Runajo knew that most of the people in the room expected her own throat to fare poorly.
“Tardiness,” she said. “I should have done it earlier.”
“You mean disobedience,” snapped Miryo, the novice mistress. Like all the Sisters—except for the High Priestess—she had her white cowl pulled down over her head, so that only her chin, with its briar tattoo, was visible. Unlike most of the Sisters, her skin was pale behind the crimson lines of the tattoo. She was one of the few other Mahyanai Sisters, and she had hated Runajo since she had arrived, perhaps because of the way she had defied the whole clan. Or perhaps Miryo was just inherently poisonous; it didn’t really matter.
“And desecration,” said another Sister—Runajo didn’t recognize her, but her white robe had the red bands of one who offered the solemn sacrifices.
“And bringing shame upon us all before the Exalted,” said a third.
Everyone knew the Exalted didn’t notice anything unless it involved wine or women in much less clothing than Runajo had been wearing. But since everyone else in the room—except possibly Miryo—believed him a descendant of the gods, it was probably a bad idea to point that out.
“It was the time to make our offerings,” Runajo said instead. “I could scarcely offer more than myself.”
Vima, the black-robed priestess of mourning, raised her bowed head. From her neck hung the symbol of her office: a bone ring with six splinters branching out of it, like a sunburst. The novices whispered that the bones came from a sacrifice, and that Vima had scraped and boiled them clean herself while chanting the sacred laments.
“Thousands have walked this path before,” she said. “Why should you run it?”
Runajo knew better than to reply, Because I couldn’t stand to obey you a moment longer.
“Because,” she said, quietly and clearly, “we need to recover the knowledge that built the city walls. We are lost without it. You know it; I know it; everyone who is not an idiot knows it.”
Well, every Sister knew it. People didn’t talk of it outside the Cloister: Runajo had never been told, until she joined. But anyone could look at Viyara’s history and see how the sacrifices had grown more frequent. Hence: idiots.
She looked at Miryo. “Only a full Sister of Thorn can descend to the lower levels without blasphemy, but you told me that the Sisters are too precious to throw their lives away. Clearly, you need one who is disposable. One who can go down into the library and discover how the magic protecting our city works.”
“The loss of the library is tragic,” said the High Priestess, “but we have lived a hundred years without it. We know enough to honor the gods and protect the city, and there is no guarantee that the library could teach us anything more.”
The High Priestess’s stern, serene voice was nothing like Mother’s breathy whisper, but for one moment, Runajo could smell the sick-room stench again.
Her hands clenched, and there was a flash of pain from her left palm. Because of her disgrace, they had so far refused her the normal healing ointments; the sign she had carved into her hand as she took the oath was still a scabbed mess.
“We protect nothing,” she said. “We save no one. We only delay the inevitable, and that for not much longer. I have looked at the histories. I have helped weave the walls. I have worked the sacred equations for the sacrifice. Soon we will need to offer lives more than twice a year; do not deny it.”
“I do not,” said the High Priestess. “We will offer of our blood and bone whatever we must to protect this city, and in the end we will all die as offerings. Did you expect any other fate, when you came to us?”
“No,” said Runajo. “But I expected that at least some of my Sisters would accept that fate. We are the Sisters of Thorn. We are all going to die, and we are supposed to live as if already dead, for the good of all Viyara. So why do we dally and pretend that we couldn’t protect our city better right now by risking our lives?”
She wanted to scream. Didn’t they realize what they were accepting? In the end, they would have to offer sacrifices every day; they would be slaughtering the city to save it, and even that would not be enough. The walls would eventually fail, and the white fog of the Ruining would flow into the city, and nobody would survive.
“Going back to the Sunken Library is not a risk,” said Miryo, in the lecturing tone she had used every day among the novices. “There must be thousands of revenants locked inside, and likely reapers as well. It is suicide, and a waste of blood that could be better spent feeding the walls.”
“It is a fact,” said Runajo, “that the people who built that library also built this city, and the walls we can barely maintain. And for three thousand years, their library was the wonder of the world. The secrets of the walls must be in there. If there’s any chance that we could find those secrets, why is it not worth dying for? Do you think we are going to live forever?”
There was a quick hiss of indrawn breath from all around, and Runajo knew that she had gone too far. Desire for eternal life was the greatest blasphemy; suggesting, even rhetorically, that the High Priestess might harbor it was not going to improve her case.
Her mouth tugged into a crooked grin. I am not going to live forever.
“I believe,” said Miryo, “that you are a disobedient, blasphemous child who wants us to consider her a hero.”
“Perhaps you could consider me a penance,” said Runajo. “And I am not a child; my oath was valid. Or do you dispute that I said the words?”
“I do not,” said the High Priestess. “I consider you the youngest of our Sisterhood, and therefore now you must obey me. Be silent.”
Runajo pressed her lips together and met the High Priestess’s gaze. In the end, Miryo had no say here: she could discipline novices, but sentencing criminals and blasphemers was the sole domain of the High Priestess.
If Miryo could, she would sentence Runajo to death in an instant. But the High Priestess? Runajo had no idea what she would choose.
It had been easy enough to be brave when she was arguing. Now, still and in silence, the cold fear started oozing down her body again. She did not want to die.
The gods have died, and in their blood, we live as those already dead. Of all the sayings she had learned from the Sisters of Thorn, it was the only one that had any power to comfort her.
“Mahyanai Runajo,” said the High Priestess, “I do believe that you desire to serve the gods. Therefore I grant you mercy for your disobedience and I accept you as one of our Sisterhood.”
It took all of Runajo’s self-control not to slump her shoulders in relief.
“But you have not yet proved yourself as the others have,” the High Priestess went on calmly, relentlessly. “So tomorrow night, you will have the chance to sit the vigil of souls alone. Should you survive, you will take your place with us.”
For a moment Runajo couldn’t breathe. It took years of training before a Sister could sit through the night at the Mouth of Death and be alive and sane come morning. She had been prepared to face death, but she knew about the Sisters who failed at the vigil and didn’t die. Who were carried out screaming about reapers and dead souls, and who spent the rest of their lives tormented by those visions.
She felt like a bubble, curving around a cold gap of fear.
“If you cannot face that test,” said the High Priestess, “then you are no more than a foolish child, and you will be punished no more than such a child deserves. You will confess your fault before the assembled Sisterhood and do penance, and in time you will be forgiven.”
She wants me afraid, Runajo realized, and the sudden surge of anger burned away the cold emptiness of fear. She wants me to admit I’m a child and crawl back to my proper place.
Beneath the edge of Miryo’s cowl, her lower lip was visible. Smiling.
There was only one possible choice. The risk was much too terrible, her failure far too certain. Everyone in the room knew that Runajo would have to call herself a child and beg for mercy.
/> Everyone in the room didn’t know her at all.
Night after night, day after day, year after year she had kept vigil beside her parents as they died. She had lived at the Mouth of Death her whole life. If she could survive that, she could survive this.
Her heart was pounding in her chest; she was amazed at how calm her voice sounded.
“Then I gladly accept my duty,” she said. “I will sit the vigil of souls.”
6
SOMETHING HAD HAPPENED BETWEEN JULIET and Tybalt. Something that would make her swear she hated him, and yet stop the funeral with her grief.
Paris wondered about it all that evening, as they practiced for the ceremony. It kept distracting him so that he stumbled over minor details; then Father would sigh in disappointment, while Juliet looked at him so stoically that he was afraid she had decided to hate him after all, and she was only enduring him for the sake of their clan.
Tomorrow he would know. A girl fully became the Juliet when the magi finished writing the sacred word for justice upon her skin. The power of that word was so terrible, it would drive her insane unless somebody could help her bear it. So the Juliet’s Guardian was joined to her mind to mind; he could hear her thoughts whenever he pleased, and when her reason faltered, he could rule her with his own.
Paris had vaguely imagined that it would be glorious to have their hearts united in service, but he had never bothered to think what it would really entail. Now—as they knelt together in Lord Catresou’s house, her masklike face so close he could touch it—the thought of prying open her mind and reading those fiercely guarded secrets made him sick.
Perhaps that was why Juliet hated Tybalt: because he had died and left her to share her mind with a stranger. And yet she’d said that she could bear even eternal darkness if she could protect her people. What was more terrible to her than eternal darkness?
The question still nagged at him that night, when he had finally gone back home to have a late dinner. He hardly even cared when Father did him the honor of removing his mask—though probably it was only because Meros was there.
Paris’s brother was twenty-three now, a great sprawling young man of handsome arrogance, and Father’s right hand in running the glassmaking house that made the Mavarinns one of the richest families of the Catresou. Certainly Father’s attention stayed on Meros all throughout the meal, as he quizzed him about the latest reports. Meros sat up reasonably straight, answered fairly quietly, and did not get particularly drunk, which as far as Paris knew was a singular act of respect. Unless he’d changed; in the four years since he started at the Academy, Paris had barely been home.
None of that felt important now. Paris couldn’t stop thinking of the way Juliet had smiled at Tybalt. What had changed her?
Then a servant summoned Father away to receive an urgent messenger. With a loud sigh, Meros drained his wineglass and flung himself back in his chair.
“Paths of Light, that business is boring,” he said.
“At least you get to leave sometimes,” said Amando. The middle of the three brothers, he was so pale and scrawny he looked younger than Paris, though he was two years older. “I’m old enough to join in your night games, you know.”
“Hush,” said Meros, waving a hand, as if everyone didn’t know about his hobbies. But he was a genius at the glasshouse, not to mention fluent in five languages and a skilled duelist. Of course Father would forgive him for the drinking and the bullying and for being caught so often with prostitutes from the Lower City.
“But look at you, little brother.” Meros sat up again, looking Paris right in the eye. “About to become a great man.”
Paris stared back at him. He couldn’t help tensing a little, but Meros was still not truly drunk, which meant he was unlikely to start throwing things.
“Too bad it has to be someone else’s scraps,” Meros went on, plucking an apple out of the fruit bowl. “But let’s not be too picky, eh?”
Amando snickered. When they were children, he had played with Paris. Then he had realized that Meros would reward him better for following orders.
“I am honored to serve our people,” Paris said stiffly, because if he didn’t have a reaction, sometimes Meros would give up.
Meros raised his eyebrows. “A very generous attitude. Or do you just not know?”
Paris couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice. “I am perfectly aware that Tybalt—”
“You really don’t know.” Meros twisted the apple against his knife, peeling the skin off in a thin red ribbon. “Don’t you ever lift your head from your books? It must be all over the Academy by now.”
“What is?” Paris demanded.
“The reason that Tybalt was breathing fire all last week. And the reason why he picked a duel and now lies dead.” Meros finally met his eyes. “The Juliet’s no more a maid than I. She’s bedded a Mahyanai boy. I hope you don’t mind another man’s leavings.”
Paris didn’t realize he had moved until he was on his feet, his chair clattering to the floor. “Take that back.”
It was one thing to ignore Meros when he was insulting Paris. That was pretty much inevitable, and in the end it didn’t matter much. But the Juliet was important.
Meros grinned, wide and lazy. ‘“Your precious Juliet and some Mahyanai filth have made the beast with two backs.”
Paris had heard the phrase before; he wasn’t as stupid or naive as Meros thought. He knew what it meant. But the vile words were so completely different from the angry, unhappy girl he had met in the garden—the laughing girl he had glimpsed two years ago—the quiet girl in the sepulcher, resolved to protect her people at any cost—that for a moment, his mind refused to understand.
Then he did, and his face went hot. Just hearing the words made him feel unclean.
“If only she’d told me she was so desperate,” said Amando, “I’d have been happy to help her.” He snickered, glancing at Meros to make sure he still approved.
Meros was snickering too. In a moment, he would tease Paris about blushing. He was slandering Juliet, and he didn’t even hate her; he was just doing it to get at Paris.
And Paris was sick of being silent.
He picked up his goblet and flung the wine in Meros’s face.
“You are a liar,” he said, “and I will prove it on your body.”
Paris had tried the traditional challenge to a duel on Meros once before, when he was thirteen. That time Meros had just laughed it off and refused to fight—but that time, Paris hadn’t been brave enough to throw wine in his face and his precious goatee.
This time, Meros’s face went pinched and angry.
“You little—” His chair clattered back as he stood. “I accept your challenge, little brother. Bare swords.”
Meros was going to kill him. Or slice up his face and leave him scarred for life, which was how he liked to win duels. But for the first time, Paris wasn’t scared of him. His heart was pounding, but he wanted to fight. There was no point in getting cut up to stop Meros from teasing him, but for Juliet—
“Boys,” their father said mildly from the doorway.
Meros turned, all lazy grace again. “The little one is growing teeth,” he said. “And losing his respect for—”
“My lord Father,” Paris interrupted, “he has slandered the Juliet. He said—he said—” He couldn’t bring himself to actually repeat the words.
Meros rolled his eyes. “I told him what is commonly said and known about her virtue, for which he might be grateful, since it will be his duty to keep her under control.”
“It’s a lie,” Paris snarled.
“It is a rumor,” said Father, “that was useful when the Juliet was not going to belong to us.”
For a moment, Paris couldn’t speak. He knew Father wanted their family to wring every last possible drop of prestige that they could from the Juliet. He knew that, but—he’d never thought—
“You slandered her?” he said.
“Do not imagine,” sai
d Father, his voice quiet with warning, “that you can rebuke your father.”
“I’m sorry,” Paris said reflexively. He’d said the words a thousand times before, as he failed his father a thousand times.
But now his father wasn’t the only one to whom he had a duty.
His heart pounded, but he made himself meet Father’s eyes. “And yet with all due respect,” he said, “did you spread those rumors?”
Meros barked out a laugh. “I told you he was growing teeth.”
Father stared at Paris for a moment; then he nodded slightly to himself, as if Paris had passed some private inspection.
“I spread no rumors,” he said, “but I hardly wept to hear them. The Juliet’s honor did us no good when Tybalt was defending it. That must now change, and I expect you to be mindful of that, Meros.”
“As my lord Father wishes.”
Father stepped closer to Paris. “And as for you, boy, I expect you to stop giving yourself airs and obey me. You are finally in a position to be of some use to this family, and I expect you to give me satisfaction. Do you understand?”
The Juliet was the honor and protector of their people, and she had never mattered to Father as anything but a pawn.
“I understand,” he said.
If the rest of his family was not prepared to do their duty, then Paris would just have to do it for them.
Paris still didn’t know what had happened with Tybalt. And he could never replace him. But as he lay in bed that night, trying to sleep, he thought that maybe he could protect Juliet. At least he could help her hunt down Tybalt’s murderer. Maybe that would bring her a little comfort. And then—and then somehow Paris would stop the rumors, and he would force Meros and Father and Lord Catresou to respect the Juliet, and he would protect her and keep her happy, and everything would be all right.
He knew he was thinking wildly, that he probably would never be able to do half of it. But he had a chance. Nobody had ever thought he would be useful, and now he had a chance.
It was very late when he finally dozed off, and it seemed only a moment later that he was woken by one of the servants. They were supposed to fetch the Juliet from her house at dawn, so Paris dressed in the pale glow of the lamp, pulling on his best white shirt and the new doublet stiff with gold embroidery, while listening to Meros’s muffled cursing through the wall. It took him hours to wake up in the morning, and he had probably stubbed his toe.