He brushed the hair away from her face, and then kissed her. “You nearly killed me. And you saved us all. What other name could I call you, except Juliet?”
They signed the new Accords in the Exalted’s palace, before the Exalted’s silver throne, beneath a ceiling carved into foamy swirls of white stone.
Runajo was not entirely sure why she had been summoned to witness it. She knew why Lord Ineo was there, and the new Lord Catresou, and Vai. They each had to sign on behalf of their people. And she could guess why Xu was there, no longer a subcaptain but the Exalted’s right hand.
Officially, the previous Exalted had sacrificed himself out of grief for his people. But Runajo felt very sure he had died on Xu’s blade, abandoned by his personal guard. She had read the histories of Viyara; it was a form of succession that was not unknown.
But Runajo didn’t know why she was there. She was not Juliet, who had walked into death, and now people would try to kiss the hem of her dress in the streets. She was not Sunjai, who had died to save the Upper City, and now a statue of her was being carved in the Cloister.
In the end, she had done little besides try very hard and get a lot of people killed. And she was learning to live with that shame, but she didn’t understand why Inyaan would offer her any favor for it.
“It is our command that these Accords supersede all previous bonds and ranks, and lay to rest all previous feuds.” Inyaan looked very small, sitting on the throne, and her heavy gold collar and crown only made her look more delicate still. But she held herself with stiff, unyielding pride. “If anyone cannot abide these terms, then do not sign.”
The words were clearly addressed to Lord Ineo, but his expression of calm respect did not twitch. “The Mahyanai have always been honored to keep the laws of Viyara,” he said, bowing slightly. “We will abide by them still.”
The new Lord Catresou’s expression could not be seen, hidden behind a golden, full-face mask. But his voice was also respectful. “We will also abide by the new Accords.”
“And we,” said Vai, “have waited far too long to be allowed to keep them. You needn’t fear us breaking faith.” She was the only one of them wearing no jewelry or fine clothing, just a worn blue coat; but she held herself with a proud grace that put the others to shame.
So each one went forward in turn, accepted a tiny silver knife from Xu, and signed the Accords in blood. Last of all Inyaan signed, and Runajo thought she saw a slight tremble in her hands when she sliced her finger open—but maybe it was just her imagination.
They all signed the Accords in blood, but they promised none. There were no more walls to maintain. The Great Offering was over. For the first time in a hundred years, Viyara could be a city that sheltered innocents, whose lives were not bought in blood.
When the signing was finished, Inyaan told Runajo to stay. As the others filed out, Runajo felt a little trickle of fear. Xu had remained behind, to fill the role of bodyguard, but everyone else had gone away. If Inyaan wanted to punish her for anything she had done, Lord Ineo would make no protests on Runajo’s behalf.
They stared at each other for a moment, Inyaan still sitting on her throne, Runajo standing before her. Runajo had never liked to apologize, and yet now Sorry was on the tip of her tongue. She wasn’t sure for what. I’m sorry that Sunjai is dead? But that had been Sunjai’s choice, and Inyaan’s fingers on the blade. I’m sorry that I sent you to your brother? But that had been the one time she’d been trying to help Inyaan, no matter how badly it turned out. (And in the end, it had made Inyaan the new Exalted.) I’m sorry that I hated you in the Cloister? But their squabbles when they were novices seemed so insignificant now.
“I want you to return to the Cloister,” said Inyaan.
Runajo stared at her. She did not miss the shift away from the royal we. This was not the Exalted’s command. This was a request, from one former Sister to another.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because she wants the lot of you gone,” said Xu, looking faintly amused.
“Viyara was never meant to be the home of all the world,” said Inyaan. “It is a city for those who serve the gods with their blood. None of those who came here to escape the Ruining have ever done that except under compulsion.”
Runajo could say nothing to that. It was true enough.
“No boats remain from the time before the Ruining,” said Inyaan. “But I have spoken with the High Priestess. We do not have so many to feed now. If we adjust the water gardens to grow trees as fast as possible, we could start building boats in five years.”
It had only been a few months ago that Runajo had last climbed the central tower of the Cloister to inspect the wall, and had gazed across the water at the dead city of Zucra on the mainland. It felt like a lifetime ago.
“We need our best to make it happen,” said Inyaan. “You are one of our best. So you will do it.”
It was absurd to feel this thrill of pride, being told she was best by a girl she had always despised. And yet Runajo felt her spine straightening, her shoulders squaring.
Five years. A fleet of boats. And then—
All the world.
“I won’t help sacrifice anyone,” she said, “ever again. Will you let me back in the Cloister, on those terms?”
“If a sacrifice is needful,” said Inyaan, “I won’t give you a choice. Will you take that risk?”
Runajo remembered Sunjai’s blood spilling across the sacred stone at the heart of the Cloister. She remembered Juliet returning to her, splattered in Catresou blood.
She would regret those shames forever. But she already knew her answer.
She said, “Yes.”
All four high houses were required to help with cleaning out the Lower City and rebuilding it. But it was the Catresou who worked hardest, who walked into the depths of the Lower City first. Because they needed to retrieve their dead.
And then they needed to bury them.
Romeo walked in the funeral procession beside Paris. This was nothing like Emera’s funeral, when the Catresou were fugitive. The Ruining was only five days ended, the Catresou had barely been granted their status again, and yet the procession and the veiled mourners were stately and sumptuous.
Meros was one of the first bodies they had recovered from the ruins of the Lower City. Romeo had found him, huddled by the walls under a pile of other bodies, fingers ruined from crawling at the gates. He had been cruel and worthless, and then he had died in fear, and he had become a revenant, who desired nothing but the flesh of the living.
Now he was being buried with honor, and Paris carried the jar that contained his pickled heart.
Juliet walked in the procession too, carrying Justiran’s heart—Juliet, who had so much cause to hate everyone in her clan but Paris, and yet loved them—and now that Paris was her bodyguard, he would be walking at her side except for his place as Meros’s brother.
Romeo was honestly surprised that he was allowed to participate. He would never be a devout Catresou. And yet Ilurio and Gavarin had demanded that he join the funeral. Paris had asked him. Juliet had asked him, and now Romeo carried the jar that held Meros’s pickled brain.
The corridors of the sepulcher were just as Romeo remembered: pale stone walls carved into filigree, flickering lamps that cast dancing shadows. But this time he was not being dragged as a prisoner, about to be offered as a sacrifice.
This time, he was here to honor the dead.
Most of them were dead he did not love, did not regret. But the Mahyanai sat vigil even for the dead they did not love. Romeo supposed he could assist the Catresou in this.
He had to. They were his clan now.
After the funeral was finished, Paris lingered awhile before the coffins. Romeo stayed by his side—and he wished, suddenly, that the bond between them was not broken. That he could feel Paris’s heart, and guess a little of what he was thinking.
“Amando isn’t buried here,” said Paris.
Romeo’s first impulse was
to say, Who? But then he remembered: Paris’s other brother, who had died as a sacrifice for the Great Offering. When Romeo had failed to save him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“He wasn’t as bad as Meros,” said Paris. “He deserved a Catresou burial more.”
Romeo had nothing to say to that. They both knew how little a Catresou burial guaranteed—how little the land of the dead was like what the Catresou promised—but Romeo had no right to tell Paris that.
He wished again that he could feel what Paris was feeling—but slowly, carefully, he put his hand on Paris’s shoulder, and he felt Paris lean into the touch.
“I still believe in the Paths of Light,” said Paris, his voice low. “I don’t know if they’re exactly the same as I was taught. But I talked to Juliet. We both still believe.”
Romeo had not yet asked Juliet to tell him all that had happened to her in the land of the dead. He had been afraid to trespass on something that she thought sacred. He had no right to comfort her, if she grieved the loss of her faith.
Now he said, “I am still under oath. I will follow you there, whatever it takes.”
And Paris looked up at him, with a smile that was heartbreakingly beautiful. “Thank you,” he said.
“There is something that I have to make clear to you,” said Vai. “You can only be my consort.”
“What?” said Paris.
It was midafternoon; the sunlight drenched the courtyard where they sat, burning through the fabric of Paris’s shirt, and after he had spent the morning in the chill of the sepulcher, it was the most welcome thing he’d ever felt in his life.
His blood was red again. (He had checked. He had to, though Romeo was furious.) He no longer felt that horrible, restless tug of death. He was alive.
But sometimes—at night, in the still, dark hours, but also in broad daylight—sometimes Paris still felt the memory of that chill. Sometimes the whole world felt numb and cold, a foreign thing not meant for him.
He couldn’t feel that way now, when the sunlight was so warm it felt heavy on his skin, and Vai was sitting beside him and smiling. Her head was shaved now, and it was a strange sight to him, but he loved the way the sunlight fell around her temples, and how clearly he could see the line of her jaw.
“It was the only way I could become a woman,” said Vai. “I told my mother and grandmother that, as head of the family, I was using my power to decree that a woman could lead the family and produce heirs. As I was the man of the house, they had to obey me. But that means my children must be my children. They won’t inherit anything from you.” She paused. “Perhaps your eyes. I like those.”
“I’ve been alive for five days,” said Paris, “and you’re making plans for our children?”
“Yes,” said Vai. “What sort of girl did you think I would turn into? I created a fourth high house just to sign the Accords; of course I have to plan for the future.”
And he couldn’t help laughing, because of course she did. This was the girl he had fallen in love with.
“It’s only,” she went on, “I know what your people mean to you. If you can’t accept that your children won’t be Catresou . . . well.”
Paris sighed. Before his death, he would have said no. He would have thought he had no choice. But since then . . . he had walked the land of the dead. He knew it was more than the Catresou said, if not less. And while he was determined that his children would know zoura, he was no longer sure what that meant.
“Juliet made me her bodyguard,” he said. “I’m not leaving her. Can you accept that?”
“Well, I’m planning to get my people out of this city as fast as possible and I know she is too. So yes.”
Paris took Vai’s hands. He tried to imagine the future they had been discussing, and he couldn’t. He had been living dead for less than two months, but it was hard to remember the time before, when he could look forward to anything but death.
Even before that, he had been an outcast from his clan, with little hope of returning. And before that, he had been the useless son, expected to fail.
So he couldn’t comprehend the days and months and years that were waiting for him. But he could understand this: Vai’s fingers wrapped around his, warm and strong. He could remember this: Romeo waking him from nightmares, Juliet swearing to him that she would have no other bodyguard.
He could believe in this: his friends, willing to save him, against all odds.
“And if we do have any problems,” Vai continued, “we can always fight a duel again. Though I suppose that’s hardly fair, since so far I always win. Unless you’ve come up with some new tactics?”
“Yes,” said Paris, and stopped her mouth with a kiss.
Runajo was not used to Catresou furnishings. But this was where Juliet lived now, among her people, and if she wanted to be part of Juliet’s life, she had to sit on the hard, awkward chairs, and stare at the plaque of Catresou calligraphy on the wall as she waited for Juliet to return.
It still hurt, to think of Juliet and not feel her emotions, not hear her thoughts. To know that she never would again. But Runajo was growing used to the silence. And it was worth all the pain and more, to see Juliet smile at her without any pain or hatred.
There was a noise behind her, and she turned, hoping it was Juliet come back from a late patrol—but it was only Paris, his pale hair rumpled, his eyes shadowed.
They had not really talked since that day Runajo had used the Catresou sacred words to claim him and set him free at the same time. Since the day that Runajo had said, I love a girl who loves a boy who loves you.
She did not regret those words, and she still meant them, but when she saw Paris—when she remembered what she had said, so honestly, in those hours when they had all thought they were sure to die soon—
She couldn’t help dropping her gaze.
Paris didn’t seem to remember, or at least to care. He dropped down into the chair beside her and leaned forward heavily, against his elbows.
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” said Runajo finally, after a long silence. It was very late at night.
“Yes,” Paris said lowly, not looking at her.
The bond between them had lasted less than a day. Runajo had felt his mind only for a few hours before he died—and he was still not her friend, would probably never be her friend the way Juliet or even Romeo was—
But when she looked at the slump of his shoulders, she remembered the cold, aching gap in her mind after he died. Without thinking, she reached out, fingers stretched toward his messy hair to—
What?
She snatched her hand back. They were nothing to each other, except in that Runajo loved Juliet who loved Romeo who loved Paris. And that was a bond good only for saving each other, not making friends.
Soon she would be in the Cloister again, surrounded by women she did not love or trust, and any bonds she had with the people outside would hardly matter.
“It’s cold,” said Paris. “I can’t sleep.”
The night air was warm and balmy. Runajo opened her mouth to correct him.
Then she caught his eyes and remembered how long he had been one of the living dead, a cold corpse compelled to walk among the living.
Perhaps it was understandable that he felt cold even now.
Runajo knew hardly anything of Paris, had no reason to care for him, and yet the dead bond still echoed in her veins: he was hers. She had to protect him.
Hardly knowing what she was doing, she reached out again and put a hand on his shoulder.
For a moment, Paris tensed. Then she heard him sigh, and felt him relax under her palm.
He didn’t look at her. She was glad of that, and suspected he was too.
And then, wordlessly, Paris leaned to the side and rested his head against her shoulder.
Runajo went rigid. Her first impulse was to shove Paris away, let him fall to the floor—
But he was still hers, in way. He definitely belonged to Juliet, and Runajo had
to cherish anything that she did.
So she let Paris rest against her shoulder. She listened to his breathing grow slower, until he was asleep, half snoring against her collarbone. She felt a strange, stuttering wonder, that anyone could find comfort in her. And still she waited.
Until the door of the house opened, and Juliet and Romeo returned together.
Runajo mouthed, Help, silently at Juliet, whose mouth quirked in amusement. Romeo hastened forward, and pulled Paris to his sleepy feet, threw an arm over his shoulder. Together the two of them went up the stairs, and left Runajo alone with Juliet.
“I’ve heard you’re going back to the Cloister,” said Juliet.
“For a few years,” said Runajo. “Until the boats are finished. And they say I can leave sometimes to visit.”
“And after?” asked Juliet.
Suddenly Runajo couldn’t look at her any longer, the same way she couldn’t look at Paris. There were so many Catresou she had wronged.
“Then,” she said, “I suppose Lord Ineo will find a use for me.”
Juliet leaned forward, her hands resting on the table. “I am no longer the Juliet,” she said. “But I still consider myself the justice of my people. And I forgive you the debts you have not yet paid. When we finally leave Viyara . . . I would like you to come with us.”
“Which us would that be?” asked Runajo. “I don’t think Lord Ineo wants our peoples tied together any longer than he can help it.”
“And not all the Catresou want me back as part of their clan,” said Juliet. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. But I’m going to make a future for us.” She held out a hand. “And I want you there for it.”
Her eyes were steady and unyielding, and Runajo remembered when she saw those eyes amid the procession of dead souls. And she reached out, as she did then, and took Juliet’s hand.
“Yes,” she said.
Epilogue
IT WAS SUNSET. ROMEO AND Juliet had slipped away from both their families, and they sat together on a rooftop, watching the red-gold light of the setting sun gild the water. Beyond the shining water, the mainland was made of shadows. But it was no longer a place of death, and they talked together of what they might find, when the boats were finished and they sailed across.