Makari rounded on him. “That’s not my name anymore.”
“I know you’re angry at this whole world,” said Justiran, his voice still gentle. “You have every right to be. But do you think she would want this?”
Makari laughed. “Oh, I know she does. She told me so.”
Justiran shook his head. “My dear boy—”
“I don’t mean in my dreams or any such idiocy. Your daughter’s alive. I have her.”
“That’s—not possible.” Justiran sounded shaken.
“Oh, yes, it is. Do you know where she’s been, these past hundred years? Locked up in a Catresou laboratory.” Makari stepped closer, smiling viciously. “I leave it to your imagination, what your own people did to her.”
Justiran buried his face in his hands.
“You’re coming with me,” said Makari. “Now. Tonight. I want you to make your apologies to her before the end.”
“Here’s an idea,” said Vai. “Don’t.”
Justiran was very pale. “I have to,” he said. “If she’s there—I have to go.”
“This is your amends?” said Runajo. “Submitting to the enemy?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “She’s my daughter.”
Makari grinned at Runajo. “Tell the Juliet, go wait by the face of Xinaad. The little King of Cats can show her if she doesn’t know the way. Remember: this evening, or a living dead Romeo comes looking for her.”
The door slammed shut.
I release you from my orders, Runajo said silently. You can come down now.
Juliet was down the stairs in a moment. “What happened?”
In a few words, they told her.
“You can’t go,” said Runajo, when they had finished.
Juliet turned. “Can’t I?”
Runajo’s heart jumped as she thought her words over, reversed them—and then she relaxed as she realized that they were not an order. Juliet was not staring at her with a face like a mask because she was under compulsion.
She was remembering the last time that Runajo had tried to save her life.
Runajo swallowed, feeling a hundred possible, half-formed speeches in her throat like broken glass.
“It’s your business if you want to die,” she said carefully. “But he said that he needed you. Whatever he’s going to use you for—”
“Do you not know?” Vai demanded.
“I’ve been captive to the Mahyanai for the past month,” said Juliet. “I was a little busy learning their purposes.”
Vai made a sound of disgust in his throat. “You never got Romeo’s letter, did you?”
Runajo felt a sudden flash of grief from Juliet, quickly stifled, but she still caught a glimpse of Romeo with a bloody sword in his hand.
“No,” said Juliet.
“He asked me to deliver it for him, and then he vanished before he gave it to me. He must have given up on sending it. If we get him back, I suppose we can ask him why he was such a fool.” Vai crossed his arms. “I should have just gone to tell you myself, because it’s important enough. The Master Necromancer got the Catresou to tamper with the invocations they wrote on your skin. You’re not just the Juliet, you’re the key to the gates of death. You were his first plan to destroy the city walls.”
Juliet is the key.
The thought stole Runajo’s breath away. It felt outlandish, but as she unraveled it in her head, everything made sense. Makari couldn’t have planned to be killed by Tybalt in a duel, so he hadn’t planned to be a ghost in the Cloister. He might not have even known that Vima’s key existed until he was there, working the blood-magic to resurrect himself. So he must have decided to make his own key.
When Juliet had tried to make Romeo her Guardian, the ceremony had gone wrong, and the land of the dead had opened around them.
Everything made sense.
And if Juliet was the key . . . the Mouth of Death was dry. It still might be too late for them to find Death and bargain with her. But at least they might have a chance.
If Makari didn’t destroy Viyara tonight.
“You can’t go to him,” she said, looking at Juliet. “If you ever meant anything about protecting people, you can’t let him use you this way.”
“She’s got a point,” said Vai. “I’d rather not see the city destroyed, especially after I went to such trouble saving it a month ago.”
“I’m going to Makari tonight,” said Juliet.
“But—” Runajo started.
“You’re forgetting the same thing that he’s forgetting,” said Juliet. “He said to come alone.”
And that’s impossible for me, she added silently.
Runajo’s heart jumped. Even now—when she knew that Juliet could never forgive her—when there was so much danger waiting for them—she heard Juliet’s words and her first thought was She trusts me, with a dizzy thrill of excitement that slid all the way down her spine.
“I’ll tell you where he takes me, and you’ll follow,” Juliet went on out loud, and then looked at Vai. “Do you know about—”
“Oh, yes, we used that trick with Paris and Romeo,” said Vai.
“Romeo?” Juliet echoed.
“Right,” said Vai, “you don’t know anything. What you and Romeo did at the sepulcher? It bound him and Paris together, the same way you’re bound to that Mahyanai girl. Very convenient for using Romeo as a lookout while we broke into the Lord Catresou’s study. Less convenient when it made the pair of them act like idiots protecting each other, which was always.” He let out a huff of air. “And yes, I will help you destroy Makari and save Romeo. On one condition.”
“Name it,” said Juliet.
Vai had been slouching back, hands against the table, but now he straightened. “I get to kill Paris.”
“Why?” asked Juliet.
“Because he was my friend,” said Vai. “And he died because he saw Makari, and thought he was only a slave, and tried to free him for Romeo’s sake. I don’t know exactly how Romeo got captured, but I would bet anything that he went after Paris. Even though I told him not to.” Vai’s mouth twisted. “I’m ending it. I’m killing him. I won’t let anyone stand in my way.”
“You don’t want to save him?” said Juliet.
“I know the living dead.” Vai’s teeth flashed in a bitter smile. “My brother was one. He slaughtered my family until I killed him. The living dead have no will but that of the necromancers who made them. There’s no way to save them except to kill them. Romeo didn’t understand that, but I thought you might. Wouldn’t you have rather died than slaughter your people?”
Runajo felt the raw surge of pain in Juliet’s mind, and it drove her forward a step, fists clenching with fury that this boy would dare throw that in Juliet’s face.
Juliet held up a hand. No, she said silently.
To Vai, she replied, “Yes. But little though I knew him, Paris is the only one of my kin who never betrayed me.”
“You won’t be party to his death,” said Vai. “You just won’t be flinging yourself in front of my sword, as I’m sure Romeo would have tried to do. Because you never knew him, did you? So you can’t be that desperate to save him.”
“No,” said Juliet. “He was nothing to me. But he is my kin, and he never betrayed me. And I do not want to destroy anything that is dear to Romeo.”
Her face was calm, her voice serene. But Runajo could feel the rage and grief beneath the surface, leaking through the wall between their minds, and she felt rage herself. Because Juliet had already been forced too often to accept death and murder, at her own hands or someone else’s, and it was Runajo’s fault. It was the fault of all Viyara. And yet there was no one to punish, no one to give recompense, and she wanted to change it.
“But you’re right,” said Juliet. “I know what it means, to be under orders. So I will not stop you.”
And in a heartbeat, Runajo remembered the ancient record she had read: the Juliet whose Guardian had betrayed the clan, and whom they had tried to save by giving another Guardi
an—
“I have an idea,” she said.
Juliet and Vai both turned to her.
“I’ve spent a lot of time reading records stolen from the Catresou,” she said. “There was one record—a Juliet whose Guardian betrayed the clan and fled. They tried to free her from his orders by giving her another Guardian, but it didn’t work, because he didn’t have a Juliet of his own to shelter him from the power of the bond. But I have you. If I write the sacred word on Paris and make him mine—I might survive it. And I might set him free of Makari.” She drew a breath. “But I know that bond is sacred to your people. And I don’t know if it would be worse than death for him. So tell me: Should I try?”
Juliet looked at her. It felt like it went on forever, the moment that she looked at her.
Finally she said, “Romeo wants him to live. And I give my permission. So if you think you can, then try.”
20
“PLEASE,” SAID ROMEO. “MAKARI LOVES you. Can’t you make him listen?”
The Little Lady stared at him, her blue eyes expressionless, and the back of Romeo’s neck prickled with unease.
Makari had summoned Romeo to eat breakfast with him and the Little Lady—he still wouldn’t give a straight answer on her name—and then he had left them together, guarded not by Paris but by another of the living dead: a man with receding gray hair and a potbelly who had still lunged as fast as a whip when Romeo tried to get to the door. There was a bruise on his arm where the man had grabbed him.
So for hours, there had been nothing for Romeo to do but sit at the breakfast table, stare at the wall and the empty teacups, and try to coax the Little Lady into talking.
“He’s going to destroy the world,” he said. “Is that what you want?”
Her head tilted just a fraction. She stared at him still. And then she said, quietly and distinctly, “I want to die.”
And Romeo couldn’t speak, because in that soft voice was all the despair of the dying world, and he understood why Makari was willing to tear all things apart for her.
He understood. But—
“I know a girl who was also captive to the Catresou,” he said. “They took away her name before she ever had a chance to know it. They tried to take her heart away as well, and she won it back with so much courage. And then she lost everything. Because of me, because I thought I could help her but I made everything worse.
“I know that I have to die soon. I’m ready to face it. But this girl, no matter how she was wronged, she never stopped loving the world that had wronged her. I just want her to have a chance to live in that world.” He swallowed, the grief an ache in her throat. “She’ll have to live in that world without me. But she’s stronger than me. She can do it.”
The Little Lady looked at him, her forehead creasing slightly, and he waited, but she did not reply.
“If we’re going to die together,” he said finally, “then please, at least tell me . . . what’s your name?”
She started to open her mouth—
And the door slammed open, and Makari strode in.
“I have a wonderful surprise for you,” he said, smiling at Romeo.
It was a familiar smile. Romeo could remember exactly how delighted he’d once been whenever Makari smiled at him, and he felt sick.
“Are you going to let me go?” he asked.
“Obviously not. No, your true love’s coming here. Everything ends tonight.”
“Juliet?” Romeo was on his feet in a moment. “No—please, you can’t—”
Makari paused to tilt the Little Lady’s chin up and give her a kiss. Then he looked back at Romeo and said, “I definitely can. If she loves you as much as you think, that is. I told her what would happen to you if she didn’t come.”
“It won’t work,” Romeo said desperately. “I’ve got blood guilt, she has to kill me as soon as she sees me, and then she’ll be free to kill you.”
“That’s why you’re getting locked up in the attic. Paris, take him.”
Paris stepped in the door, his face as terribly blank as ever, and seized Romeo’s arm in a grip like steel.
“Don’t worry, you’ll have the Juliet in your arms soon enough,” Makari went on. “Once she’s under my control, she won’t be able to hurt anyone unless I will it.”
“Please,” said Romeo. “You can’t really want this. Don’t you remember—”
The slap across his face left his head ringing for a moment.
“I remember,” Makari said quietly, “things you cannot imagine.”
And for a moment he did not look like Romeo’s tutor at all, but an ancient, furious undead thing that had cast the world into ruin and would ruin it further still.
Then he sighed, and said to Paris, “Take him upstairs, lock him up. And do kill him if he tries to escape.”
She’s coming here because of me, Romeo thought, sick with terror. Because of me.
He wanted to believe it was a trick, that Juliet would never throw her life away because of him. That Runajo would never let her. But he knew how brave Juliet was, and how kind, and in all honesty, he had never truly understood Runajo. And Makari had been so sure.
What it all came down to was this: Romeo should have died already. He should have died long ago, and then none of this would have happened—but if he had at least died at the sepulcher, or on Juliet’s sword when she unmasked him, then he wouldn’t be causing this disaster now.
Romeo glanced uneasily at the window. The narrow, dusty attic had only one; the shutters hung open, letting in a wide shaft of golden, late-afternoon sunlight.
He was at the very top of the building. If he jumped from there, he would die.
His stomach lurched at the thought. He could face that death, if he had to—but it wouldn’t really help Juliet, would it? Unless she happened to be in the street at the very moment he jumped, she wouldn’t know he was dead, so Makari would be able to continue threatening her.
Romeo had to escape. And then either he had to stop Makari, or . . . he had to find Juliet and die at her hands, so that she could stop Makari.
She might never forgive him for that. But he didn’t mind that, if only she would be all right, and the rest of Viyara.
So he had to get out. Now.
He looked at Paris, who stood by the door of the attic, watching him without blinking.
Kill him if he tries to escape, Makari had said.
“This room is a terrible mess,” said Romeo. “I’m going to organize it, for Makari’s sake. So it can be the kind of attic he deserves.” He smiled at Paris. “Will you help?”
He kept smiling as he waited anxiously. The lie would have fooled nobody alive, but Makari had said again and again that the living dead had little wits left—
“For my master’s sake?” Paris said slowly.
“Yes!” Romeo declared, his heart jumping as he realized this plan might work. “Don’t you think he would be happy to come back and see it set to rights?”
Without waiting, he leaned over and started shoving at the boxes. He had no idea what was in them or what he was doing, but it didn’t matter: the important thing was to get Paris away from the door.
If he asked Paris to come over and help him, would he say yes? Romeo was right next to the window; with surprise on his side and a lot of luck, he might be able to push Paris out. The fall wouldn’t kill him, and that would definitely give Romeo time to run.
Then the box Romeo was lifting slid out of his grip, and it fell open.
Inside was a sword.
A shiver of excitement ran up his spine. If he had a sword, then—well, he would still probably have to die tonight, but he might be able to take Makari with him.
He looked up again, and saw that while Paris had barely moved from the door, he had leaned over to poke at a pile of clutter.
There might not be another chance.
Romeo laid his hand on the sword hilt. Took a breath. Then grasped it, and bolted for the window.
He’d already gotten
plenty of practice in climbing houses with a sword. He was out the window and hauling himself up onto the rooftop in moments.
But Paris was even faster than he’d thought. Romeo was barely on his feet when Paris clambered up behind him. If it hadn’t been for that month fighting in the alleys of the Lower City, Romeo might not have gotten his sword up in time.
“Don’t—” he started, and then Paris attacked.
Romeo had never dueled Paris when he was alive, but he’d watched him fight Vai, and he’d seen snippets of his training in his memories. He knew that Paris was not a terrible swordsman, but not particularly good either.
Now . . . his technique was barely better. But he moved with such speed and strength that Romeo could barely keep up. He was driven back, slowly, across the rooftop—and he was still trying not to actually strike Paris, but it was gradually dawning on him that Paris would not tire. He could spend all night wearing him down, while Juliet died below.
He had to stop Paris.
That meant truly fighting him.
Romeo lunged. This time his blade slid past Paris’s guard and stabbed straight between his ribs—
And Romeo knew this feeling, the exact way that flesh resisted steel and then gave way, and the scrape of the blade against bone. It was just like Tybalt, just like the Mahyanai he had killed, but this was Paris, and even though Romeo knew he hadn’t struck close to Paris’s heart, the horror of what he was doing rolled over him in a wave and choked him. Stilled him.
For a moment, they stared at each other.
Then, quite calmly, Paris reached down with his bare hand and pulled the black-smeared blade out of his side.
He tried to hold on to the sword, but Romeo jerked it free and staggered back. Not without slicing open Paris’s palm: he saw the black blood dribbling onto the rooftop.
His stomach turned over with nausea. He tried to raise his sword, to ready for the attack, but his hands were trembling.
Paris was living dead. Romeo could practically slice him into pieces, and so long as he didn’t cut off his head or stab him through the heart, he would live. He would never flinch either, and maybe that meant he wouldn’t feel pain—but as Romeo stared at his blood, as he remembered how the blade had felt going in, it didn’t matter how little it might hurt. It didn’t matter if there was nothing left in Paris’s head of the boy who had been Romeo’s friend.
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