The summer sun was blazing and the air was a sodden weight. Even so, people from the Upper and Lower City thronged the court, chattering, laughing, singing, selling sweetmeats and trinkets. Only the three high houses were allowed to stand before the dais. At the center, of course, was the Exalted—a bored-looking young man who ruled the city on the strength of his supposedly divine blood. All around him stood the rest of the Old Viyaran nobility. They were a tall people, dark skinned wth white-gold hair, all of them resplendent in translucent white silks and gold chains.
To the right was Runajo’s own clan, the Mahyanai. They looked like a reverse of the Old Viyarans: fair skin, black hair, their silk robes a swirl of colors, their wide sashes heavily embroidered. Most of the men wore at their hips curving swords in lacquered black scabbards, while the women’s hair was piled atop their heads, wound about gold or silver headdresses.
At their center stood Lord Ineo, his harsh face solemn. Supposedly he ruled the city in all but name, since the Exalted was too lost in his own pleasures to care. For this, the Mahyanai adored him.
Runajo could never decide if she hated Lord Ineo or not. He was Romeo’s father—and no matter how insufferable Romeo could be sometimes, when she thought of how Lord Ineo ignored him, she could happily spit on her clan’s beloved leader. But when her family petitioned Lord Ineo to drag her out of the Sisterhood, he had declared she had the right to sacrifice herself. He’d set her free.
To the left stood the Catresou in sullen ranks: still, dressed in black, and dead silent. Every one of them was masked, because they did not believe outsiders worthy to see their faces; at the center of the crowd stood Lord Catresou, robed and hooded in black velvet, his face completely covered in a mask of gold and rubies. Beside him—dressed in a simple red gown, her face half covered by an ivory filigree mask—stood the Juliet, the nameless girl who had been ensorcelled into being their mindless attack dog.
The Juliet was the pride of the Catresou. They didn’t realize what hypocrites they were, calling the Great Offering a cruel abomination when they were happy to enslave their own children.
Drums had started beating. At the center of the dais, a young Sister prostrated herself before the face of Ihom. The High Priestess knelt behind her with a silver knife; gently, reverently, she kissed each of the girl’s feet and then sliced a shallow line down the sole, from heel to toe.
The girl rose and began to dance, her body twirling and undulating in time to the drums, her bloody footprints spreading across the marble dais. Where her feet touched the marble, light blossomed in the stone, and the glowing patterns bent and shifted toward her. The city was eating up her bloody sacrifice.
The world was made from the blood of gods. The blood of men sustains it now. So said the Sisters of Thorn. Runajo did not believe in the gods, but she didn’t doubt the power of spilled blood.
Nobody in Viyara did.
A low note sounded from a horn. The girl paused, swaying on her feet. Runajo couldn’t help wincing at the trembling line of the girl’s mouth: the volunteers for sacrifice were drugged, but on such a solemn occasion, Sisters were expected to bear all their pain themselves.
The horn sounded again, and then all the people—Sisters, nobles, commoners, even the Catresou—prostrated themselves on the ground. Because this moment was in memory of all they had lost.
The horn sounded again, and they rose. Runajo blinked at the sudden dazzle of light—she had squeezed her eyes shut during the prostration—and when she could see properly again, the young man was being led out to the sacrifice. He was an Old Viyaran this time, which meant he was a volunteer, not one of the condemned criminals that the Catresou dragged out when it was their turn to provide the sacrifice. Golden chains dangled across his bare chest; he swayed slightly under all the drugs.
Runajo thought, If they don’t like my plan, then very soon that could be me.
They’d make me wear more clothes, though.
She wasn’t afraid. Not exactly. But her body felt terribly light and fragile. She was aware of her tiny, rapid heartbeat: the little flutter that kept her among the living and not the dead.
First the young man was brought to the Exalted, who laid hands on him and blessed him; then to Lord Ineo, who bowed gracefully to him; and last of all to Lord Catresou, who remained stiff and expressionless as a marionette as he placed a velvet-wrapped hand on the young man’s shoulder.
Then the Sister escorting the young man turned him around, toward the bloodstained center of the dais where the High Priestess waited. He wobbled on his feet, but gave her a huge, dreamy smile. Not every sacrifice died by the hand of the High Priestess herself.
Runajo’s stomach turned uneasily. This wasn’t the first sacrifice she had seen. Before the illness, her parents had taken her every year, starting when she was a little girl who barely understood the pageant unfolding before her.
But six months ago, she’d missed the Great Offering because she was ill and vomiting. This would be the first sacrifice she saw since she’d truly understood what death meant.
The cold emptiness was back in her chest, and her hands clenched into fists, because she couldn’t panic now. She couldn’t.
But as the young man knelt in front of the High Priestess, the feeling rolled over her in waves: a cold, absolute emptiness that left her drifting and hollow, watching the world from what felt like an immeasurable distance. She saw—in flashes—the High Priestess carve the sacred signs into the man’s skin and whisper the sacred words into his ears. But the splendor in front of her didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. She was going to die, and this bright bubble of a world would wink out, and there would be nothing left of her.
Trying to imagine it felt like choking. Her heart pounded—desperately, fleetingly alive.
Nothing. Not even silence. Nothing.
The High Priestess cradled the man’s head. The whole grand court was silent, still and breathless. Her knife flashed.
The man’s lifeblood poured out, the dais flashed with dazzling light, and a great shout went up from the crowd. Horns and flutes and drums and tambourines rang out, proclaiming that they would all live for another six months.
Runajo realized she was trembling. Her nails bit into her palms.
She was alive. Right now—just for now—she was alive. And she had a plan to carry out.
On the dais, several Sisters of Thorn danced around the body in languid movements of stylized grief and reverence. It was their teaching that those who died in sacrifice—or in dueling, or in childbirth—would go to feast with the dead gods, while those who died of sickness or age would serve them, forever less but not cast out into darkness like thieves and murderers and oath-breakers.
Runajo didn’t believe it. Not because of the ancient Mahyanai sages, who said that the gods were a delusion, and that the soul of man was like a candle that guttered in the wind and was gone forever. But because she had seen her mother and father lying dead. She had seen the terrible emptiness in their waxlike faces, and she knew that nothing was left of them in any world.
The High Priestess turned to the waiting ranks of the Sisters and beckoned.
It was time.
Seven of them walked forward: the newest of the novices, who had been with the Sisters only a year and never taken part in any solemn sacrifice before.
The ceremony was simple. They would kneel before the High Priestess, take the knife from her hands, and slice a single cut into their forearms. Their blood would mix with the blood of the sacrifice, signifying their willingness to pour out their lives serving the gods and protecting Viyara through magic that could only be bought in blood.
Inyaan went first, her face a haughty mask. But when she fell to her knees before the High Priestess and took the knife, her hands were shaking. Perhaps she was realizing that even the sister of the Exalted would someday die.
Sunjai went second, and kept her dimples all the way through, but that was hardly surprising. If she had any understanding of her own mo
rtality, Runajo had never seen it.
Then it was Runajo’s turn.
She walked forward, but it almost felt like floating. Her arms and legs were cold and numb.
This was the moment. This was the choice. If she carried out the ceremony correctly, it would be her first initiation. There would be seven more years before she became a full Sister.
She couldn’t bear waiting that long. To be silently obedient one day longer.
Her fingers wrapped around the handle of the knife. She looked at the blood, at the dead man’s gaping wound, at the crowd and the city, the far-off mountains already ruled by death and the blue sky above them.
She raised her left hand. She didn’t make the simple slice she was supposed to; she carved the circle of binding as she spoke the oath she was not meant to swear for another seven years: “By Ihom’s breath and Amat’s silence, I bind myself to the fate of thorns.”
It was a sacred and irrevocable vow. It was blasphemy to speak it before the High Priestess had declared her worthy. And Runajo had just done so in front of all of Viyara.
In the silence that followed, she thought, I hope they at least wait for my trial before they sacrifice me.
3
AT LAST HIS FATHER WAS going to come watch him duel.
Paris was in the practice yard before dawn, his arms burning as he ran through the parry he always stumbled on.
He knew he should still be sleeping. Weeks ago, he’d made a plan for this day, and it had included a sensible amount of sleep the night before, and only a brief warm-up in the morning, so that he would be in optimal condition to display his skills.
But no matter how carefully still he’d lain in bed, he couldn’t manage to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. He kept thinking of what exactly he would say to his father after he lost. He had worked out his speech weeks ago—had written it down, even, and then promptly burned the paper—but he couldn’t stop repeating it to himself, and wondering if there was a better way to say it.
It was a relief to give up on sleeping, get out of bed, and run down to the practice yard. He knew how Master Trelouno would attack: he would use all the techniques that Paris was worst at countering. That was how they trained every day, and the fact that Paris’s father was coming to inspect his progress would not make Master Trelouno go easy on him.
His rapier was shaking. With a gasp, Paris lowered the sword and staggered over to one of the benches at the edge of the practice yard.
The sun had just started to rise; light streaked the sky, though it hadn’t yet broken over the walls of the Academy. From outside, he could hear the clattering steps of a City Guard patrol—and there was the low note of a gong: they were bringing up bodies from the Lower City.
Paris grimaced and made the sign against defilement. The Guard was coming straight through the center of the Catresou compound, because they wanted to remind them what happened to people who defied the Viyaran laws about the proper disposal of dead bodies. Because they thought—like everyone else in the city—that the Catresou were only one step away from criminals who stole corpses and boiled them down to sell the bones on the black market.
As the sweat dried on his skin, he started to shiver in the early-morning chill. With a sigh, he stood and walked stiffly down the marble corridors to the mess room, where a few other students were already eating corn cakes and tea. Like Paris, they wore the uniform of the Academy: dark trousers, white shirt, and a red doublet, with a half face mask of plain cloth.
He sat by himself, as always. For once the solitude didn’t hurt: he needed to be alone, so he could go over the speech he would make after he lost the duel.
Everybody knew Paris was going to lose, because Master Trelouno always made the final exam as difficult as he could, and Paris was—as Master Trelouno liked to say—“perfectly adequate.”
No less, but no more.
So Paris was going to lose this duel, just like he would lose his official duel against Tybalt in two weeks. He would never be the Juliet’s Guardian.
That was all right. The Juliet was much, much more important to the Catresou than Paris would ever be. The spells laid upon her since birth let her sense anyone who had shed their clan’s blood and compelled her to avenge it. And the Accords drawn up between the Old Viyarans and the other two high houses gave her the right to exact that vengeance.
But she was more than their protector, or their guarantor of respect in a hostile city. She was their justice. While she lived, and carried a sword, they were free. She deserved to have the very best to guard and guide and treasure her.
But Paris didn’t want to be forced into the City Guard the way the other Academy failures were. He’d seen it happen to other boys. Some came home with broken ribs, flinching at every sudden noise. Some renounced the Catresou entirely, and bought an easy life by losing all chance to walk the Paths of Light after death.
Paris couldn’t bear either of those fates. But the only person who could save him was his father.
His speech had to be perfect.
Father, he thought. But no, that might sound impertinent. My lord Father. We both know I will never be Guardian.
Did that sound too defeatist? He knew his lack of ambition was a disappointment, but he would have just lost a duel. Father would not be in the mood for false bravado.
But it would dishonor our family if your only son was sent to the City Guard. You see that I have some skill with the sword. And Master Idraldi can tell you that I have read all the lore and history recorded about all the Juliets who ever lived. Surely it would be most honorable to our family—and most useful to our clan—if I were made Tybalt’s assistant. I could help him care for the Juliet. I could be useful.
I could be useful.
Possibly he should mention that there was precedent? The Juliet had once had an entire entourage: only one Guardian, but up to seven other men to fight beside her as she dealt out justice to all who shed Catresou blood.
But that was generations ago, before the Ruining and the flight to Viyara. Father had never cared much for tradition.
The city bells started tolling. It was time.
Paris didn’t run back to the practice yard. There were rules against running in the halls, and he wanted another moment to go over the plan in his head.
It was going to work. However disappointed his father was in Paris, he cared about the honor of their family, and it was shameful to send a son to the City Guard. Making him assistant to the Juliet’s Guardian was the perfect solution.
Paris realized he was nearly running, and he forced himself to slow down before he walked into the practice yard.
Master Trelouno was already there, wearing his customary black and the steel mask that stopped right at his nose so that his drooping red mustache and goatee would be visible.
Next to him stood Paris’s father.
Lutreo Mavarinn Catresou was one of the five lords of the Catresou; he wore the sleeveless red cloak of state at all times, along with his elaborate mask of black velvet and silver filigree. Paris had seen his bare face perhaps five times; going barefaced was a gesture of equality or affection, and his father held very few people in either.
Paris’s heart thudded as if he were already fighting, but he drew his rapier and saluted smoothly. “My lord Father.”
His father and Master Trelouno exchanged a look.
Something was wrong. Paris could feel it, and he tried desperately to think what he could possibly have done. He wasn’t late; the duel was supposed to be at the quarter bell, and it hadn’t rung yet. He knew he had saluted correctly, and he knew that here in the practice yard it was correct to salute.
What had he done?
They were looking at him now. They seemed to be waiting.
He took a step forward. “I am very honored—my lord Father—to show you what I have learned—”
He snapped his mouth shut. The words were so inane, he wanted to cringe. He was supposed to be saying something else. He was sup
posed to be doing something else, and he would happily do anything if they would just tell him—
His father heaved a deep sigh. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Oh,” said Paris.
For one dazed moment, he didn’t feel anything. It was like the time he had bungled a lunge particularly badly and smacked his forehead against the hilt of Master Trelouno’s rapier. Everything felt numb and ringing.
The next moment, he realized that he was less than a pace away from his father, saying, “You cannot mean to withdraw me from the competition. It would be the worst possible disgrace for our family, and yes, I am perfectly aware it is a foregone conclusion that I will not defeat Tybalt, but if you would just let me explain—”
“Tybalt is dead,” said his father.
Paris blinked. “What?” he said.
“Don’t leave your mouth hanging open, boy,” his father said impatiently. “Tybalt was killed last night in a duel with some Mahyanai boy. You’re going to be the Juliet’s Guardian.” He looked Paris up and down. “In two days, may the gods help you.”
Paris had spent three months preparing for a duel that didn’t happen. He got two days to prepare for meeting the Juliet.
Supposedly, he’d been preparing since he was twelve years old, but since nobody had ever expected—
“Stand up straight, boy,” said Father under his breath. “Had you boldness enough to dream of the position, you might now be prepared to take it.”
Paris’s back stiffened, though he knew he’d already been standing straight; Father just hadn’t noticed because he wasn’t looking at him as they strode down the corridor together.
“I am ready,” he said quietly, “my lord Father.”
“Hm,” said his lord Father, sounding entirely unconvinced.