Endless Water, Starless Sky

by Rosamund Hodge

  “The Catresou necromancers summoned you back. That means you know what Death is like. Have you talked to her?”

  The girl didn’t respond. But her laced fingers tightened. It was just a fraction of movement, but Runajo’s heart jumped, and she took a quick step back.

  The living dead girl was not turning into a revenant, mindless and hungry for the living. She had sat in the same locked room for a month, ever since the Catresou purge. She had been locked in Lord Catresou’s secret laboratory for who knew how long before that.

  She was not a soulless abomination; she was the abomination created when a necromancer summoned a soul back into a dead body.

  “If I die,” said Runajo, “will I see Death? If I walk out of this house and throw myself off the walls right now, will I be able to speak with her?”

  The dead girl was silent.

  The bitter irony was that Runajo knew what nobody had for three thousand years. She had read the manuscript written by the woman who helped end the last Ruining: Death has a face. Death has a voice. Death will parley with those who unlock the gate, pass the reapers, and come to meet her.

  She had read those words, won out of the chaos of the Sunken Library. But they hadn’t been enough.

  “Do the dead care about the Ruining?” asked Runajo. “Do they hate it too? Because I’m trying to end it. But the Mouth of Death is dried up. The key to Death is lost. The walls are about to fail. Nobody knows how to fix this. You’re the only one who possibly could.”

  The girl was utterly still, her blue eyes staring blankly into Runajo’s.

  The back of Runajo’s neck prickled. Sometime while she was talking, the girl must have moved, because now she was looking straight at Runajo. Her head had been slightly bowed before.

  Then she noticed the girl’s hands.

  They were still in the same position as before: loosely clasped, one lying on top of the other, with the fingers curled together.

  But now her tendons stood out. Black liquid oozed between her fingers.

  Blood. The black blood of the living dead.

  For a moment, Runajo wanted to cringe. Then she lunged forward and wrenched at the girl’s hands.

  The girl was strong. It took several moments for Runajo to break her grip, and when she did, she saw that the girl’s nails had ripped tracks into her palms as her hands were torn apart.

  Runajo felt sick. She hadn’t meant to hurt the girl. But this was all she did. She broke things.

  “I’ll get you a bandage,” she said, rising, and then realized that of course there were no bandages in the room.

  So she pulled off her sash instead. But when she knelt back down, she was surprised. There was still blood drying on the girl’s hands, but the ragged edges of the wounds were gone. Gingerly, Runajo started to wipe at the blood, and found pale, unwounded skin beneath.

  The Sisters of Thorn, among whom Runajo had once been a novice, had healing ointments for use after blood penance. They were a treasured, closely guarded secret because they could close cuts in hours.

  This was perfect healing in moments.

  Runajo looked into the girl’s blank, helpless eyes and said, “I won’t tell anyone. They won’t study this.”

  The girl didn’t respond. Her eyes were more or less directed at Runajo, but they seemed to be staring through her at something very far off.

  “You don’t have to be grateful,” said Runajo. “You certainly don’t have to forgive me for being the latest person to own you. But the world is dying. You could help us.”

  The girl didn’t say a thing. She didn’t even blink.

  Of course she didn’t. Runajo had been a fool to think anyone would help her. That anything she had broken could ever be fixed.

  One step. Two. And turn.

  Juliet moved through the sword form. She’d been practicing nearly an hour now, and her arms and legs had started to burn with exhaustion, but she didn’t want to stop. She craved this moment, when all the thoughts were pushed out of her head, when there was nothing in the world but this movement, and the next.

  It had been like that, kissing Romeo.

  It had been like that, killing her father.

  She stumbled on the turn, and the next swing of the sword came at a bad angle. With a heavy sigh, she lowered the sword.

  “You do realize we’re not going to beat you if you don’t perform well enough?”

  Nearby, on one of the low wooden benches, sat Arajo, leaning back on her hands—the girl who had come to help when Juliet was fighting the revenant four days ago. Since then, she had helped Juliet start learning Mahyanai sword techniques. Now she was watching Juliet with a sort of amused pity, as she so often did.

  Juliet loathed that look.

  “Nobody has ever beaten me,” she said.

  Nobody has ever hurt me more than your people did, she thought.

  But she couldn’t say that. She couldn’t keep fighting these people, when she was trying to protect them.

  As she thought that, she felt the death.

  Rather: she felt someone become guilty of shedding Mahyanai blood.

  It was as if the whole world shifted, reoriented, and suddenly the murderer stood at the center of all things and every heartbeat hurt because she wasn’t there killing him.

  Juliet could smell the blood. She could almost taste it.

  “Arajo,” she said. “Somebody just died. Go find the guards.”

  “What?” Arajo straightened, eyes widening. “How could you—”

  “I have to go kill the murderer,” said Juliet, and she did: the next moment she couldn’t resist the pull any longer, and she was running across the courtyard, into the hallway, around the corner.

  She smelled guilt. She smelled blood—real, physical blood—and then she spun around the last corner and she was upon him.

  She could have made the stroke with her eyes closed. Every bone in her body knew where the man’s throat was and how to swing the sword in a clean slice that dropped him with barely more than a gurgle.

  He hit the ground, and suddenly the pressure was gone, the world was right side up again, and Juliet could think.

  She could notice that the man she had just killed wore a Catresou mask.

  There was a shout. Then his two friends were on her.

  Juliet didn’t have to kill them. She didn’t want to. But they were coming at her with swords and death in their eyes, and her body had learned every lesson of the past months too well. It wasn’t the seals on her back that sent her sword lashing out; it was simple instinct, muscle and bone.

  The end was just the same. Moments later, they were on the ground. One was already dead; the other was gasping and whimpering as he bled out.

  Juliet couldn’t breathe. Her knees gave out, and she sank to the ground.

  They made me this, they made me this, Runajo made me this—

  It didn’t matter whose fault it was. The men were still just as dead.

  Except the one who was still dying. Juliet forced herself to crawl to him. Through the slits in his mask, she could see his eyes focus on her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  He made a choking noise; his eyes were glazing over, and she wasn’t sure how much he understood. One hand flailed, as if trying to strike her. She caught it, and then his hand squeezed hers, as he shuddered in pain.

  She tried to remember the prayers for the dying.

  “Go—go swiftly and in gladness,” she said. Her voice was only a tiny whisper, but it felt like it was wrecking her throat. “Forget not thy name, in all the dark places—”

  The man groaned.

  “—forget not those who have walked before thee. Heed not the nameless, who crawl and weep, but carry thy name to the Paths of Light.”

  He was silent. His hand was limp in hers. She gently laid it down.

  Slowly, she got to her feet. Her body dragged with exhaustion, but she knew she couldn’t rest. Three Catresou breaking into Lord Ineo’s ho
me. Were they the only ones?

  Farther down the corridor, she saw the body of the person they had killed. Slowly, she walked toward it: not a guard, but a servant. An old woman, with gray in her hair. She didn’t have any weapons. She couldn’t have hurt them, and for a moment Juliet felt sheer rage at the men she had killed. There was nothing around here except storerooms and sleeping people; they had come here for no reason but slaughter, to kill those who couldn’t defend themselves—

  Or they had come to cause a distraction, while their friends attempted to free the prisoners at the other end of the complex.

  Juliet knew she could feel someone acquire blood guilt from that far away, even if the pull to avenge wouldn’t be as strong at that distance. But she’d felt nothing. So there weren’t any other intruders—or they hadn’t yet shed Mahyanai blood.

  Which meant she had a chance to help her people.

  Juliet fled. The guards would arrive any moment, and there would be questions that she couldn’t afford to be asked yet. She couldn’t afford the slightest chance that Runajo would be with them, because then she would be given orders again.

  As soon as she got out in the open, she clambered up onto the roof and charged straight across the compound. The night wind blew in her face. Her heart pounded against her ribs.

  Runajo had ordered her not to release the prisoners or assist them in escaping. But Juliet was not going to do that. She was going to save the lives of the Mahyanai guards, and then she was going to fight the Catresou intruders.

  Side effects of those actions were not her concern. At least, not enough to awaken the magic written on her back.

  Runajo had thought she’d been careful with her commands. But she hadn’t lived her whole life under obedience. She didn’t really understand how to think about these things.

  Juliet went more carefully as she got closer. She slipped down off the roofs and into the corridors again. She paused and listened: silence.

  Most of the Catresou prisoners had been locked up by the City Guard. It was only those of interest to Lord Ineo, or those who had been deemed too old or too young for common prison, who were kept here.

  So there were only a few guards.

  Most of her training had been with the sword. But Juliet had studied unarmed combat as well. She knew how to choke someone unconscious.

  The trick was doing it without the person seeing her.

  The first guard went down easily. The next nearly saw her, and then nearly broke loose from her grip. She managed to slam Juliet against the wall before she went limp.

  The noise brought the third guard running.

  Juliet ducked back around the corner just in time to avoid being seen. She heard the steps pause, a soft exclamation—the guard was checking his fallen friend—and she darted forward.

  Speed was her only hope. As he looked up, she slapped him across the eyes to blind him, and then she was safely behind him and getting a grip on his neck.

  Then he was down.

  Juliet stood, panting for breath. She had done it. All the guards were unconscious, which meant they were safe, which meant she could fight the intruders without any Mahyanai getting hurt.

  In complete obedience to her orders.

  And there were the footsteps of the approaching Catresou.

  She drew her sword. She told her heart not to break. And she went to meet them.

  There were three, all men, all wearing Catresou masks. When they saw her, they stopped dead. Two raised their swords.

  Juliet didn’t.

  “You know how fast I can kill you,” she said. “But I don’t have to. None of you have shed Mahyanai blood yet.”

  For the first time in weeks, she was terribly aware of her naked face, and she tried to make it into a mask. Tried to ignore how the words hurt in her throat.

  “But if you come forward,” she went on, “I will have to fight you. I’m under orders.”

  The tallest of them—a pale-haired man, the oldest of the group and also clearly the leader—sighed.

  “Well,” he said, “we have orders too, Lady Juliet.”

  His voice was soft, almost polite, but the words burned like hot iron.

  Her fingers tightened on the sword hilt. “The guards are unconscious.”

  One of the others—a boy, probably no older than her—sneered. “You want us to think you’re helping?”

  “I was protecting them,” said Juliet. “I can’t aid you. If one of you comes forward, I will have to fight him. But I haven’t been ordered to win.”

  7

  SHE WAS FIRE AND DEATH and starlight. She was all the glory and all the terror in the world.

  She was Juliet, and she was no longer his.

  “The guards already found one of your squads,” she said. “You don’t have much time.”

  Romeo stared at her, this girl who had been so many times betrayed, and who was still trying to save everyone. He wanted more than anything else in the world to tear off his mask and say how much he loved her, that he would do anything to save her.

  But he couldn’t save her. And she no longer wanted his love. If she knew that he now served the Master Necromancer, she would surely want him to die.

  All he could do for her now was fight for her people. And tonight that meant fighting her.

  He didn’t know if Gavarin would consent to the plan. He didn’t dare ask for permission, because if Juliet heard his voice, she would certainly know. So he drew his sword and charged.

  Her blade met his. For a moment they were caught, barely a stride apart, nothing between them but two swords and one mask.

  Two swords. One mask. Two clans, two vows, and a river of blood.

  Juliet broke the standoff, shoving his blade aside and dodging back. Romeo followed. She kept up a steady retreat, blocking his strikes but not returning them, until they were outside in one of the courtyards.

  Then she attacked.

  They had never crossed swords before. But they had met across the sword: on the Night of Ghosts, when she had performed the sword dance before her assembled people, and Romeo—wearing a mask for the first time—had caught the blade when she flung it up in the air, and danced with her.

  They had danced, and when it was over, his heart, which had been hers, was twice hers. Perhaps in that dance, this duel had become inevitable.

  That dance had been a game: sheer joy and delight, shared between enemies. For all that Juliet wasn’t trying to win, this duel was no game. Her face—when stray lamplight fell on it—was grim. Romeo could see the grief and fury in every movement that she took, as she drove him back through the complex—she was drawing him away from the others, he realized, so that if they were seen, they would be a distraction from the raid. It meant he was more likely to be captured, but it also made the Catresou more likely to escape.

  He didn’t mind that.

  He thought he could make it better.

  The next time she lunged, he ducked backward, jumped up onto a low stone wall, and then hauled himself onto the roof. He turned to her, extending his blade in silent invitation.

  She grinned.

  And Romeo’s heart broke. Because that was the joy he remembered, the ferocious delight that had been in her eyes, in her hands upon the sword, the first night they had danced.

  He could only give it to her now in battle and deceit.

  She followed him onto the roof. Now the alarm was beginning to spread. Vaguely, Romeo could hear shouts and clatter below. But he couldn’t afford to pay attention, and it hardly seemed to matter.

  Because the duel was still not a game, but it was starting to be a delight. Up here on the roofs, alone with the wind and the stars and Juliet—it felt like those moments they had once stolen together, just the two of them, creating their own secret world where love was possible and duty would not betray them.

  Romeo’s arms burned with exhaustion; he knew his strokes were becoming slower and clumsier every moment. If this had been a fight to the death, by now Juliet
would certainly have killed him.

  But when he stumbled back, gasping for breath—when he stumbled, and started to slip off the roof—

  She caught his flailing hand and pulled him up.

  Her grip was warm and strong as he remembered, and when his feet were back under him, she didn’t let go. She stared at him, her eyebrows drawn together, her lips half parted, and he knew she almost recognized him.

  The world halted.

  Nothing moved, nothing mattered, nothing except that she was looking at him and wanting to know him, and Juliet, Juliet, Juliet—

  He thought, I cannot stay silent, and he opened his mouth.

  Then she let go. All the life and wonder drained from her face, leaving it like a mask.

  “I am summoned,” she said.

  For a moment Romeo didn’t understand, because there was nobody there, they were still alone beneath the stars—

  “I will have orders to kill you soon,” she said, and turned away from him, and that was when he remembered that Juliet had a Guardian now, who could call her mind to mind.

  Romeo had heard the stories from Justiran: that Lord Ineo had leashed the Juliet to a Mahyanai girl who was not only an orphan, but a disgraced former Sister. People called it a clever move on Lord Ineo’s part, to choose a Guardian who owed him everything.

  Romeo knew that Guardian had to be Runajo. Before Makari came to tutor him, she was the closest thing Romeo had to a friend. For years after, he had thought he was in love with her.

  He’d been wrong about that. But one thing Romeo didn’t doubt even now: Runajo was the last person in the world to obey Lord Ineo without question, no matter how much she owed him.

  And Juliet had chosen to stay with her, when she could have asked Romeo for help.

  So he watched Juliet go. He watched, and did not follow, because he no longer had any right to do more.

  Juliet raced across the rooftops. Runajo’s call still echoed in her head: Get here at once, surrounded by a flicker of images—a hallway, a door.

  That was all. But there had been fear in Runajo’s voice—Runajo, who hadn’t spoken into Juliet’s mind since she betrayed her. It was the only mercy she had shown her. If Runajo was desperate enough now—