Bright Smoke, Cold Fire

by Rosamund Hodge

  And maybe he had, because Justiran nodded. “I see,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” said Paris, but inside he was seething again, because what right did a renouncer have, to sound grieved over the death of the Juliet?

  “Lord Catresou is working with necromancers,” Romeo blurted out. Hearing the words aloud made Paris’s heart jolt in his chest.

  Paris looked Justiran in the eye. “And we know for a fact that he is acting in secret against the will of the clan. That’s why we didn’t go to the City Guard. They’d never believe it wasn’t all of us without proof.”

  Justiran nodded. “Sit down,” he said. “Tell me the rest.”

  Paris wasn’t sure if he’d ever been more uncomfortable at a table. Justiran brought out tea and corn cakes, but neither of them ate anything. Romeo was obviously too wrapped up in his grief, while Paris was far too aware that he was the only Catresou among enemies.

  To make things worse, Justiran kept looking at Paris with an expression that was probably meant to be gentle and comforting, but was only infuriating. He wasn’t a child. He was quite aware of what Lord Catresou had done. And he was capable of bearing the knowledge without betraying his clan and zoura itself, unlike some people at the table.

  But when he tried to say the words—words that any renouncer would enjoy hearing so very much—they stuck in his throat.

  So it was Romeo who ended up telling most of the story, and Paris only broke in occasionally to add clarifications. (She was not a slave. She was not truly married. He hadn’t wanted to drag her back; he had wanted to persuade her to come willingly, so that her father would show her mercy.)

  “Perhaps it is a good thing you failed,” said Justiran.

  “A good thing she’s dead?” Paris demanded.

  Romeo didn’t say anything, but his breath stuttered, and Paris could feel his ragged, oozing misery.

  “I can guess what sort of mercy she’d have gotten from her father,” said Justiran. “I doubt she’d be alive now anyway.”

  “What would you know of Lord Catresou?” said Paris without thinking. Justiran just looked at him. And Lord Catresou truly was evil, and when Juliet had said as much, Paris hadn’t listened.

  Someone else should be avenging her. Somebody who wasn’t so stupid.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Romeo said dully, staring at the table. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t fought Tybalt—”

  For one brief moment, Paris caught a flash of memory: sunlight and the glint of steel. The smell of blood and the bitter, helpless taste of grief and rage.

  “You’re right,” Romeo went on, looking at Paris. “I did defile her, the moment I came to her with blood on my hands. I swear to you, I asked her to kill me then, but she was too kind. And now she is destroyed.”

  There were tears sliding down his face. Right there at the table, in front of both Paris and Justiran, he was crying like a child.

  “I shouldn’t have light in my eyes, I shouldn’t have breath in my mouth. But you’re her kin. You can set it right.”

  Paris wanted to flee, or at least cover his face in embarrassment. He had never seen anything like this outburst, and he would have thought it was a bid for pity except that he could feel raw grief rolling off Romeo in waves, and he knew that Romeo sincerely meant every desperate word.

  It was so strong, he could hardly think. With a last, violent effort, Paris managed to slam the wall back between them. Then he looked at Romeo and said the very first thing that came into his head.

  “You are completely useless. Who cares about your broken heart? We need a plan to bring Lord Catresou to justice.”

  Romeo stared at him, as if he couldn’t believe that anyone would still have a grasp of what was important.

  Paris plunged on, “We need to know what he had planned for the Juliet—what he’s doing with necromancers—but we can’t break into his house and spy on him. At least, I can’t. But he said that Tybalt had been doing something for them in the Lower City—”

  “I don’t care,” said Romeo, quietly but very distinctly. His eyes were wide, his mouth a flat line; he was no longer crying.

  “If we investigate Tybalt,” said Paris, “we might be able to find out—”

  “I already know about Tybalt,” said Romeo. “He was a brute who tried to kill me for marrying Juliet, who did kill my only friend, and who probably would have gone home and beaten Juliet if I hadn’t killed him after. I regret killing him. I would have let Juliet kill me in revenge. But I don’t regret him being dead.”

  “He would never have laid a hand on her,” Paris protested, but the words came out weak, because they knew that Tybalt had helped Lord Catresou work with necromancers.

  “I brought you here,” Romeo went on, terribly calm, “for Juliet’s sake. And for her sake, I won’t try to harm her family. But you can go on a quest to save them by yourself. I am done.”

  “Done?” said Paris. “I thought you wanted to avenge her. I thought you cared for her!”

  “Do you really want to avenge her?” Romeo demanded. “Or just exonerate your clan? What will you do if you have to choose?”

  As if Paris hadn’t already betrayed his family. As if he weren’t sitting at a table with a Mahyanai and a renouncer.

  “I don’t think—” Justiran began, finally speaking up—but Paris was not willing to hear any more of his gentle condescension.

  “Enough.” He shoved back his chair as he got to his feet. His heart was beating very fast. “I should have known better than to trust a Mahyanai and a renouncer. Sit here and cry like a coward if you want. I’m going to go get justice for the Juliet.”

  And before Justiran could stop him, he had shoved his way out of the house.

  11

  “WHO ARE YOU,” THE CATRESOU girl demanded, “and what have you done to me?”

  She had slammed Runajo to the ground. Now she crouched on top of Runajo, pressing the knife to her throat, just a fraction of pressure away from murder. One twitch of the girl’s hand would send Runajo’s blood flowing across the floor of the room she herself had created.

  She had expected to be afraid when she died, and the cold running down her body probably had something to do with fear, but it felt like calm.

  “I’m a Sister of Thorn,” she said, “and you used to be dead. You do remember being dead, don’t you?”

  The girl flinched.

  “Trying to kill me won’t get you any answers. It will just get you dead of starvation, because I’m the only one who can open the door to this room.”

  Abruptly, the girl scrambled off her. Runajo sat up, and now she could feel her heart beating, her fingers trembling. But she still didn’t feel exactly afraid. Apparently she was braver in the face of getting killed than she had expected, which would be useful in the Sunken Library.

  “Where are we?” the girl demanded. She was crouched a little over a pace away from Runajo—out of reach, but easily able to lunge forward and gut her with the knife.

  “In the Cloister,” said Runajo. “Why were you dead? Never mind that, why were you only almost dead?”

  The girl pressed her lips together. She had those exotic blue eyes that the Catresou were so proud of, and they were narrowed in suspicion.

  “At least tell me your name,” said Runajo.

  The girl recoiled as if the question were a hot iron, but she still answered immediately, all in one monotone breath: “I am the Juliet.” Then she grimaced and met Runajo’s eyes as she said, “I am the sword of the Catresou. Do what you will, you cannot break me.”

  Runajo knew she was staring, but all she could see was the memory of the girl standing at the Great Offering. Juliet had been stiff and solemn then, her face hidden behind an ivory filigree mask—and tiny with distance, like a little doll set out on display. Nothing like this furious, terrified girl crouched in front of her, hair in a tangle, who seemed an inch away from hissing like a cat.

  “I don’t want to break you,” said Runajo.
“I want to know what happened to you.”

  Juliet’s voice was toneless. “I died. That is all. Let me go.”

  “That can’t possibly be all,” said Runajo. “I was sitting vigil on the dead souls, and believe me, you were a good deal more living than they were, if not entirely alive. I pulled you out. That shouldn’t be possible. How did you die?”

  Juliet’s mouth twisted.

  “Tell me how you died,” said Runajo.

  The words snapped out of Juliet in short, sharp bursts. “It was my fault. I tried to make Romeo my Guardian. The magic went wrong. I do not know why. He is dead now, and I do not know why. It was my fault.” Then she pressed a fist to her mouth, as if to stop the words.

  It took Runajo a moment to understand what Juliet had said.

  “Romeo?” she demanded. “Do you mean Mahyanai Romeo? Son of Lord Ineo?”

  Juliet stared at her for a few moments with a flat, impenetrable expression. Then she said, “He is my husband.”

  It had to be a lie. Romeo was nine kinds of foolish—he’d more than proved that, in the years he’d spent trying to make Runajo fall in love with him—but he didn’t want to die, and he would never give his heart away to a Catresou girl . . . let alone the Catresou’s barely human attack dog.

  But then she remembered Romeo’s stubborn smile as he befriended her when they were both just children. How long he had kept visiting her, even after everyone knew her house was filled with sickness. How much he loved a challenge, how many times he had sworn that he loved her, and how stubbornly—in defiance of all evidence—he had believed she had a soft heart hidden away.

  She looked at Juliet’s pretty face and grim expression, and she realized that actually, falling in love with Juliet Catresou was exactly the sort of thing Romeo would do.

  And then she thought, Romeo is dead.

  She didn’t mourn him. She couldn’t. She had renounced him along with all the world, and she had been happy at the thought that she might never see him again, and it was not possible to miss what you didn’t have.

  But she did regret that he was dead. That was all this cold, hollow ache inside her chest could be. Simple regret that he’d thrown his heart at this girl and gotten killed for it.

  Juliet said, “What’s on your hand?”

  Runajo raised her hand, palm out. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  Juliet stared at her, dark eyes wide. “I am going to kill you,” she said, standing. “I am going to kill you all.” And this time Runajo could see that she wasn’t just angry, she was drawing herself up for action. As if the sign on Runajo’s hand was terrible enough to tip her back into violence.

  And suddenly everything made horrifying sense. Juliet had been trying to make Romeo her Guardian, and the magic had gone wrong. She had stopped trying to cut Runajo’s throat when she told her to. The same mark was on both their hands.

  “I order you not to kill me.” The words snapped out of her mouth. “Or kill any of the Sisters. Or try to escape my orders. Or kill yourself. Or maim yourself. Or provoke anyone into killing you.”

  Juliet swayed slightly on her toes. Her face was expressionless.

  Then she dropped gracefully into a deep obeisance, knees and hands to the floor.

  “Does my mistress have any other orders?” she said, and Runajo couldn’t help grinning at the perfectly modulated sarcasm even as her stomach churned with disgust. Because Juliet was her slave now. Runajo hadn’t tried to become her Guardian, hadn’t had a choice about giving her orders, but it didn’t matter. She still had absolute power over her.

  If she didn’t set this right, she would be as bad as the Catresou.

  “Sit up,” said Runajo. “I have no interest in owning you.”

  Juliet sat up. “My clan will not negotiate to save me from death or torment.” She recited the words coldly, precisely, as if they were made of metal. “I am the sword of the Catresou. I was meant to be broken before I betrayed them.”

  Runajo rolled her eyes. “Stop pretending you’re in the middle of a war. Nobody cares enough to destroy you, and also, none of us are oath-breakers who would violate the Accords. Not to mention that it’s much more useful to keep your clan alive and having babies who can grow up to shed blood.”

  Juliet stared back at her expressionlessly. Of course it was no use talking sense to her. The Catresou trained all their children to believe the entire city hated them; it made it easier for them to hate the entire city. No doubt their precious Juliet had been more thoroughly indoctrinated than anyone.

  “Do you know what happened when you died?” asked Runajo.

  “No,” said Juliet, her shoulders slumping slightly. “We did everything right. And if we hadn’t—we should have died, but not like that. The dark lands appeared around us while we still breathed.” Her fists clenched. “That should be impossible.”

  “Then I will find out why.” Runajo stood. “Stay here. I’ll bring you food.”

  “As you wish,” said Juliet, with a meekness that was clearly meant to cut like a knife. “Mistress.”

  12

  SO FOR THE NEXT FEW days, Runajo had a pet Catresou.

  It was uniquely awful.

  Stealing food and water and smuggling them to Juliet was bad enough. So too was trying to get answers from her—it didn’t seem right, ordering her to respond whenever Runajo wanted her to speak, but if she wasn’t ordered, she wouldn’t say a thing. She would only glare silently at Runajo as she ran through what looked like fighting forms. Probably she was practicing for how she would slaughter all the Sisters of Thorn, the moment she slipped Runajo’s control.

  Runajo could be killing everybody in the Cloister just by keeping her alive. If she had been truly dead. If Runajo had, however unwittingly, performed necromancy.

  The question nagged at her constantly. But she couldn’t ask anyone for advice, because if the Sisters knew what she had done, they would never allow her into the Sunken Library.

  If she had any chance to begin with. As each day passed, Runajo was less sure. The High Priestess didn’t let her do anything different now that she was an actual Sister of Thorn. She slept in her own cell, instead of in the dormitory with the other novices. She sat with the other Sisters at meals. But she was given no chance to study previous attempts to enter the library. For two days, they drilled her on her new part in the prayers and chants; on the third day, they sent her straight back to the weaving room where she had worked before.

  Three floors below her, in the heart of the Cloister, the raw material of the city walls continuously gushed from the sacred stone and flowed up through the pipeline that formed the Cloister’s spine. Here, in the weaving room, the hundred-year-old spells performed the first refinements on the pillar of flowing light, splitting it into twenty-eight glowing strands and weaving them back together into the pillar that—very far above—would spread out into the vast dome that protected the city.

  Not without guidance, though. There must always be three Sisters or advanced novices to shape the flow of power. So when Runajo went back to the weaving room, she found Sunjai and Inyaan waiting for her just like always.

  “All hail the noble and wise Sister of Thorn,” said Sunjai, flashing her a big smile. “I’m glad you got yourself back in one piece.”

  Runajo rolled her eyes as she knelt to take her place. “Nobody’s around, you don’t have to pretend.”

  “Maybe I actually like you,” said Sunjai, which was the most bald-faced lie Runajo had heard since her mother had said everything will be all right.

  From the corner of the room, Inyaan glared at Runajo and then looked away without bothering to say a word. She had never bothered pretending to like anyone.

  It didn’t matter. Runajo was not in this room or the Cloister to make friends.

  She hooked each of her fingers around a glowing strand and pulled. Light danced around her hands.

  Weaving was not the same as tasting the wall up above. No glimpses of the ancient lore flickered thr
ough Runajo’s head. There was not the same frustrated bliss of feeling infinite knowledge beneath her tongue and beyond her grasp. But the light was alive in her hands; its song hummed through her skin and into her bones. At every moment it tugged against her grip, dancing with her fingers and resisting them at the same time. And at every moment, she shaped it to her will.

  In the weaving room, she was never silent. The wall became her words. It was joy and it was freedom, and it could almost make her forget that she hadn’t yet gotten into the Sunken Library. That she had become a Sister, and it wasn’t enough.

  On the other side of the room, Sunjai did the same with her half of the strands, while Inyaan pressed her palms to the glyphs inlaid on the floor and controlled the flow. After Runajo, they were the best of all the novices at weaving. When neither of them was speaking, she was grateful to be working with them.

  The problem was that Sunjai almost never shut up.

  “Or maybe I’m just glad you didn’t succeed in killing yourself,” she said now. “And impressed. How did you make that tattoo?”

  Light trembled in Runajo’s hands, even though there was no way anyone could guess what the sign on her hand meant. The Catresou fiercely guarded the sacred words they used to work magic; nobody in the Cloister could have seen the mark before.

  “The novices are all wild about it,” Sunjai went on. “Some of them even believe the gods gave it to you.” She looked at Runajo from under her eyelashes. “I didn’t disillusion them.”

  “Because you love me so very much,” said Runajo, yanking the strands of light back into order. Usually Sunjai just chattered about the other novices or teased her about Romeo. She didn’t trust this . . . directness.

  “Mm,” said Sunjai. “And because I want you to remember me kindly, when you’re talking to Lord Ineo.”

  The words were so unexpected, it took Runajo a moment to respond. “Why would I talk to him?”

  “Why would he offend your family to get you in here?” said Sunjai. “Do you think the rest of us didn’t notice what he did for you?”

  And Runajo couldn’t think of a thing to say. She’d been relieved when Lord Ineo had allowed her to stay in the Cloister. She had never wondered why. It had just been so obvious that it was the right decision. But there was no reason for him to do it.