فصل 13

13

BABYLON

There was only a sliver of moon, but the multicolored stars of Faerie lit the sky like bonfires, illuminating the Queen’s procession as it wound through silent countryside, over green hills and wide fields.

Sometimes they passed through blood-filled rivers, the scarlet fluid splashing up to stain the horses’ legs. Sometimes they passed areas of blight, ghostly moonscapes of gray and black. The Seelie faeries whispered and chittered to each other nervously every time another dead patch of land came into view, but Emma could never make out exactly what they were saying.

By the time they started to hear the noise, Emma was half-asleep on Silvermane’s back. Distant music woke her, and the sound of people crying out. She blinked, half-awake, pulling her hood back into place.

They were approaching a crossroads, the first she’d seen that night. Heavy mist hung over the road, obscuring the path ahead. Clusters of tall trees grew at the X where the roads met, and empty iron cages swung from the branches. Emma shivered. The cages were big enough to hold a human being.

She glanced toward Julian. He sat alert on Widowmaker, his dark hair hidden by the hood of Fergus’s cloak. She could see only a sliver of his skin, like the moon overhead. “Music,” he said in a low voice, drawing his horse up beside hers. “Probably a revel coming up.” He was right. They passed the crossroads, and the thick mist parted immediately. The music grew louder, pipes and fiddles and sweet flutelike instruments Emma didn’t recognize. The field north of the road was dominated by a massive pavilion draped with silk and hung with the broken-crown banner of the Unseelie King.

Wildly dancing figures surrounded the pavilion. Most seemed naked, or nearly so, dressed in diaphanous rags. It wasn’t much of a dance—they appeared to be mostly writhing together, giggling and splashing in and out of a massive pool of water ringed with silvery rocks. White mist rose off the water, obscuring but not covering a number of half-naked bodies.

Emma blushed, mostly because Julian was there, and looked away. The girls—they had to be sisters—on the bay mare behind her giggled, toying with the ribbons at their throats.

“Prince Oban’s revel,” said one. “It could be no other.”

Her sister looked wistful. “Would that we could go, but the Queen would not approve.”

Emma glanced back toward the revel. She had listened to Mark speak of faerie revels before as if they were more than massive wild parties. They were a way of calling down wild magic, he’d said. They had a terrifying undercurrent, a barely leashed power. Looking out at the field, Emma couldn’t help but feel as if some of the laughing faces she saw were actually screaming in agony.

“Up ahead,” said Julian, snapping her out of her reverie. “It’s the Unseelie Court’s tower.” Emma looked, and for a moment, a dizzying memory assaulted her: the mural on Julian’s bedroom wall showing a castle surrounded by thorned hedges. Ahead of them a dark gray tower rose out of the hills and shadows. Only the top of the tower was visible. Growing up all around it, their sharp spikes visible even from this distance, was a massive wall of thorns.

“Well, that’s that,” Helen said in a curiously flat voice. She sat down at the head of the library table. Aline frowned and put her hand on Helen’s back. “They’re gone.” Dru tried to catch Jaime’s eye, but he wasn’t looking at her. He’d glanced curiously at Kit and Ty and was now fastening up the straps of his pack.

“You can’t go,” she said to him a bit desperately. “You must be so tired—”

“I’m all right.” He still didn’t look at her. Dru felt wretched. She hadn’t meant to lie to Jaime. She’d just never mentioned her age, because she’d been afraid he’d think she was a stupid kid. And then Mark had yelled at him about it.

“No, Dru is right.” Helen smiled with some effort. “Let us at least give you dinner.”

Jaime hesitated. He stood twisting the ties of his pack irresolutely as Kit and Ty pushed past him, and Ty said something about going up on the roof. Kit waved and the two of them slipped out of the library. Back to their private world, Dru thought. Ty would never let her in—he’d never let anyone take Livvy’s place.

Not that Dru wanted to do that. She just wanted to be friends with her brother. Like Helen just wants to be friends with you, said an annoying little voice in the back of her head. She ignored it.

“Aline’s a really good cook,” she said instead. Aline rolled her eyes, but Dru ignored her. Jaime was really skinny—skinnier than he had been when she’d seen him in London. He must be hungry. Maybe if she could get him to stay, she could explain— There was a noise like a soft explosion. Dru gave a small shriek, and an envelope fell from the ceiling and landed on the table. A faint wisp of smoke hung in the air.

“It’s addressed to you, babe,” Helen said, handing the envelope to Aline. “ ’Aline Penhallow, Head of the Institute.’ ” Frowning, Aline ripped the envelope open. Her face tightened. She read aloud:

Aline Penhallow:

Pursuant to the most recent Council meeting held in Alicante, the Registry of Downworlders is now enforced. Heads of Institutes and Conclaves, it is your responsibility to make sure that the Downworlders in your region are registered and given identification numbers. You will be receiving a stamp to use in registration, in ink that will show up only in witchlight.

Downworlders must be ready to show their marked documents at any time. Records of all registrations must be handed over to the Office of the Inquisitor. Failure to do so may result in suspension of privileges or recall to Alicante. Sed lex, dura lex. The Law is hard, but it is the Law. In these troubled times, all must be held accountable. Thank you for your understanding.

Horace Dearborn

NB: As reflects our new policy of accountability, all Institute heads should be advised that the traitors Diego Rosales, Divya Joshi, and Rayan Maduabuchi are awaiting conviction in the Gard for aiding in the escape of a wanted Downworlder. As soon as the Mortal Sword is reforged, they will stand trial.

There was a crash. Jaime had dropped his pack. Drusilla moved to pick it up, but he’d already seized it.

“That bastard Dearborn,” he said through white lips. “My brother is not a traitor. He is painfully honest, good—” He looked around at the stricken faces surrounding him. “What does it matter?” he whispered. “None of you know him.” Helen began to rise to her feet. “Jaime—”

He bolted from the library. A second later, Dru tore after him.

He was fast, but he didn’t know the house or the way the front door stuck. Dru caught up to him as he struggled to yank it open.

“Jaime!” she cried.

He held up a hand. “Stop. I must go, Drusilla. It’s my brother, you understand?”

“I know. But please be careful.” She fumbled at her belt and held something out to him. Her hand was shaking. “Take your dagger. You need it more than I do.” He stared down at the blade she held; he’d given it to her, left it in her room at the London Institute when he’d gone. A gold hunting dagger carved with roses.

Gently, he took hold of her hand, closing her fingers over the dagger. “It is yours. A gift,” he said.

Her voice sounded small. “Does that mean we’re still friends?”

His fleeting smile was sad. He pulled at the door handle and this time it opened; Jaime slipped through it, past her, and vanished into the shadows.

“Dru? Are you all right?”

She turned around, scrubbing furiously at her stinging eyes. She didn’t want to cry in front of Helen—and it was Helen, her sister standing on the bottom step of the main staircase, looking at her with troubled eyes.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” she said in a shaking voice. “I know you think it’s stupid, but he was my first real friend—” “I don’t think it’s stupid!” Helen crossed the room to Dru in swift strides.

Dru’s throat hurt almost too much for her to speak. “I feel like people keep leaving,” she whispered.

This close up, Helen looked even more thin and pretty and she smelled like orange blossoms. But for the first time, she didn’t seem remote, like a distant star. She seemed distressed and worried and very much present. There was even an ink stain on her sleeve.

“I know how you feel,” Helen went on. “I missed you so much while I was on Wrangel Island I couldn’t breathe. I kept thinking about everything I was missing, and how I’d miss you getting older, all the little things, and when I saw you in the Council Hall I kept thinking . . .” Dru braced herself.

“. . . how beautiful you’d gotten. You look so much like Mom.” Helen sniffled. “I used to watch her getting ready to go out. She was so glamorous, she had such style . . . all I can ever think to wear is jeans and a shirt.” Dru stared in amazement.

“I’m going to stay,” Helen said fiercely. “I’m not leaving you ever again.” She reached for Dru—and Dru nodded, just the smallest nod. Helen put her arms around her and held her tightly.

Dru rested her forehead against her sister and finally allowed herself to remember Helen picking her up when she was small, swinging her around while she laughed, tying ribbons in her hair and finding her lost shoes, inevitably discarded on the beach. They fit together differently now than they had then, Dru thought, as she put her own arms around Helen. They were different heights and shapes, different people than they had been once.

But even if they fit differently now, they still fit like sisters.

It was nothing like a Portal; there was no rushing tumult, no sense of being picked up by a tornado and hurled around wildly. One moment Cristina was standing in the library at the Institute, and the next she was in a green field, with Mark and Kieran on either side of her and music ringing through the air.

Mark dropped his hand from her shoulder; so did Kieran. Cristina shoved the artifact into her pack and slung it onto her back, pulling the straps tight as the boys looked around in astonishment.

“It’s a revel,” said Mark in disbelief. “We’ve landed in the middle of a revel.”

“Well, not the middle,” said Kieran. He was technically correct; they were just outside a field that was full of whirling, spinning dancers. Pavilions had been set up on the green, with one, more massive than the others, hung with swags of silk.

“I thought we were going to Bram’s Crossroads?” Cristina said.

“We’re close to it.” Kieran pointed. Across the field, Cristina could see the place where two roads met, surrounding by massive oak trees. “It is the place where the Seelie Lands and the Unseelie Lands meet.” “Who is Bram?” said Cristina.

“Bram was King before my father, long ago,” said Kieran. He indicated the southern road. “Emma and Julian would be coming from there. The Seelie Lands. Any official procession would pass the crossroads.” “So we have to get to the road,” said Mark. “We have to go through the revel.” He turned. “Disguise yourself, Prince Kieran.” Kieran gave Mark a dark look. Cristina, not wanting to waste time, unbuckled Kieran’s pack, pulled out a rolled cloak, and handed it to him.

Kieran drew the cloak on, pulling the hood up. “Am I disguised?”

Cristina could still see a glimpse of blue-black hair beneath the edge of the hood but hoped no one would be looking all that closely. If they did, they could tell easily enough that he was a prince. It was in his bearing, in the way he moved, the look on his face.

Mark must have had the same thought, for he bent down, took a handful of mud, and rubbed it firmly into Kieran’s surprised face, leaving smears of dirt on his cheek and nose.

Kieran was not pleased. He glared. “You did that because you enjoyed it.”

Mark grinned like a little boy and tossed the remaining mud aside. Kieran scrubbed at his nose, still glaring. He did look less princely, though. “Stop it,” said Cristina.

“Thank you,” Kieran said.

With a grin, Cristina grabbed some mud and smeared a bit on Kieran’s cheek. “You have to get both sides.” Mark laughed; Kieran looked indignant for several seconds before giving in and laughing as well.

“Now let’s not waste any more time,” Cristina said a bit regretfully. She wished the three of them could simply stay here, together, and not join the revel.

But they had no choice. They pressed forward into the revel, through the area where many of the dancers had already collapsed, exhausted. A boy with smeared metallic paint on his face and striped breeches sat gazing at his hands in a drugged haze as he moved them slowly through the air. They passed a pool of steaming water surrounded by mist; slippery bodies were visible through gaps in the smoke. Cristina felt her cheeks flame red.

They moved on, and the crowd closed around them like fast-growing vines. It was nothing like the revel Cristina had seen the last time she was in Faerie. That had been a massive dance party. This was more like a slice of a Bosch painting. A group of faerie men were fighting; their bare upper bodies, slippery with blood, shone in the starlight. A kelpie feasted hungrily on the dead body of a brownie, its open eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. Naked bodies lay entwined in the grass, their limbs moving with slow intent. Pipes and fiddles screamed, and the air smelled like wine and blood.

They passed a giant lying unconscious in the grass. All over his huge body were hundreds of pixies, darting and dancing, like a moving sea. No, Cristina realized, they weren’t dancing. They were— She glanced away. Her cheeks felt like they were on fire.

“This is my brother’s doing,” said Kieran, staring grimly at the largest of the pavilions, the one that bore the crest of the Unseelie Court. An ornate throne-like seat had been placed there, but it was empty. “Prince Oban. His revels are famous for their duration and their debauchery.” He frowned as a group of naked acrobats hooted from a nearby tree. “He makes Magnus Bane look like a prudish nun.” Mark looked as if he’d just heard that there was an alternate sun that was nine million times hotter than Earth’s sun. “You never mentioned Oban.” “He embarrasses me,” said Kieran. A branch broke overhead, depositing a goblin-size horse wearing a garter belt on the ground in front of them. It wore woolen hose with runs in them and golden hoof covers.

“I can see why,” said Mark as the horse wandered off, nibbling at the grass. It studiously avoided the couples embracing in the tangled undergrowth.

Dancers whirled past Cristina in a circle surrounding a ribboned tree, but none of them wore expressions of enjoyment. Their faces were blank, their eyes wide, their arms flailing. Every once in a while a drunken faerie knight would pull one of the dancers from the circle and down into the long grass. Cristina shuddered.

From the top of the tree hung a cage. Inside the cage was a hunched figure, white and slimy like a pale slug, its body covered in gray pockmarks. It looks like an Eidolon demon in its true form, Cristina thought. But why would a prince of Faerie have an Eidolon demon in a cage?

A horn blared. The music had become more sour, almost sinister. Cristina looked again at the dancers and realized suddenly that they were ensorcelled. She remembered the last time she’d been at a revel, and how she’d been swept away by the music; she didn’t feel that way now, and silently thanked the Eternidad.

She had read about faerie revels where mortals were forced to dance until the bones in their feet splintered, but she hadn’t realized it was something faeries might do to each other. The beautiful young girls and boys in the circle were being danced off their feet, their upper bodies slumping even as their legs moved tirelessly to the rhythm.

Kieran looked grim. “Oban gets pleasure from witnessing the pain of others. Those are the thorns of his roses, the poison in the bloom of his gregariousness and gifts.” Cristina moved toward the dancers, concerned. “They’re all going to die—”

Kieran caught her sleeve, pulling her back toward him and Mark. “Cristina, no.” He sounded sincerely alarmed for her. “Oban will let them live, once he’s humiliated them enough.” “How can you be sure?” Cristina asked.

“They’re gentry. Court hangers-on. Oban would be in trouble with my father if he killed them all.” “Kieran is right,” said Mark, the moonlight silvering his hair. “You cannot save them, Cristina. And we cannot linger here.” Reluctantly Cristina followed as they pushed swiftly through the crowd. The air was full of sweet, harsh smoke, mixing with the mist from the occasional pool of water.

“Prince Kieran.” A faerie woman with hair like a dandelion clock drifted up to them. She wore a dress of white filaments, and her eyes were green as stems. “You come to us in disguise.” Mark’s hand had gone to his weapons belt, but Kieran made a quick settling gesture at him. “I can trust you to keep my secret, can I not?” “If you tell me why an Unseelie Prince would come hidden to his own brother’s revel, perhaps,” said the woman, her green eyes keen.

“I seek a friend,” Kieran said.

The woman’s eyes darted over Cristina and then Mark. Her mouth widened into a smile. “You seem to have several.” “That’s enough,” said Mark. “The prince would proceed unhindered.”

“Now, if it were a love potion you sought, you might come to me,” said the faerie woman, ignoring Mark. “But which of these two Nephilim do you love? And which loves you?” Kieran raised a warning hand. “Enough.”

“Ah, I see, I see.” Cristina wondered what it was she saw. “No love potion could assist with this.” Her eyes danced. “Now, in Faerie, you could love both and have both love you. You would have no trouble. But in the world of the Angel—” “Enough, I said!” Kieran flushed. “What would it take to end this bedevilment?”

The faerie woman laughed. “A kiss.”

With a look of exasperation, Kieran bent his head and kissed the faerie woman lightly on the mouth. Cristina felt herself tense, her stomach tightening. It was an unpleasant sensation.

She realized Mark, beside her, had tensed as well, but neither of them moved as the faerie woman drew back, winked, and danced away into the crowd.

Kieran wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “They say a kiss from a prince brings good luck,” he said. “Even a disgraced one, apparently.” “You didn’t need to do that, Kier,” said Mark. “We could have gotten rid of her.”

“Not without a fuss,” Kieran said. “And I suspect Oban and his men are here in the crowd somewhere.” Cristina glanced up at the pavilion. Kieran was right—it was still empty. Where was Prince Oban? Among the rutting couples in the grass? They had begun to make their way across the clearing again: Faces of every hue loomed out of the mist at her, twisted in grimaces; Cristina even imagined she saw Manuel, and remembered how Emma had been forced to see an image of her father the last time they had been in Faerie. She shuddered, and when she looked again it was not Manuel at all but a faerie with the body of a man and the face of a wise old tabby, blinking golden eyes.

“Drinks, madam and sirs? A draft to cool you after dancing?” said the tabby faerie in a soft and cooing voice. Cristina stared, remembering. Mark had bought her a drink from this cat-faced faerie at the revel she’d been to with him. He held the same gold tray with cups on it. Even his tattered Edwardian suit had not changed.

“No drinks, Tom Tildrum, King of Cats,” said Kieran. His voice was sharp, but he clearly recognized the cat faerie. “We need to find a Seelie procession. There could be several coins in it for you if you led us to the road.” Tom gave a low hiss. “You are too late. The Queen’s procession passed by here an hour ago.” Mark cursed and flung his hood back. Cristina didn’t even have time to be startled that usually gentle Mark was cursing; she felt as if a hole had been punched through her chest. Emma. Emma and Jules. They’d missed them. Kieran, too, looked dismayed.

“Give me a drink, then, Tom,” said Mark, and seized a glass of ruby-colored liquid from the tray.

Kieran held out a staying hand. “Mark! You know better!”

“It’s just fruit juice,” Mark said, his eyes on Cristina’s. She flushed and glanced away as he drained the glass.

A moment later he sank to the ground, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Mark!” Cristina gasped, flinging herself to the ground beside him. He was clearly unconscious, but just as clearly breathing. In fact, he was snoring a bit. “But it was just fruit juice!” she protested.

“I like to serve a variety of beverages,” said Tom.

Kieran knelt down by Cristina. His hood had partly fallen back, and Cristina could see the concern on his face as he touched Mark’s chest lightly. The smudges on his cheeks made his eyes stand out starkly. “Tom Tildrum,” he said in a tight voice. “It’s not safe here.” “Not for you, for the sons of the Unseelie King are at each other’s throats like cats,” said Tom Tildrum with a flash of incisors.

“Then you see why you must lead us through to the road,” Kieran said.

“And if I do not?”

Kieran rose to his feet, managing to exude princely menace despite his dirty face. “Then I will yank your tail until you howl.” Tom Tildrum hissed as Kieran and Cristina bent to lift Mark and carry him between them. “Come with me, then, and be quick about it, before Prince Oban sees. He would not like me helping you, Prince Kieran. He would not like it at all.” * * *

Kit lay on the roof of the Institute, his hands behind his head. The air was blowing from the desert, warm and soft as a blanket tickling his skin. If he turned his head one way, he could see Malibu, a chain of glittering lights strung along the curve of the seashore.

This was the Los Angeles people sang about in pop songs, he thought, and put into movies; sea and sand and expensive houses, perfect weather and air that breathed as soft as powder. He had never known it before, living with his father in the shadow of smog and downtown skyscrapers.

If he turned his head the other way, he could see Ty, a black-and-white figure perched beside him at the roof’s edge. The sleeves of Ty’s hoodie were pulled down, and he worried their frayed edges with his fingers. His black eyelashes were so long Kit could see the breeze move them as if it were ruffling sea grass.

The feeling of his own heart turning over was now so familiar that Kit didn’t question it or what it meant.

“I can’t believe Hypatia agreed to our plan,” Kit said. “Do you think she really means it?” “She must mean it,” said Ty, staring out over the ocean. The moon was hidden behind clouds, and the ocean seemed to be absorbing light, sucking it down into its black depth. Along the border where the sea met the shore, white foam ran like a stitched ribbon. “She wouldn’t have sent us the money if she hadn’t. Especially enchanted money.” Kit yawned. “True. When a warlock sends you money, you know it’s serious. I guarantee you that if we don’t get this done like we said we would, she’s going to come after us—for the money, at least.” Ty pulled his knees up against his chest. “The issue here is that we have to get a meeting with Barnabas, but he hates us. We’ve already seen that. We can’t get near him.” “You should maybe have thought of that before you made this deal,” said Kit.

Ty looked confused for a moment, then smiled. “Details, Watson.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe we should disguise ourselves.” “I think we should ask Dru.”

“Dru? Why Dru?” Now Ty looked baffled. “Ask her what?”

“To help us. Barnabas doesn’t know her. And she does look a lot older than she is.”

“No. Not Dru.”

Kit remembered Dru’s face in the library when she’d talked about Jaime. He listened to me and he watched horror movies with me and he acted like what I said was important. He remembered how happy she’d been to be taught lock picking. “Why not? We can trust her. She’s lonely and bored. I think she’d like to be included.” “But we can’t tell her about Shade.” Ty was pale as the moon. “Or the Black Volume.”

True, Kit thought to himself. I’m definitely not telling Drusilla about a plan that I hope falls apart before it ever comes to fruition.

He sat up. “No—no, definitely not. It would be dangerous for her to know anything about—about that. All we need to tell her is that we’re trying to get back on good terms with the Shadow Market.” Ty’s gaze slid away from Kit. “You really like Drusilla.”

“I think she feels very alone,” said Kit. “I get that.”

“I don’t want her to be in danger,” said Ty. “She can’t be in any kind of danger.” He tugged at the sleeves of his hoodie. “When Livvy comes back, I’m going to tell her I want to do the parabatai ceremony right away.” “I thought you wanted to go to the Scholomance?” said Kit without thinking. If only Ty could see that was a possibility for him now, Kit wished—and instantly hated himself for thinking it. Of course Ty wouldn’t want to consider Livvy’s death to be any form of freedom.

“No,” Ty said sharply. “Remember, I told you, I don’t want to go there anymore. Besides, you can’t have parabatai at the Scholomance. It’s a rule. And rules are important.” Kit didn’t even want to think about how many rules they were breaking right now. Ty had clearly compartmentalized what it would take to bring Livvy back, but nothing like that ever worked perfectly. He was worrying hard at the cuffs of his hoodie now, his fingers shaking a little.

Kit touched Ty’s shoulder. He was sitting slightly behind him. Ty’s back curved as he hunched forward, but he didn’t avoid the touch.

“How many windows does the front of the Institute have?” Kit said.

“Thirty-six,” said Ty. “Thirty-seven if you count the attic, but it’s papered over. Why?”

“Because that’s what I like about you,” Kit said in a low voice, and Ty’s shaking stilled slightly. “The way you notice everything. Nothing gets forgotten. Nothing”—and no one—“gets overlooked.” * * *

Emma had begun to nod off again as the night wore on. She woke when her horse stopped in its tracks and pushed her hood back slightly, gazing around her.

They had reached the tower. Dawn was breaking and in the first threads of light, the only permanent manifestation of the Unseelie Court looked less like Julian’s mural and more like something from a nightmare. The hedge of thorns surrounding the tower was nothing like modest rosebushes. The thorns were steel-colored, each easily a foot long. Here and there they were studded with what looked like massive white flowers. The tower’s walls were smooth and dark as anthracite, and windowless.

Emma’s breath made tracks against the chilly air. She shivered and drew Nene’s cloak closer, murmurs rising all around as the sleepy procession of Seelie faeries began to come back to wakefulness. The girls behind her were chattering about what kind of rooms and welcome they might expect from the King. Julian was motionless beside Emma, his spine straight, his hood concealing his face.

There was a loud clang, like the ringing of a bell. Emma peered ahead to see that there were gates set into the thorny hedge, tall bronze gates that had just been flung open. She could see a courtyard just past the gates, and a great black archway leading into the tower.

Unseelie knights in black cloaks guarded either side of the gates. They were stopping each member of the procession before allowing them to pass through into the courtyard, where two lines of Unseelie faeries flanked the path to the tower doors.

The multicolored stars were beginning to fade out of the air, and in their absence, the light of the rising sun cast dull gold shadows over the tower, darkly beautiful as a polished gun barrel. All around the hedge was a flat, grassy plain, punctuated here and there by stands of hawthorn trees. The line of Seelie faeries lurched forward again, and a loud grumble rose among the riot of silks and velvets, wings and hooves. The girls on the bay mare were muttering to each other: How slow they are here in the Night Court. How rude to keep us waiting.

The morning air caught the edge of Emma’s hood as she turned. “What is this about?”

One of the girls shook her head. “The King is suspicious, naturally. Too long has there been enmity between the Courts. The Riders are inspecting each guest.” Emma froze. “The Riders of Mannan?”

The other girl laughed. “As if there were other Riders!”

Julian leaned toward Emma and spoke in a low voice: “There’s no way we can get through those gates with the rest of the procession without the Riders recognizing us. Especially you. We need to get out of here.” The place where Cortana usually hung at Emma’s back ached like a phantom limb. She had killed one of the Riders with her sword—there was no chance they wouldn’t remember her. “Agreed. Any idea how to do that?” Julian glanced up and down the restless line of Seelie folk. It stretched from the gates of the tower into the distance, as far as the eye could see. “Not currently.” A noise erupted from the line ahead. The dryad in the tree was arguing with a pair of goblins. In fact, small arguments seemed to breaking out up and down the line. Occasionally a faerie knight would ride lazily by and call for order, but no one seemed too interested in keeping things calm.

Emma gazed anxiously at the horizon; it was dawn, and soon there would be more light, which would hardly help any attempt on her and Julian’s part to try to get away. They could bolt for the gates, but the guards would block them; if they ran for the thorn hedges or tried to leave the line, they’d certainly be seen.

Then accept that you’ll be seen, Emma thought. She turned to Julian, drawing herself up imperiously. “Fergus, you fool!” she snapped. “The Queen explicitly demanded that you bring up the rear of this procession!” Julian’s lips shaped the word “What?” silently. He didn’t move, and the girls on the bay mare giggled again.

Emma struck his shoulder lightly, her fingers sliding across his back, drawing a quick symbol they both knew. It meant: I have a plan. “Distracted by a dryad, were you?” she said. She dug her heels into Silvermane’s side and the horse, startled, trotted sharply in place. “The Queen will have your head for this. Come along!” Giggles spread throughout the nearby faeries. Emma turned Silvermane and began to ride toward the back of the procession. After a moment, Julian followed her. The giggles faded behind them as they trotted down the line; Emma didn’t want to attract notice by going too fast.

To her relief, no one paid much attention to them. As they rode away from the tower, the Seelie procession’s order began to deteriorate. Faerie folk were grouped together laughing, joking, and playing cards. None of them seemed interested in their progress toward the tower, much less anything closer at hand.

“This way,” Julian murmured. He bent low over Widowmaker, and the horse bolted toward a nearby thicket of trees. Emma grabbed her own reins tightly as Silvermane leaped after the stallion. The world rushed by in a blur—she was galloping, which was like flying, the horse’s feet barely seeming to touch the ground. Emma caught her breath. It was like the terror and freedom of being in the ocean, at the mercy of something far stronger than you. Her hood flew back and the wind tore at her, her blond hair whipping like a banner.

They pulled up at the far side of the thicket, out of sight of the Seelie folk. Emma looked at Julian, breathless. His cheeks were flushed to brightness by the cold air. Behind him, the horizon had turned to bright gold.

“Nice work,” he said.

Emma couldn’t suppress a smile as she slid from Silvermane’s back. “We might not have angelic magic here, but we’re still Shadowhunters.” Julian dismounted beside her. Neither needed to say they couldn’t keep the horses with them; Emma struck Silvermane lightly on the flank, and the mare took off toward the lightening horizon. She knows her own way home.

Widowmaker vanished after her in a dark blur, and Emma and Julian turned toward the tower. The long shadows of dawn were beginning to stretch out across the grass. The tower rose before them, the high hedge circling it like a deadly necklace.

Emma eyed the grass between their trees and the hedge nervously. There was no cover, and though they were out of sight of the gates, anyone watching from the tower could see them approach.

Julian turned toward her, pushing his hood back. Emma supposed it no longer mattered; he was done pretending to be Fergus. His hair was tousled and sweat-dampened from the hood. As if he had read her mind, he said, “We can’t worry about cover. We’ll have to brazen it out till we get to the hedge.” He slid his hand into hers. Emma tried to stop herself from jumping. His palm was warm against her palm; he drew her toward him and they began to walk across the grass.

“Keep your head turned toward me,” Julian said in a low voice. “Faeries are romantics, in their way.” Emma realized with a jolt that they were playing at being a couple, taking an affectionate walk in the dawn light. Their shoulders brushed, and she shivered, even as the sun rose higher, warming the air.

She glanced sideways at Julian. He didn’t look like someone on a romantic walk; his eyes were wary, his jaw set. He looked like a statue of himself, one carved by someone who didn’t know him well, who had never seen the sparkle in his eyes he saved for his family, who had never seen the smile he had once saved for Emma alone.

They had reached the hedge. It rose above them, a tangle of closely woven vines, and Emma drew her hand out of Julian’s with an indrawn breath. Up close, the hedge looked as if it were made out of shining steel, the thorns sticking out everywhere at jagged angles. Some were as long as swords. What Emma had thought were flowers were the whitening skeletons of those who had tried to climb the wall, a warning to future trespassers.

“This might be impossible,” said Julian, looking up. “We could wait until nightfall—try to sneak through the gates.” “We can’t wait that long—it’s dawn now. We have to stop the Queen.” Emma drew a dagger from her belt. It wasn’t Cortana, but it was still Shadowhunter steel, long and sharp. She laid the edge against one of the thorns, cutting at an angle. She had expected resistance; there was none. The thorn sliced away easily, leaving behind a stump that dripped grayish sap.

“Ugh,” she said, kicking the fallen thorn away. An odd scent, dull and green, rose from the damaged hedge. She took a deep breath, trying to push down her unease. “Okay. I’m going to cut my way through. I can even see the tower through the vines.” It was true; this close up, it was clear that the hedge wasn’t a solid wall, and there were gaps between the vines big enough to shove a human body through.

“Emma—” Julian made as if to reach out to her, then dropped his hand. “I don’t like this. We’re not the first people who’ve tried to get through the hedge.” He indicated the skeletons above and around them with a jerk of his chin.

“But we’re the first Shadowhunters,” said Emma, with a bravado she didn’t feel. She slashed at the hedge. Thorns pattered down around her in a light rain.

Light began to fade as she pushed on, farther into the hedge. It was as thick as the lane of a highway, and the vines seemed to weave together above her, forming a shield against the sunlight. She thought she heard Julian call out to her, but his voice was muffled. She glanced back in surprise—and stiffened in horror.

The hedge had closed up behind her like water. She was surrounded by a thick green-gray wall, studded with deadly spikes. She slashed out wildly with her dagger, but the edge of it bounced off the nearest thorn with a clang, as if it were made of steel.

A sharp pain stabbed at her chest. The vines were moving, pressing in toward Emma slowly. The sharp tip of one jabbed her above her heart; another stabbed at her wrist; she jerked her hand away, dropping the dagger; she had more in her pack, but there was no way she could reach them now. Her heart was pounding as the vines surged toward her; she could see flashes of white through the vines as they moved, others who had been trapped in the heart of the hedge wall.

The tip of a thorn slashed along her cheek and blood ran warmly down her face. Emma shrank back, and more thorns stabbed into her back and shoulders. I’m going to die, she thought, her thoughts blackening with terror.

But Shadowhunters weren’t meant to be afraid, weren’t meant to feel fear. In her mind, Emma begged the forgiveness of her parents, her parabatai, her friends. She had always thought she’d die in battle, not be crushed to death by a thousand blades, alone and without Cortana in her hand.

Something stabbed into her throat. She twisted, trying to pull away from the agony; she heard Julian call her name— Something slammed into her palm. Her fingers closed reflexively around it, her body knowing the feel of the sword’s hilt before her mind registered what she was holding.

It was a sword. A sword with a white blade, like a slice cut out of the moon. She recognized it immediately from illustrations in old books: It was Durendal, the sword of Roland, brother blade to Cortana.

There was no time to ask questions. Against the thorns, she swung her arm up, Durendal a silvery blur. There was a scream, as of twisting metal, as Durendal sliced through thorns and vines. Sap sprayed, stinging Emma’s open cuts, but she didn’t care; she cut again and again, the blade whipsawing in her hand, and the vines fell away around her. The hedge writhed as if in pain and the vines began to draw back as if afraid of Durendal. A path opened both ahead of her and behind her, like the parting of the Red Sea. Emma fled through the narrow gap between the vines, calling for Julian to follow her.

She exploded out the other side into a world of color and light and noise: green grass, blue sky, the distant sounds of the procession advancing to the tower. She fell to her knees, still clutching Durendal. Her hands were slicked with blood and sap; she was gasping, bleeding from long rents in her tunic.

A shadow darkened the sky above her. It was Julian. He fell to his knees across from her, his face bone white. He caught at her shoulders and Emma held back a wince. Having his hands on her was more than worth the pain, as was the look on his face. “Emma,” he said. “That was incredible. How—?” She held up the sword. “Durendal came to me,” she said. Blood from her cuts pattered down onto the blade as it began to shimmer and fade. In a moment, she was holding only empty air, her fingers still curved around the place the golden hilt had been. “I needed Cortana, and it sent Durendal to me.” “ ’I am of the same steel and temper as Joyeuse and Durendal,’  ” Julian murmured. “Twinned blades. Interesting.” He released her shoulders and tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his tunic, wadding it up to press against the cut on her cheek with a surprising gentleness.

Joy surged through her, brighter than her pain. She knew he couldn’t love her, but in that moment it felt as if he did.

“Mother?” Aline said. “Mother, are you there?”

Helen squinted. She was seated on the desk in the Institute’s office, Aline next to her. Jia seemed to be trying to appear as a Projection against the far wall, but at the moment she was just a rather wobbly shadow, like an image taken with a handheld camera.

“Ma!” Aline exclaimed, clearly exasperated. “Could you please appear? We really need to talk to you.” Jia sharpened at the edges. Now Helen could see her, still in her Consul robes. She looked drawn, so thin as to be worryingly emaciated.

The texture of the wall was still visible through her, but she was solid enough for Helen to read her expression: It mirrored her daughter’s in annoyance. “It isn’t easy to Project from the Gard,” she said. “We could have spoken on the phone.” “I wanted to see you,” said Aline. There was a slight tremble in her voice. “I needed to know what’s going on with this Registry. Why did the Council pass this piece of trash?” “Horace—” Jia began.

Aline’s voice cracked. “Where were you, Mom? How did you let this happen?”

“I did not let it happen,” Jia said. “Horace lied to me. A very significant meeting was set up this morning, a meeting with Sister Cleophas of the Iron Sisters about the Mortal Sword.” “Is it fixed?” said Aline, diverted momentarily.

“They have made no progress reforging it. It was created by angels, not humans, and perhaps only an angel can heal it.” Jia sighed. “Horace was meant to run a very standard meeting about border protocols while I was at the Adamant Citadel. Instead it became this fiasco.” “I just don’t understand how he convinced people that this was a good idea,” Helen said.

Jia had begun to pace. Her shadow wobbled up and down the wall like a puppet being pulled back and forth on a stage. “Horace should never have been a politician. He should have had a career in the theater. He played upon everyone’s worst fears. He sent a spy into Faerie and when he came to harm, claimed he was an innocent, murdered child. He claimed Kieran Kingson drove Samantha Larkspear mad—” “Mark told me she went out of her mind because she fell into the pool in the Hollow Place while the Cohort was tormenting Kieran,” said Helen indignantly. “She tried to murder him.” Jia looked bleakly amused. “Should I ask where Kieran is now?”

“Back in Faerie,” said Aline. “Now, you should tell me where Horace is now so I can punch him harder than he’s ever been punched in his life.” “Punching him won’t help,” said Jia. This was a conversation she and Aline had often. “I have to think about how to take constructive steps to undo the damage he’s done.” “Why did he arrest the Scholomance kids?” Helen said. “According to Mark, Rayan and Divya and Diego were the most decent of the Centurions.” “To make an example of them. ‘This is what happens if you help Downworlders,’ ” said Jia.

“We can’t actually register people,” said Aline. “It’s inhumane. That’s what I’m going to tell the Clave.” Jia’s Projection fizzed angrily at the edges. “Don’t you dare,” she said. “Haven’t you heard what I just said? Dearborn has it in for Helen because of her faerie blood. You’ll wind up in jail if you do, and someone more compliant will be installed in your place. You have to at least look like you’re going along with it.” “How do we do that?” Helen had always been a little afraid of her Consul mother-in-law. She always imagined that Jia couldn’t possibly be pleased that Aline had chosen to marry a woman, much less a half-faerie one. Jia had never indicated by word or deed that she was disappointed in Aline’s choice, but Helen felt it just the same. Still, she couldn’t help but speak up now. “Downworlders are meant to come to the Sanctuary and we have to turn in the registrations to the Clave.” “I know, Helen,” Jia said. “But you can’t ignore the orders. Horace will be watching to make sure the L.A. Institute meets its quota. I just got you two back from exile. I’m not losing you again. You’re clever. Find a creative way to undermine the registration mandate without ignoring it.” Despite everything, Helen felt a little shock of happiness. You two, Jia had said. As if she had missed not just Aline but Helen, too.

“There is one bright spot,” Jia said. “I was with Sister Cleophas when the news came through, and she was furious. The Iron Sisters are definitely on our side. They can be formidable when they choose. I don’t think Horace will enjoy having them as enemies.” “Mom,” Aline said. “You and Dad have to get out of Idris. Come here for a while. It’s not safe there.” Helen took Aline’s hand and squeezed, because she knew what the answer would be. “I can’t just leave,” Jia said, sounding not like Aline’s mother but like the Consul of the Clave. “I can’t abandon our people. I swore an oath to protect Nephilim, and that means weathering this storm and doing everything I can to reverse what Horace has done—to get those children out of the Gard prison—” Jia looked over her shoulder. “I must go. But remember, girls—the Council is basically good, and so are the hearts of most people.” She vanished.

“I wish I believed that,” said Aline. “I wish I understood how my mother could believe that, after all this time as Consul.” She sounded angry at Jia, but Helen knew that wasn’t what was going on. “Your mom is smart. She’ll be safe.” “I hope so,” said Aline, looking down at her hand and Helen’s, intertwined on the desk. “And now we need to figure out how to register people without actually registering them. A plan that doesn’t involve punching Horace. Why do I never get to do the things I want to do?” Despite everything, Helen laughed. “Actually, I have an idea. And I think you might like it.” * * *

The clearing overlooked the road below, visible as a white ribbon through the trees. The moon overhead was caught in the branches, casting enough illumination that Cristina could see the glade clearly: Surrounded by thick hawthorn trees, the grass underfoot was springy and cool, damp with dew. She had spread out Mark’s blanket roll and he lay asleep on it, curled partly on his side, his cheeks flushed.

Cristina sat beside him, her legs stretched out before her in the dew-wet grass. Kieran was nearby, leaning against the trunk of a hawthorn. In the distance, Cristina could hear the sounds of the revel, carried on the clear air.

“This,” said Kieran, his gaze fixed on the road below, “was not how I was expecting the events following our arrival in Faerie to transpire.” Cristina brushed Mark’s hair back from his face. His skin was fever hot; she suspected it was a side effect of whatever the cat faerie had given him to drink. “How long do you think Mark will be unconscious?” Kieran turned to press his back against the tree. In the darkness, his face was a map of black-and-white shadow. He had fallen into silence the moment they had reached the glade and gotten Mark settled. Cristina could only imagine what he had been dwelling on. “Another hour or so, most likely.” Cristina felt as if a lead weight were pressing against her chest. “Every moment we wait brings us farther away from Emma and Julian,” she said. “I do not see how we could possibly catch up with them now.” Kieran stretched his hands out in front of them. Long-fingered faerie hands, almost double-jointed. “I could summon Windspear again,” he said a little haltingly. “He is swift enough to reach them.” “You do not sound as if you like that idea much,” Cristina observed, but Kieran only shrugged.

He drew away from the tree and came toward Mark, bending to tuck a corner of the blanket over Mark’s shoulder. Cristina watched him consideringly. Windspear was a prince’s steed, she thought. Windspear would catch attention, here in Faerie. He might alert the kingdom to Kieran’s presence, put him in danger. But Kieran seemed willing to summon him regardless.

“Not Windspear,” she said. “Even if we had him—what would we do, try to pluck them from the procession out of the air? We would be noticed, and think of the danger—to Mark, to Jules and Emma.” Kieran smoothed the blanket over Mark’s shoulder and stood up. “I do not know,” he said. “I do not have answers.” He pulled his cloak around him. “But you are right. We cannot wait.” Cristina glanced up at him. “We cannot leave Mark, either.”

“I know. I think you should let me go alone. You remain here with Mark.”

“No!” Cristina exclaimed. “No, you’re not going alone. And not without the artifact. It’s our only way out.” “It doesn’t matter,” said Kieran. He bent down to lift his bag, swinging it over his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me.” “Of course it matters!” Cristina started to her feet and winced; her legs were stinging with pins and needles. She hurried after Kieran nonetheless, limping a little.

Moving swiftly, Kieran had reached the edge of the glade when she caught up with him. She seized hold of his arm, her fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeve. “Kieran, stop.” He stopped, though he didn’t look back at her. He was staring out at the road and the revel beyond. In a remote voice, he said, “Why do you prevent me?” “To go alone on that road is dangerous, especially for you.”

Kieran didn’t seem to hear her. “When I touched the pool at the Scholomance, I felt the confusion and pain that I caused to you,” he said.

Cristina waited. He said nothing else. “And?”

“And?” he echoed in disbelief. “And I cannot bear it! That I hurt you like that, hurt you and Mark like that—I cannot stand it.” “But you must,” said Cristina.

Kieran’s lips parted in astonishment. “What?”

“This is the nature of having a soul, Kieran, and a heart. We all stumble around in the dark and we cause each other pain and we try to make up for it the best we can. We are all confused.” “Then let me make up for it.” Gently but firmly, he pried her hand from his sleeve. “Let me go after them.” He started down the hill, but Cristina followed, blocking his way. “No—you must not—”

He tried to step around her. She moved in front of him. “Let me—”

“I will not let you risk yourself!” she cried, and caught at the front of his shirt with her hands, the fabric rough under her fingers. She heard him exhale with surprise.

She had to tilt her head back to look into his eyes; they glittered, black and silver and remote as the moon. “Why not?” he demanded.

She could feel the warmth of him through the linen of his shirt. There had been a time she might have thought him fragile, unreal as moonbeams, but she knew now that he was strong. She could see herself reflected in his dark eye; his silver eye was a mirror to the stars. There was a weariness to his face that spoke of pain, but a steadfastness, too, more beautiful than symmetry of features. No wonder Mark had fallen in love with him in the Hunt. Who would not have?

“Perhaps you are not confused,” she said in a whisper. “But I am. You confuse me very much.” “Cristina,” he whispered. He touched her face lightly; she leaned into the warmth of his hand, and his fingers slipped across her cheek to her mouth. He outlined the shape of her lips with his fingertips, his eyes half-closed. She reached up to wrap her arms around his neck.

He pulled her against him, and their mouths came together so swiftly she could not have said who kissed who. It was all fire: the taste of him on her mouth, and his skin smooth where she touched it, sliding her fingers under the collar of his cloak. His lips were fine-grained, soft but firm; he sipped at her mouth as if drinking fine wine. Her hands found his hair and buried themselves in the soft locks.

“My lady,” he whispered against her mouth, and her body thrilled to the sound of his voice. “Lady of Roses.” His hands slipped down her body, over her curves and softness, and she was lost in the heat and fire of it, in the feeling of him against her, so different from Mark but just as wonderful. He gripped her waist and pulled her tight to him and a shock went through her: He was so warm and human, and not remote at all. “Kieran,” she breathed, and she heard Mark’s voice in her head, saying his name: Kier, Kieran, my dark one, and she remembered Mark and Kieran kissing in the desert and felt a flutter of excitement deep in her bones.

“What’s going on?”

It was Mark’s voice—not just in her head, but cutting through the night, through the fog of desire. Cristina and Kieran jerked away from each other, almost stumbling, and Cristina stared at Mark, a silver-and-gold silhouette in the darkness, blinking at them.

“Mark,” Kieran said, a catch in his voice.

Suddenly the clearing was full of light. Mark threw up an arm, flinching away from the sudden unnatural brilliance.

“Mark!” Kieran said again, and this time the catch in his voice was alarm. He moved toward Mark, drawing Cristina after him, his hand in hers. They stumbled together into the center of the clearing just as a contingent of faerie guards burst from the trees, their torches blazing like banners against the night.

They were led by Manuel Villalobos. Cristina stared in shock. He wore their same livery: a tunic with the symbol of the broken crown hovering over a throne. His sandy hair was tousled, his grin slightly manic. A medallion like the one Cristina always wore glimmered at his throat.

“Prince Kieran,” he said as the guards surrounded Kieran, Mark, and Cristina. “How delighted your brother Oban will be to see you.” Kieran had his hand on the hilt of his sword. He spoke flatly. “That will be a first. He has never been delighted to see me before.” “What are you doing here, Manuel?” Cristina said.

Manuel turned to her with a sneer. “I’m here on business. Unlike you.”

“You don’t know why I’m here,” she snapped.

“Apparently, to whore for a faerie and his half-breed lover,” said Manuel. “Interesting activities for a Shadowhunter.” Mark’s sword flashed out. He lunged at Manuel, who leaped back, snapping an order to the prince’s guards. They swarmed forward; Cristina barely had time to get her balisong free and slash it forward, slicing a long cut across the chest of a guard with purple-and-blue-streaked hair.

Mark and Kieran were already fighting, each with a sword in hand. They were beautifully fast and deadly; several guards fell, shouting in pain, and Cristina added two more to the pile of wounded.

But there were far too many of them. Through the blaze of torches and flash of blades, Cristina could see Manuel lounging against the trunk of a tree. As she caught his eye, he grinned and made an obscene gesture at her. He clearly wasn’t worried about who was going to win this.

Mark shouted. Three guards had grabbed Kieran, who was struggling as they twisted his arms behind his back. Two more were advancing on Mark, and another leaped for Cristina; she sank her balisong into his shoulder and pushed past his falling body toward Mark and Kieran.

“Bind them!” Manuel called. “Prince Oban would take them to the King for questioning! Do not harm them.” He grinned. “The King wants to do that himself.” Cristina’s eyes met Mark’s as the two guards seized him. He shook his head at her frantically, shouting through the clamor: “Cristina! Take the artifact! Go!”

Cristina shook her head—I can’ t leave you, I can’t—but her eyes fell on Kieran, who was looking at her with naked hope and pleading. Reading the meaning in his gaze, she leaped for her pack where it lay on the ground.

Several of Oban’s guards dashed toward her, weapons outstretched, as Manuel cried out for them to stop her. She thrust her hand into the bag and seized the artifact. With all her will, she concentrated her mind on the one person she thought could help them.

Take me to him. Take me.

The glade flashed out of existence just as the guards closed in.