trust me again. And we’re not going to die.

  As if in answer, Miryo said without looking back, “I hope you appreciate how lucky you are.”

  “I do,” said Runajo.

  “When your family came to negotiate, the High Priestess very nearly had you killed at once. You had better please them, because if they ever regret this bargain, they will know how to get back in favor with her.”

  What is going on? Juliet demanded.

  Wait, said Runajo. Trust me.

  And then they were in the visiting rooms, and there was Lord Ineo, the head of the Mahyanai clan and Romeo’s father. He was a tall, handsome man, just starting to gray at his temples.

  Runajo bowed deeply and said, “My lord.”

  “This is truly the girl?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Runajo. “This is Juliet Catresou. She has been bound to me with her own people’s magic and therefore must obey me.” She looked over her shoulder at Juliet and said, “Bow to him.”

  Juliet bowed, perfect and polite, as she said silently, You cannot do this.

  I must, said Runajo. I am.

  She looked back at Lord Ineo and said, “She was also secretly married to your late son Romeo.”

  “Indeed,” said Lord Ineo, and turned to Juliet. “We all mourn his loss.”

  Juliet’s face remained impassive. He’s a liar, she said silently. He never cared if Romeo lived or died. You’d trust him?

  To love us like a father? said Runajo. No. To protect us and the interests of the clan? Yes.

  “I want you to know,” Runajo said out loud to Lord Ineo, “we fully appreciate what you have done for us, and we want to repay you.”

  “You will have the chance soon,” Lord Ineo promised.

  Runajo knew there was something serious and urgent afoot, because when Lord Ineo had brought them to his house, he didn’t send her to the baths along with Juliet. He brought her into his study for a private conference.

  But she really wasn’t expecting what he said to her.

  “Necromancers,” she repeated. “Among the Catresou.”

  By now, she should be numb to the idea that nowhere was safe. Hadn’t she been learning it all her life? Hadn’t she seen necromancy performed in the heart of the Cloister? Then why was this cold, sick fear winding through her body?

  Really, she should have expected it. She had raised the dead and a ghost had raised himself from the dead, so why shouldn’t the Catresou have a turn?

  “Yes,” said Lord Ineo. “Lord Catresou himself, and many of his high-ranking kin. The City Guard caught them in the act this morning at dawn, but we believe they have many more associates. They have yet to tell us anything of use. But I believe that if they could see that the Juliet was ours, they might be intimidated into talking. You know how superstitious they are about their darling slave.”

  “She can do more than intimidate them,” said Runajo. “She can sense when somebody has killed. If you took her to see the rest of her clan—”

  “We could root out everyone else who has killed to perform necromancy,” said Lord Ineo. “Yes, that is excellent. Then you see why I must ask you to tell me exactly how far she is compelled to obey you.”

  Runajo paused. She didn’t want to tell him this; she knew that Juliet would scream at her not to trust him, and whatever Juliet might think, Runajo did not actually have many illusions about Lord Ineo. After all, she had been right there to watch him neglect Romeo while he was growing up.

  But it didn’t matter now whom she did or didn’t like. She had to keep Juliet alive; that was the task she had given herself, since nobody else was concerned with it. She would not go back on it. And that meant not o
nly keeping Lord Ineo happy, but also making it very clear exactly how essential Runajo was to any plan that involved Juliet.

  Besides, if the Catresou were engaging in necromancy, they absolutely had to be stopped, for the safety of the whole city. The key that the necromancer had stolen from Vima had to be found.

  And that led her right back to the same conclusion: like it or not, she had to keep Lord Ineo happy, because he was the only one who might possibly give her the resources to stop the Catresou and search the city.

  “She must obey any direct order that I give her,” said Runajo. “She cannot even try to fight it. If she can find a loophole in the order, she can take advantage of it, and if she cannot do what she’s ordered, she doesn’t acquire the power.”

  “Interesting,” said Lord Ineo.

  “I think she knows in her heart that her family has wronged her,” said Runajo, deciding that she could live with stretching the truth if it made Lord Ineo regard Juliet as more person than weapon, “but she doesn’t want to admit it, because she is loyal. If she learns they are necromancers, though . . .” Runajo let the words trail off, partly to let Lord Ineo feel like it was his idea, and partly because she was suddenly struck by a wild hope. Juliet did not in any part of her heart believe herself wronged—for all she had questioned her family, she was proud to be the Juliet still—but if she could be brought to see the Catresou for what they really were . . .

  “Listen,” said Runajo, “we might as well be honest with each other. You want me to manage her for you, and I am happy to serve my clan. I want her to repudiate the Catresou. But there is one thing that I would like in return.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “I know you have the ear of the Exalted.” She knew, in fact, that he practically ruled the city, since the Exalted didn’t want to take the trouble—but it would sound insolent to put it that way. “His sister is in the Cloister. He had her sent into ascetic seclusion there, and it is not . . . He did it only on a whim. I’d like you to persuade him to get her out of there.”

  “She’s a friend of yours?” asked Lord Ineo.

  “She’s nothing to me,” said Runajo. “But”—she remembered the awful, lurching moment when she realized that Inyaan had never been what she thought, and all the moments after as she learned just how awful heavy penance could be—“you could say that I owe her a debt.”