“And if we do have any problems,” Vai continued, “we can always fight a duel again. Though I suppose that’s hardly fair, since so far I always win. Unless you’ve come up with some new tactics?”
“Yes,” said Paris, and stopped her mouth with a kiss.
Runajo was not used to Catresou furnishings. But this was where Juliet lived now, among her people, and if she wanted to be part of Juliet’s life, she had to sit on the hard, awkward chairs, and stare at the plaque of Catresou calligraphy on the wall as she waited for Juliet to return.
It still hurt, to think of Juliet and not feel her emotions, not hear her thoughts. To know that she never would again. But Runajo was growing used to the silence. And it was worth all the pain and more, to see Juliet smile at her without any pain or hatred.
There was a noise behind her, and she turned, hoping it was Juliet come back from a late patrol—but it was only Paris, his pale hair rumpled, his eyes shadowed.
They had not really talked since that day Runajo had used the Catresou sacred words to claim him and set him free at the same time. Since the day that Runajo had said, I love a girl who loves a boy who loves you.
She did not regret those words, and she still meant them, but when she saw Paris—when she remembered what she had said, so honestly, in those hours when they had all thought they were sure to die soon—
She couldn’t help dropping her gaze.
Paris didn’t seem to remember, or at least to care. He dropped down into the chair beside her and leaned forward heavily, against his elbows.
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” said Runajo finally, after a long silence. It was very late at night.
“Yes,” Paris said lowly, not looking at her.
The bond between them had lasted less than a day. Runajo had felt his mind only for a few hours before he died—and he was still not her friend, would probably never be her friend the way Juliet or even Romeo was—
But when she looked at the slump of his shoulders, she remembered the cold, aching gap in her mind after he died. Without thinking, she reached out, fingers stretched toward his messy hair to—
What?
She snatched her hand back. They were nothing to each other, except in that Runajo loved Juliet who loved Romeo who loved Paris. And that was a bond good only for saving each other, not making friends.
Soon she would be in the Cloister again, surrounded by women she did not love or trust, and any bonds she had with the people outside would hardly matter.
“It’s cold,” said Paris. “I can’t sleep.”
The night air was warm and balmy. Runajo opened her mouth to correct him.
Then she caught his eyes and remembered how long he had been one of the living dead, a cold corpse compelled to walk among the living.
Perhaps it was understandable that he felt cold even now.
Runajo knew hardly anything of Paris, had no reason to care for him, and yet the dead bond still echoed in her veins: he was hers. She had to protect him.
Hardly knowing what she was doing, she reached out again and put a hand on his shoulder.
For a moment, Paris tensed. Then she heard him sigh, and felt him relax under her palm.
He didn’t look at her. She was glad of that, and suspected he was too.
And then, wordlessly, Paris leaned to the side and rested his head against her shoulder.
Runajo went rigid. Her first impulse was to shove Paris away, let him fall to the floor—
But he was still hers, in way. He definitely belonged to Juliet, and Runajo had to cherish anything that she did.
So she let Paris rest against her shoulder. She listened to his breathing grow slower, until he was asleep, half snoring against her collarbone. She felt a strange, stuttering wonder, that anyone could find comfort in her. And still she waited.
Until the door of the house opened, and Juliet and Romeo returned together.
Runajo mouthed, Help, silently at Juliet, whose mouth quirked in amusement. Romeo hastened forward, and pulled Paris to his sleepy feet, threw an arm over his shoulder. Together the two of them went up the stairs, and left Runajo alone with Juliet.
“I’ve heard you’re going back to the Cloister,” said Juliet.
“For a few years,” said Runajo. “Until the boats are finished. And they say I can leave sometimes to visit.”
“And after?” asked Juliet.
Suddenly Runajo couldn’t look at her any longer, the same way she couldn’t look at Paris. There were so many Catresou she had wronged.
“Then,” she said, “I suppose Lord Ineo will find a use for me.”
Juliet leaned forward, her hands resting on the table. “I am no longer the Juliet,” she said. “But I still consider myself the justice of my people. And I forgive you the debts you have not yet paid. When we finally leave Viyara . . . I would like you to come with us.”
“Which us would that be?” asked Runajo. “I don’t think Lord Ineo wants our peoples tied together any longer than he can help it.”
“And not all the Catresou want me back as part of their clan,” said Juliet. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. But I’m going to make a future for us.” She held out a hand. “And I want you there for it.”
Her eyes were steady and unyielding, and Runajo remembered when she saw those eyes amid the procession of dead souls. And she reached out, as she did then, and took Juliet’s hand.
“Yes,” she said.
Epilogue
IT WAS SUNSET. ROMEO AND Juliet had slipped away from both their families, and they sat together on a rooftop, watching the red-gold light of the setting sun gild the water. Beyond the shining water, the mainland was made of shadows. But it was no longer a place of death, and they talked together of what they might find, when the boats were finished and they sailed across.
After a while, they fell silent. They no longer needed to talk and kiss in every moment; not now when their time was not stolen, when they knew they could fall asleep and wake up together, night after night, day after day.
Juliet thought of those nights and those days, and she thought of what would come after. At last she sighed, and came to a decision.
“There is something I must tell you,” she said.
Romeo waited, his dark eyes attentive, and she loved him more than ever.
“When I bargained with Death, she said I could have you back. But there was a condition: that you would die before the hair was white on my head. She swore that no power in the world could change that fate. I brought you back anyway, but I—I thought you should know.”
“Is that all?” he asked her, after a moment.
“All?” she echoed.
He smiled faintly. “Didn’t we always know that you were stronger?”
It wasn’t a matter of strength, she wanted to tell him. And in all the ways that were not to do with swords, he was already stronger. He had loved her when she was nothing but the weapon of his enemies, and that was a grace that she never could have had.
“I’m sorry,” said Romeo. “I was selfish, and now you’re the one who has to pay, and that’s not fair.”
“It’s not fair that you’re going to die young,” she said.
He shrugged. “Keep your looks, and I could live a few decades still.”
Then gently, reverently, he touched her stomach. He said, “At least I have a chance to see our children.”
Children. A future. It was a terrifying thought. Juliet didn’t know what they were going to find on the far shore of the world that now lay empty. She didn’t know if both their clans would leave Viyara, and how they would balance the duties they both now bore. She did not even know if they could keep the peace they had bought with so much suffering.
All Juliet knew was this: she had one husband and several friends, and none of them were willing to abandon each other, or forsake their peoples yet.
“But you,” Romeo asked gently, “will you be all right? I know you’re strong enough to live without me, but . . . I can’t bear to think . . .”
His voice trailed away, but she knew what he was asking. She remembered the dry, hopeless shadow that lay on her heart, in those first days when she had thought that he was dead.
She remembered darkness and despair and the infinite, lonely dust at the heart of death.