How dare she. How dare Arajo be upset that Juliet, for one moment, had not pretended to be grateful.
At least the Catresou had acknowledged that the Juliet was a sacrifice, her life and her death forfeit for the good of her people. The Mahyanai wanted to pretend they had done her a favor.
She realized that she was running back to the shrine of the dead. Numbly, she walked inside and knelt where she had so many times before, looking at Romeo’s name.
Once, she’d sworn to be more like him. To love his people, to protect them and make peace for them. It had seemed like the only way left for her to honor him.
Once, he had convinced her that if they simply loved each other truly, the world would change to allow that love. Now she knew that was a lie.
And there was no honoring the dead who were not dead.
She leaned her forehead against the wall and wished that she were Romeo. Maybe he would see another path out of this maze. Maybe he would know what to do.
But Juliet was only a weapon. All she knew was blood and obedience.
She had never really known anything else. She had dreamed, once, of being more. Of protecting the whole city, and not just her clan. But now that dream was dust and ashes twice over: she was bound to the Mahyanai, to the will of Lord Ineo. And the city itself was dying, and there was no way left to save it.
Once, Romeo had told her that the Mahyanai thought things beautiful even as they perished. It had seemed a lovely thought, kinder and truer than the Catresou’s insistence that only their clan mattered, because only they would live on after death.
Now all Viyara was perishing. Juliet thought of the shimmering white streets of the Upper City, and the twisting, grimy maze of the Lower City. The quiet halls of the Sisterhood, the still sepulcher of her people, the mangy cats ranging wild through the streets.
It was all still beautiful to her.
Suddenly, without meaning to at all, she imagined Runajo’s voice: Well, what are you going to do about it?
She wanted to give up. She wanted to throw everything away except her love and grief. She wanted to destroy the world that was so cruel and senseless, or else destroy herself so she wouldn’t have to face it.
But that was unworthy of a weapon. It was unworthy of the Juliet.
And it was unworthy of the girl that Romeo had loved.
So she would have to kill him. She swallowed, and thought dizzily but very clearly, I will kill Romeo.
The world was far too small for him to escape her forever. If she didn’t kill herself now to avoid it, then sooner or later she would see him again, and have to kill him. There was no longer any other possible ending to their story.
All she could do was try to make that death worth something.
16
ROMEO HAD BEEN HERE BEFORE, on his knees before the assembled Catresou, ready to die.
It seemed less terrible this time.
He was still afraid. He still, after everything, did not want to die. And he was still a failure: they had saved none of the prisoners at the sacrifice, the Catresou would be hunted even harder for this attack, and if Juliet ever saw him again, she would have to kill him.
But Juliet had kissed him.
She had kissed him, and when he had said that she couldn’t forgive him, she had whispered, You utter and absolute fool.
He hadn’t realized how much the whole world had become suffused with his despair, how the shadows of his grief had clung to everything he saw. But now that he knew Juliet still loved him, that she had impossibly decided to forgive him—
Now the whole world had become luminous, shot through with glory and delight. He stared at Meros and the other Catresou lords, these people who had bargained with necromancers and wronged Juliet and were going to kill him—and all he could think was that he loved them, he loved them, because Juliet had loved him first, and this clan was part of her.
“This was all my fault,” said Romeo, “I was the one who—”
Gavarin, kneeling beside him, cuffed him lightly in the head. “Don’t believe him. I started it. Don’t regret a thing.”
Meros leaned forward, raising his eyebrows. “You disobeyed the orders of the Lord Catresou. You know the penalty.”
Gavarin shrugged. “All of us knew what penalty we’d face.”
“But he was trying to save your people!” Romeo protested. “We all were! You can’t—”
“You don’t understand a thing,” said Gavarin.
“I understand that they want to kill you for trying to save Catresou lives, when the only reason that nobody else would save them is the orders of the Master Necromancer!” He stared around the room. “Is that really what your clan’s become? Servants of a necromancer, who won’t save their own kin if it displeases him?”
“You,” said Meros, “are not even one of us. And you would die for this, but it seems the Master Necromancer wants you. So that’s how we’ll dispose of you.”
Romeo’s heart pounded with fear and regret. He wanted to rage against Meros, against what he was doing to Juliet’s beloved people, but he knew that nobody would listen.
So instead he looked at Gavarin and said, “Thank you for letting me help you.”
Then Paris seized him by the arm and dragged him away.
It felt appropriate, to go to his death with Paris. He’d been prepared to die when they went to the Night Game together.
Paris had been prepared to kill him, when they first met.
“Juliet said that she forgave me,” said Romeo as Paris dragged him down the hallway. “And if she could forgive me, I’m sure she would forgive you too.”
He knew that Paris didn’t care anymore, but when he was alive, Paris would have cared so much what Juliet thought of him.
Paris would have helped them try to save the Catresou prisoners, when he was alive.
Now Paris was leading him to meet the Master Necromancer. They hadn’t left the house, but they were in a small, narrow corridor; Romeo guessed it connected two different buildings.
Had the Master Necromancer, all along, been living next door? Here in one of the rich neighborhoods of the Lower City that people called safe?
If Romeo had known that earlier, he might have been able to free the Catresou. Maybe he still could. If he could just manage to kill the Master Necromancer—well, the Catresou would still be fugitives, and Paris would still be living dead, and Romeo would still be facing death by Juliet’s sword, but at least he would have done something to keep his promises.
The thought steadied him. He just had to watch for his chance, and take it when he could.
He had nothing to lose by trying. Not anymore.
Then Paris hauled him through another doorway, and Romeo was face-to-face with Makari.
He wore the same simple clothes he had when climbing in Romeo’s window. He had the same affectionately exasperated expression on his face as he said, “Well, you have made a mess of things, haven’t you?”
“Makari,” Romeo said blankly.
He supposed he should have expected this—he’d known that Makari had gone back, after all—but he’d still been imagining that he would be alone when he faced the Master Necromancer.
“I’m going to end this,” he said. “I can stop this, if you help me. If we work together.”
Then he remembered that Paris was listening, was still a slave, and he gave him a fearful glance. But Paris didn’t seem to be paying any attention to him. He was staring at Makari, his face utterly blank of everything except respect, and he said, “Master, did you want me to—”
Makari made a sharp motion with his hand, and Paris fell silent. He was still looking only at Makari.
“You . . . command him,” said Romeo.
Makari heaved a sigh. “I suppose I had to tell you sooner or later. There’s little enough time left, anyway.”
“You have to set him free,” said Romeo. He felt dizzy, numb, like all the world was sliding around him. “You have to set him free now.”
“I can’t, you idiot. If he were free, then he’d be dead.”
“You got free,” said Romeo.
“I’m special,” said Makari. “Come with me. I’ll take you to meet the Master Necromancer.”