“Quiet,” said Makari, his voice deadly calm. “Nobody can know I’m here.”
He wouldn’t hurt me, Romeo thought, heart pounding. Makari would never hurt me. But if Makari was living dead—a soul forced back into its undead body—then he would not have a choice.
“Can you be quiet?” asked Makari, still calm.
Romeo managed to nod fractionally, and Makari dropped the hand from Romeo’s mouth.
“Who sent you?” asked Romeo.
“Well,” said Makari, drawing out the word as he stepped back from Romeo and spread his hands, “you saw me die, so three guesses.”
“The Master Necromancer.”
“He told me to kill you and everyone you cared about.” Makari shrugged. “I decided not to obey.”
“You . . . decided,” said Romeo.
Makari was making no move to attack, but the cold fear hadn’t left Romeo’s veins. He remembered Vai swearing to them that the living dead were slaves to the necromancers who raised them. He remembered the flat, lifeless tones of Tybalt’s voice. Makari sounded nothing like that now, but—
“Yes,” said Makari. “I decided. I disobeyed my master.”
Romeo flinched. Tybalt had also said my master.
“It nearly broke my soul apart, but now I’m free. And if you don’t believe me, well.” He drew a knife, and held it out to Romeo, hilt first. “Finish this painfully dramatic scene and kill me.”
It wasn’t the knife that convinced Romeo, that made him fling his arms around Makari. It was the way he half rolled his eyes as he said painfully dramatic, exactly like he had when he read Romeo’s poetry. Surely no necromancer’s power could fake that.
“All right, enough,” Makari said after a moment, sounding just as exasperated as he always did. He pushed Romeo away, muttering “spoiled brat” under his breath, but then he grinned and ruffled his hair. Just like always.
The next moment, the illusion shattered as Romeo saw Makari sheathe the knife.
“You said . . . the Master Necromancer sent you to kill me?”
Makari nodded. “Yes. Which is why you’re going to leave this house right now and hide somewhere I can plausibly pretend I can’t find you.”
And that made sense, because Romeo couldn’t bear to put Justiran in danger, not after all he’d done, but—
“Wait,” said Romeo, “you’re going back to him?”
“Yes,” said Makari. “I’m going back to him, and I’m pretending to be his slave, so that he doesn’t tear the city apart looking for you. Trust me. You don’t want to fight him openly.”
“But—Vai’s people could help, we could go to the City Guard again—”
“Oh, because that turned out so well for you last time?”
Makari’s voice was light, but Romeo still cringed as he remembered the rumors he had heard: blood running across the streets of the Catresou compound as an entire clan was destroyed.
“I . . .” Romeo faltered, searching for words. He’d never fought with Makari about anything before. Probably Makari would have told him not to court Juliet, but that was why he’d never told him about her.
“He hurt Juliet,” he said.
“Mm, I think it was her own family that handled most of that,” said Makari.
“I can’t leave you with him!”
“It’s not up to you to leave me anywhere,” said Makari. “Unless you think you’re ready to be my tutor all of a sudden.”
Romeo’s shoulders slumped.
Gently, Makari laid a hand on his shoulder. “Let me decide how I’ll avenge my own wrongs,” he said. “Just do me this favor, get yourself somewhere I won’t be forced to hurt you.”
“I can’t leave yet,” he said. “I have to wait for Vai. She’s going to deliver my letter to Juliet. And the letter—it tells her to meet me here. If she wants vengeance.”
Makari rolled his eyes. “Cross out that line, tell her to meet you by whatever fountain you like best, and I’ll deliver it. And go.”
Romeo hesitated.
“Do you trust me?” Makari asked quietly.
And there was only one answer he could give.
“Yes.”
Part I
But Sad Mortality O’er-Sways
1
SOMETIMES, IN THE FIRST MOMENTS as Juliet awoke, she could forget what she’d done.
She might hear Runajo’s breathing, and think she was still hiding in the Cloister. She might feel the soft pillow under her cheek, and think she was still in her childhood bedroom at the Catresou compound.
She might open her eyes, look up at the whitewashed ceiling, and think for a moment that she hadn’t killed anyone yet.
Not this morning.
She dreamed of blood running across the floors of her father’s house. She woke, her heart pounding, her stomach churning with sick horror, and instantly remembered that the dream was true.
Juliet lay very still, controlling her breathing and blinking rapidly at the ceiling. She did not deserve tears.
Pale morning light glowed through the windows. She was alone in the bedroom, but as she thought this, she heard movement in the doorway. Juliet shut her eyes and slowed her breaths further, trying to mimic sleep.
Soft, light footsteps.
“I know you’re awake,” said Runajo.
Juliet didn’t move. The voice of her former friend still left a cold weight hanging in her chest.
“Lord Ineo wants to see us,” Runajo went on in the bored, polished tone she used whether she was discussing the weather or the eventual doom of the city. “Do you really think that sulking in your bed is going to prove a point?”
“I’m a prisoner,” Juliet said flatly. “If you want something from me, you can order me to do it.”
There was a short silence.
“Get up,” said Runajo, and now her voice was low and ragged.
Juliet’s eyes snapped open and her body rose in one swift, fluid motion. Her stomach pitched. Every time that the power of the bond between them seized her and forced her to obey, it felt like she was falling.
“Happy?” asked Runajo. Her arms were crossed, her lips a flat line. She was dressed in dark-green silk, with silver combs pinning her dark hair on top of her head. Except for the crimson tattoo on her chin—a round pattern of twisting briars—she looked like any rich and pampered Mahyanai lady.
“Are you happy?” asked Juliet.
Runajo looked away. It should have given Juliet at least a little satisfaction, but it only made her feel worse. Because she could remember when they had been in the Cloister together, when Runajo had been her ally, hiding her from the Sisterhood—
When they had been in the Cloister, Juliet had still been a prisoner. She had still been enslaved to Runajo through the magic that had been meant to help her serve her people. She had just fooled herself, for a little while, into thinking that an enemy could ever be a friend.
Juliet dressed swiftly. She hadn’t wanted any of the Mahyanai servants to touch her, so she had learned how to put on the wide-sleeved dress and tie the sash herself, how to twist up her dark hair and pin it in place with combs. In just one month, the style had grown hatefully familiar.
Lord Ineo was in the breakfast room, sitting on a cushion at the low table. He was a tall man with a proud, handsome face. His hair had started to gray at his temples, but there was no weariness or weakness to the way he held himself; even the way he reached for his cup of tea seemed to say how well he knew that he was leader of the Mahyanai clan and one of the most powerful men in the city.
He was also Romeo’s father. Once, Juliet might have cared about the obedience she owed to her father-in-law.
Now she bowed to him and said, “Anyone for me to murder today?”
Lord Ineo blew on his tea. Without looking at her, he said, “Runajo, tell your charge to be quiet.”
“Kneel and be silent,” Runajo said tonelessly, and a moment later, Juliet was on the ground, her neck bent, her palms flat against the floor.
One month since Runajo had offered Juliet’s services to Lord Ineo, and he’d still gotten no respect from her that wasn’t compelled. It was a cold comfort.
“I thought you’d have her better in hand by now,” said Lord Ineo.
“I thought you understood how this magic worked,” said Runajo, kneeling at the table.