Runajo’s face was very pale, her hands clenched into fists. For a moment, Juliet thought she was going to protest again. Then her breath sighed out as her shoulders slumped.
“I don’t have the right to tell you no,” she said.
You could forbid me, thought Juliet, but—with a sort of dazed wonder—she realized that until now, it hadn’t even occurred to her that Runajo might.
Then she felt the sudden stab of Runajo’s guilt, and realized that she had let that thought pass through the bond between them.
“But I trust you won’t,” she said out loud.
Runajo smiled faintly. “You were always stupid,” she said, but gave her no orders.
Runajo insisted that they go to the Mouth of Death.
“I thought it dried up,” said Juliet.
“Yes,” said Runajo. “But it’s still the place where somebody succeeded three thousand years ago. It might help you now. And I can get you there. The High Priestess owes me a favor.”
Romeo had not needed to go there before he walked into death. But then, he had not succeeded in ending the Ruining. And Juliet thought that Runajo needed to do something to help her. So she followed her back to the Cloister, and finally saw the spot where Runajo had once saved her, when her attempt to make Romeo her Guardian had gone wrong, and she had nearly been dragged into the land of the dead.
The Cloister sat at the very top of the city spire, and the Mouth of Death sat above the rest of the Cloister, in a tiny round valley of smooth, dark rock. The Ancients had been the first to make it a shrine, and they had inlaid glowing green glyphs around the rim of the walls. Juliet recognized none of the glyphs—Runajo told her that nobody knew what they meant anymore—but some of them looked hauntingly familiar.
At the far end of the little valley was a small, round dent in the ground.
“That’s it?” asked Juliet.
“Yes.” Runajo’s voice was very quiet, her eyes distant. “That was the Mouth of Death.”
Juliet approached it slowly. She knelt and pressed her palm against the bottom. The stone felt cool; prickles ran up her arm, but perhaps that was only because she knew what she was touching.
Once, this little dent in the earth had been a bottomless pit of inky-black water that flowed straight from the land of the dead. Juliet had heard about it all her life; Runajo had seen it, when she sat vigil one night months ago, and dragged Juliet out of the procession of dead souls.
She stood, and turned to face Runajo. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m ready now. You can go.”
Runajo’s lips pressed together. Then, with an ungraceful thump, she sat on the ground.
“No,” she said.
Juliet took a step forward. “You are not coming with me—”
“No.” Runajo shook her head. “I will obey you. I will stay alive. But I will sit vigil for you until you come back.”
“That won’t be any help to me,” said Juliet. “And I likely won’t return. You’ll be sitting here forever.”
Runajo glared at her from the ground. “Then you’ll just have to drag yourself back, won’t you?”
And Juliet couldn’t help it: she smiled, one final time.
Then she drew her knife and cut a tiny line into her wrist. Blood welled up and dripped to the ground.
She heard a deep, noiseless ringing: the gates of death opening.
She thought, I am the key. Let me in.
She heard the song of death, murmuring with many voices.
She saw dark, endless water, and dark, starless sky.
She thought of Romeo and Runajo, of everything she had lost and was about to lose. She thought of the chants of the Catresou magi and the Mahyanai poems that Romeo had whispered to her. She thought of sunlight and hot tea and the mangy little cats wandering the Lower City.
And she walked forward, across the water. She followed Romeo into death.
Part III
Unless This Miracle Have Might
30
AT THE END OF ALL things, there was dark, endless water and dark, starless sky.
Beneath Juliet’s feet, the surface of the water was cool and firm. In her ears, the song of death echoed over and over: a chorus like the rippling of many waves, insistent with meaning like a thousand voices.
The song drew her forward. It wasn’t like the last time, when she hadn’t understood what was happening, when she’d been helpless to escape her fate. Now, she knew what the song meant, why it felt so familiar and inevitable. Now, she stepped forward freely.
Then her foot sank into the water, up to the ankle.
Though she was walking into death, her heart could still pound with terrible, mortal fear. This was farther than she had gone before.
Juliet thought, Romeo braved this too.
And if she did not follow him, then all of Viyara would die. They would rend each other apart, first in sacrifices and then in panic, and then the Ruining would roll into the city and kill the last few survivors.
She could not allow it. The Juliet could not allow it.
So she walked forward. The song of death was in her ears, humming through the air in her throat, and there was water up to her knees and then her hips. Her chest, her shoulders, her chin.
The cold water kissed her lips. It slid between her teeth. She was sinking, she was drowning, and the song was gone as she slid down into the darkness, clutching the sword to her chest.
Juliet sank forever.
Down, and down, through the dark waters, and she began to fear that death was only this: forever sinking, forever falling, the memories of life growing fainter and fainter, until she dissolved into the water and was nothing but darkness and currents. Until she was nameless, and hopeless, and could not love or protect anyone.
The water began to change. It was warmer now, softer somehow. She saw bubbles: no, tiny floating lights all around her, like unborn stars in the womb of the sky.
She drew a breath of sudden wonder and realized that she was breathing air again. That she could think and remember herself again, and her heart flooded with sudden hope. I have not failed yet, she thought.
And then she settled on her feet.
In the land of the dead.
She could not see far. She could see this: she stood on a hill that sloped away downward before her. The ground was moss and pebbles at her feet, and thin, threadlike vines studded with little bell-shaped white flowers. Farther down the slope were thickets and low, twisted trees. The sky was black as night, but there were no stars overhead; the light came from the multitude of tiny glowing points floating in the air, shivering slightly as if stirred by a breeze, though the air was still against her cheeks.
It was a beautiful place. And yet fear wove itself through her ribs, because this was not the death she had learned about as a child, sitting beside her mother. It was not the Paths of Light that good Catresou were supposed to walk in joy and peace. It was not the howling, ghost-filled darkness that was supposed to take all outsiders (and the Juliet).
She could have faced that darkness with courage and with honor.
But this gentle, flowering slope?
It meant the lore of her people was wrong. That the prayers she had learned as a child were useless to defend her. That any danger could await her.
All she knew for sure were the words of the last woman to speak with Death, three thousand years ago: Death will parley with those who unlock the gate, pass the reapers, and come to meet her.
Juliet had killed reapers in the world above. But what kind of power might they have here, in Death’s own kingdom?
She thought of Romeo walking into this silent realm, with not even Catresou lore to guide him. She thought of Runajo waiting for her in the world outside, despairing and yet faithful. She thought of the crowds huddled in the Upper City, with no hope but the bloody sacrifices of the Sisters, which could not protect them for long.
The fear ebbed a little. She had nothing to rely upon except what she’d always had: the people she needed to protect.