Endless Water, Starless Sky

  Runajo sighed. “Consider yourself at liberty to sit up and speak.”

  Juliet was hungry. And all her fighting couldn’t change a thing. The magic that bound the Juliet to her Guardian was absolute. There was no chance of escape.

  But she didn’t have to pretend to like it. Not until Runajo ordered her to.

  So she remained kneeling, her head bowed. She listened to the clink of the dishes as Lord Ineo and Runajo ate their breakfast. She listened to Lord Ineo tell Runajo about the audiences he had been granted with the Exalted, the ruler of the city, and how the stolen Catresou children were learning the ways of the Mahyanai clan and would soon be part of it.

  Juliet felt sick. She had helped drag the screaming children out of the Catresou compound. She had been the sword that Lord Ineo used against all of the Catresou clan, when he told them that they must renounce their ways and assimilate into the Mahyanai or die.

  “I don’t see how it’s important to make them renounce,” said Runajo, still infuriatingly calm. “What matters is that they abjure necromancy, isn’t it?”

  “Now of all times,” said Lord Ineo, “we don’t need dissension in the city. It was a mistake ever allowing the Catresou to become one of the three high houses, when they despised the magic that protected Viyara.”

  We despise you and your magic, thought Juliet, because you murder people to keep the city walls alive.

  She said nothing.

  At last Lord Ineo rose, bid Runajo good-bye, and left the room, his footsteps fading down the corridor.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “He’s gone,” said Runajo. “You can look up now.”

  Juliet stared at her hands, pressed against the ground, and wished that anything she did mattered.

  “You know,” said Runajo, “you could make things a lot easier for yourself if you just pretended to be obedient.”

  “What does it matter?” Juliet demanded, raising her head. “I have nothing left to fight for. You made sure of that.”

  Runajo flinched. But this time she looked Juliet steadily in the eyes as she said, “If we weren’t here, if Lord Ineo weren’t protecting us, we would be dead.”

  “I would be dead,” said Juliet. “And I wouldn’t mind that.”

  “We would both be dead,” said Runajo, “because I would have refused to kill you in the Cloister.”

  She said the words with a flat, unsentimental defiance, as if there had been no friendship between them in the moment when Juliet accepted that Runajo would cut her throat open, and Runajo didn’t.

  I do not owe you for this, Juliet thought furiously.

  Out loud, she said, “The world is dying. When we were in the Cloister together, you cared for nothing except finding a way to stop the Ruining. But now that you have Lord Ineo’s favor and can put silver combs in your hair, suddenly it doesn’t matter to you. Did it ever?”

  And without waiting to hear Runajo’s answer, she fled.

  Juliet went to the shrine of the dead.

  Unlike everyone else in the city, the Mahyanai did not believe in the nine gods. They did not think that anything awaited the souls of their beloved kin after death. But they did want to honor their dead. So in each household was a wall of wood paneling, carved with the names of all the dead members of the family.

  Romeo’s name was in the lower left corner. Juliet knelt and pressed her fingers to the swirling lines, still sharp and new.

  He wouldn’t be on this wall, except for her.

  The Mahyanai reckoned inheritance through the female line; as Lord Ineo’s son by a concubine, Romeo had not been heir to the clan. It was only after seizing the Juliet for his clan that it had become in Lord Ineo’s interests to claim a connection with the boy she had tried to marry. So he had posthumously adopted Romeo, carved his name in the family wall, and declared their marriage valid.

  If not for her, Romeo wouldn’t be on this wall, because he would still be alive.

  There was no one here for her to be angry at, and suddenly the feeling swept over her again: the cold emptiness that filled her every time she remembered Romeo. It wasn’t like the grief she’d felt for Tybalt or her mother. She’d wept for them when they died, but she’d still felt alive.

  Now Juliet felt like there was nothing inside her but the infinite darkness and heavy stillness that waited in the land of the dead.

  She had felt that way once before, after Runajo had dragged her out of the Mouth of Death. Juliet had hated Runajo for saving her from dying beside Romeo. But then she had discovered Runajo’s dream of protecting the city—so like her own desire—and as they had plumbed the depths of the Sunken Library, faced revenants and reapers together, Juliet had become impossibly, treacherously happy—

  When the Sisters of Thorn had discovered Juliet and condemned her to death, she’d been at peace. She had found a friend. She had done what she could for Viyara. She was going to meet her husband. It was enough.

  But Runajo had saved her a second time . . . by handing her over to the Mahyanai. By twisting the spells painted on her back, so that she was compelled to avenge their blood, be their sword.

  Now Juliet’s people were dead, and she was left to wait for the rest of the world to die, because Runajo didn’t seem to care about saving it anymore.

  Juliet leaned her forehead against the cool wood.

  Romeo, she thought, I’m sorry.

  He had admired so much her determination to protect the whole city. He would be disappointed that she was giving up now. But she had been twisted and broken into a weapon for the Mahyanai, and she couldn’t fight it anymore. There was no fire and no strength left inside her, just this cold, raw emptiness.

  If Romeo were alive, if he were in her place, he wouldn’t give up. After all, he’d looked at a Catresou girl who was more than half weapon and fallen in love with her. He’d talked his way into her heart, and brought hope along with him.

  Juliet wasn’t Romeo.

  Juliet wasn’t anything, anymore.

  Juliet didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there when she heard the sniffle.

  She looked up. A little girl, perhaps ten years old, stood in the doorway. Her eyes were red and swollen; she wore a shabby gray dress. She was staring at Juliet with an anxious, wide-eyed expression.

  “You’re the Juliet,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Juliet.

  It was no surprise to be recognized. Juliet knew that her bright-blue eyes instantly marked her as a Catresou.

  “They say you have to help us,” said the girl.

  A memory slammed into her: the Catresou children, when Lord Ineo had brought her to purge the compound. They had thought she was going to help them. They were all prisoners now, and most of their parents were dead at her hands.

  She forced herself to take a slow breath.

  “Yes,” she said. “I serve you.”

  The girl bit her lip, clearly on the edge of fleeing. Then she said—words tumbling out on top of one another—“Will you come sit with me, please, just for a little, I’m all alone with her and I’m frightened.”

  “Who?” asked Juliet.

  “My mother,” said the little girl. “She’s dead.”

  Juliet stared at her a moment before she understood. Like everyone in the city but the Catresou, the Mahyanai cremated their dead. It was the law. But perhaps they felt a little guilty at burning their family like so much trash, because they had a tradition of sitting vigil over the body for the first day.

  “Show me,” she said, standing.

  She couldn’t save anyone. But she could keep this little girl company.

  Romeo would have liked that.

  The girl led her through narrow hallways to a room in the servants’ section. In the doorway was a little bronze incense holder, with three sticks of incense still smoldering.

  It had been knocked over.

  “Oh no,” said the little girl, bending down to pick it up. “Who—”

  Inside, the low bed
was empty.

  There was a feeling like ice from the back of Juliet’s neck all the way down her spine. She was suddenly aware of every sound—her heartbeat, the little girl’s gasp, an echo of voices from outside.

  “How long was she dead?” asked Juliet.

  “She’s not—she can’t be—”

  Juliet dragged her into the room. “How long?”

  “Since last night,” the little girl gasped. “No more.”

  Ever since the Ruining began, all who died rose again as revenants, mindless and hungry for the living. But they did not rise until they had been three days dead. It was the only reason that the city of Viyara still survived: there was enough time to collect the bodies and burn them.

  Something moved in the corridor outside.

  “Stay here,” said Juliet.

  She didn’t have a sword, but the knife never left her side. She drew it as she edged toward the door.

  Her heart was pounding. She wanted to believe the body had just been taken—a mistake, a theft, anything less terrible than a revenant rising in only twelve hours—but she wasn’t fool enough to trust in hope.

  She leaned out the door.

  From barely a single pace away, the revenant looked back at her.

  Once, it had been a chubby, plain-faced woman with gray streaking her dark hair.

  It was not a woman any longer.

  It was not like the revenants Juliet had faced in the Sunken Library: shriveled, desiccated things, dead for a century. This one still had smooth cheeks and bright black eyes. But the horrible, moving emptiness in its face was exactly the same.

  The revenant lunged.

  Juliet dodged back, her knife coming up. She meant to slash its eyes, but then the little girl screamed, and Juliet was back in the Catresou compound, listening to the children scream as she dragged their parents away and killed them. She was fighting the magic that forced her limbs to move, she was wanting to die, she was—

  Flat on her back, with the revenant on top of her.

  Juliet slashed wildly. She didn’t even get its eyes, just its face, but the revenant still recoiled and hissed at her. Juliet punched it, then grabbed it by the hair so it couldn’t bite her.

  She looked over the thing’s shoulder and saw the little girl still huddled in a corner of the room, too afraid to run.

  “Go!” she snapped. “Run to the yard, get someone with a sword!”

  There were people out in the courtyard, practicing their sword work. She’d seen them earlier. A sword would make quick work of the revenant, so long as Juliet could keep it from running loose.

  The girl whimpered. The revenant writhed against Juliet, trying to claw at her face. Juliet shoved its arm back and yelled, “Go!”

  The girl ran, and Juliet was alone with a revenant.

  Grimly, Juliet slashed at its throat with the knife. If she could cut enough, she might get its head off even without a sword.

  She managed two deep cuts. The blood oozed instead of spurted: it had long since clotted. Then the revenant clawed at her face, and when she flinched, it broke free.

  In an instant it was on its feet and running for the door. But Juliet launched herself after it; grabbed it by the neck—she felt the slick, bloody edges of its cut throat against her fingertips—and hauled it to the ground again.

  She was on top of it now. The power of the Juliet—the magic that made her stronger and faster—was singing in her veins now. She cut and cut and saw bone and ground the knife down again.

  The blade broke.

  She seized the head and wrenched.

  The writhing thing beneath her was still.

  Juliet’s heart was pounding in her ears, loud as a drum. Her breath came in great gusts. Her whole body felt numb and tingling and hot and cold at the same time.

  She heard a noise, and looked up.

  In the doorway stood a Mahyanai girl her own age. She held a sword—of course, Juliet had forgotten that the Mahyanai allowed their daughters to train in fighting—and she was staring at Juliet in wide-eyed shock.

  The revenant’s head was heavy in Juliet’s hands. She dropped it, and flinched at the thump.

  “Don’t let her see,” she said. “It’s her mother.”

  The young woman stared at her a moment longer, then said, “She’s out in the courtyard.”

  Juliet nodded. She wasn’t sure what to say. Runajo was not giving her orders. Since the revenant was already dead, the magic of the Juliet had not compelled her to kill it.

  She had never yet helped a Mahyanai when she was not compelled to.

  “You should come out,” said the young woman. “She was afraid for you.”

  Juliet nodded and rose. She followed the young woman out into the courtyard, feeling like a sleepwalker—the sunlight dazzled her eyes as if she had been asleep—and then the little girl slammed into her, clutching at her robe and crying.

  Juliet knelt and took her into her arms.

  She was aching and trembling with the aftermath of a battle. But for the first time in a month, the cold emptiness was gone.

  I am the Juliet. I am the sword of my people.

  She had known this ever since she could remember. Now she was the sword of the Mahyanai and the world was ending, and she had thought that made everything she was meaningless.

  But the little girl was tiny and weeping and alive in her arms. Even if the walls fell tomorrow, right now she was alive.

  Right now, Juliet had saved her.

  Romeo had looked at a Catresou girl and loved her. He had believed that Juliet was more than a weapon, and that it was worthwhile to love her, however little time they might have. He had died believing it.

  Juliet had believed that once, too.

  She couldn’t free her people. She couldn’t free herself. And she couldn’t save the city from its doom.

  But she could be like Romeo, and learn to love her enemies. She could protect these people around her for whatever time they had left.

  It wasn’t exactly hope, but maybe it could be enough.

  2

  THERE WAS A PECULIAR, MUSTY smell to the Catresou manuscripts. Whenever Runajo read them for more than a few minutes, she sneezed. If she rubbed her eyes after she’d been turning the pages, they’d start to water and itch.

  But she couldn’t afford to stop reading them, though the night was more than half over and her head ached with weariness.

  The world was dying. Runajo was going to die trying to save it.

  She was probably going to fail.

  I could have saved us, she thought, and felt sick and shaky with rage and fear. Because she knew how to stop the Ruining. When she and Juliet went into the Sunken Library, where hordes of revenants roamed among the abandoned bookshelves, they had found a hidden text, bespelled to appear only when the world faced disaster.

  Three thousand years ago, there had been another Ruining. The Ancients had tried to give themselves eternal life, and doomed the world to living death. Until the five handmaids of the last Imperial Princess had gone to the Mouth of Death, the black pool where souls walked into the land of the dead. They had written on their skin sacred words—the lost power of the Ancients—and one by one they had walked living into death. The first four all failed and died. The fifth died as well, but succeeded: she spoke to Death herself, and bargained to end the Ruining. When Death delivered the successful handmaid’s body back to the princess, she had mourned and honored her friend—but she had also guessed that someday another Ruining might occur, and someone else might need to speak with Death. So she had carved from the handmaid’s bones a key, to open the land of the dead; then she had founded the city of Viyara and the Sisters of Thorn.

  Runajo had found that key kept in the Cloister, its purpose lost.

  And then the ghost—necromancer?—who had been killing Sisters to raise himself from the dead had stolen it.

  For the last month, Runajo had tried desperately to think of any way to reach Death without the key. She
had written letters to the Sisterhood, begging them for help. But nobody had ever answered, and all she’d been able to think of on her own was going to the Mouth of Death and joining the procession of souls that she had seen when she sat vigil. Vima, the priestess of mourning, had told her that whoever joined the dead souls became just as dead—but there must be a little difference. Juliet, dragged into the procession by magic gone wrong, had kept her body, and been truly alive when Runajo pulled her out. Perhaps if Runajo walked into the procession alive and willing, it would be enough of a difference. Perhaps she would be able to speak to Death.

  It didn’t matter how slim the chance was. The only other choice was to lie down and wait for the whole world to die.

  And that was why she was now reading the Catresou manuscripts, puzzling her way through old dialects and bad handwriting. Because she did not think that if she spoke to Death, she would come back alive. And if she died while bound to Juliet . . . well, some Juliets survived the deaths of their Guardians. But not many.

  She had to dissolve the bond. Or better yet, make Juliet not the Juliet anymore, so that she could never be forced to kill again. But so far, no matter how many of the stolen Catresou records she read, she couldn’t find any mention of anyone doing either.

  She couldn’t even find anyone who had tried. The Catresou had never, in all their history, desired to free a Juliet.

  At least they had been considerate enough to keep exhaustive chronicles of every one. Sometimes she wished they had been a little less thorough; when they discussed how easily the Juliets had adjusted to the seals, how well they had been trained, if and how many children they had borne, she felt like she was reading the livestock records kept by the Sisters who guarded the city’s small, precious supply of red meat.

  There were records, too, of the girls who had died under the seals, unable to bear the weight of their power. All of them without names. When Runajo thought of that, she felt a cold, fathomless rage that she didn’t have time for and didn’t really have the right to. So she tried to ignore it, and she kept reading.

  The nineteenth Juliet is now dead. It is my sad duty to write the record. She accepted all the seals without injury and received her full power. Three years she served us eagerly and well. Her Guardian, Andaros Ilarann Catresou, was widely considered a swordsman of great skill and honor, but in this, the common wisdom lied. For he was found to be a spy in the pay of our enemies, and when his treachery was discovered, he commanded the Juliet to sell her life protecting his flight. She was captured alive, but he escaped, and therefore she was left still bound by his orders. Two months we held her in chains, but Andaros could not be found nor killed, and all were moved to pity by the torment she suffered. In the end, the magi devised a desperate plan: to bind a second Guardian to her, that the newer seal might overpower the first, and free her from the traitor’s orders.