فصل 15

15

TURRETS AND SHADOWS

“Sebastian’s son,” Emma whispered. “He had a son.”

They had taken shelter in a room that looked like a disused food pantry. Bare shelves lined the walls, and empty baskets littered the floor. Emma thought of the fruit and bread they had certainly once held, and tried to ignore the gnawing of her stomach. She hadn’t eaten since the sandwiches the day before.

“There have always been rumors that Sebastian had an affair with the Queen,” Julian said. He was sitting with his back against a wall of the pantry. His voice sounded remote, as if it were coming from the bottom of a well. He’d sounded like that since they’d left the throne room. Emma didn’t know if it was a side effect of the potion or of seeing Annabel and letting her go. “But he only died five years ago.” “Time passes differently in Faerie,” said Emma. “Ash seems maybe thirteen.” She scowled. “He looks like Sebastian. I remember seeing Sebastian in the Institute. He was so . . .” Vicious. Cold. Inhuman. “Blond.” Julian didn’t look up. His voice was like ice. “You should have let me end her.” “Julian, no.” Emma rubbed at her temples; her head was aching. “You would absolutely have been killed if you tried.” “Emma—”

“No!” She dropped her hands. “I hate Annabel too. I hate her for standing there alive when Livvy’s dead. I hate her for what she did. But there are more important things at stake right now than our revenge.” Julian raised his head. “You lived for revenge for years. All you thought about was revenge for your parents.” “I know. And then I got my revenge, and it did nothing for me. It left me feeling empty and cold.” “Did it?” His eyes were cold and hard as blue-green marbles.

“Yes,” Emma insisted. “Also, then Malcolm came back from the dead as a sea monster, so . . .” “So you’re saying I shouldn’t kill Annabel because she’ll come back as a sea monster?” “I’m just pointing out the futility of my murdering Malcolm,” said Emma. “And you know who ended up killing him in the end? Annabel.” There was a long silence. Julian ran his fingers through his hair; Emma wanted to crawl across the room to him on her hands and knees, to beg him to go back to being the Julian he used to be. But maybe that was impossible. Maybe Livvy’s death had fallen like a scythe between that Julian and this one, killing any possibility that he might transform, like the swan princes in the fairy tale, back into the thoughtful, considering boy she loved, with secrets in his heart and paint on his hands.

“So what are you saying?” he asked at last.

“No one would blame you for killing Annabel,” said Emma. “But sometimes we have to put aside what we want right now for something bigger. You taught me that. The old you.” “Maybe,” said Julian. He yanked down his sleeve, and Emma saw again what she had seen in the clearing—the peculiar rust-splashed cloth tied around his right wrist.

She put a hand on his arm, stilling his movement. “What is that?”

“It’s Livvy’s blood,” he said. “I tore a strip off the shirt I was wearing when she died and tied it on my wrist. I’ll take it off when I kill Annabel. Not before.” “Julian—”

He pulled his sleeve back down. “I understand what you’re saying. I just don’t see why I should be the one to stop.” His voice was toneless. Emma felt cold all over. It was like looking at someone bleeding from a mortal wound who didn’t seem to know or understand that they were hurt.

“Anyway,” Julian said. “We need to go find Ash.”

I failed, Emma thought. There was something else I should have said, something that would have convinced him, and I failed. “Why do we need to find Ash?” “You heard the King. Ash is the weapon. The one that Clary and Jace came to find.” “He’s part of a weapon,” Emma said. “The King is poisoning his own land, and Brocelind Forest, too. He thinks he can use Ash to make the poison even more deadly, to destroy more of Idris.” “That’s the impression I got, yeah. But the King needs the Black Volume to make that second part work.” “Then aren’t we better off going after the Black Volume?”

“Which one?” Julian said. “Annabel has the real one. The Queen has the copy—well, the King has it at the moment, but it’s hers. That splits our goal—unless we pull Ash out of the equation.” Julian’s hair tumbled around his face in the darkness; Emma could see the thin scratches all over his skin where the thorns of the hedge had cut him. “Both of his bargains hinge on Ash—Annabel wants Ash, and so does the Queen. Taking Ash will buy us time and prevent the King from a making a deal.” “I’m not hurting a little kid, Julian,” Emma said flatly. “If that’s what you mean by ‘pull Ash out of the equation,’ I’m not doing it.” “We don’t have to hurt him,” Julian said. “Kidnapping him should work just fine.” Emma sighed. “And then what?”

“We offer Annabel a trade—the Black Volume for Ash. She’d do anything for him.” Emma wondered if she ought to point out how strange that was. She decided not to—this Julian didn’t understand why anyone felt strongly about anything.

“Then we kill her and take the book,” he finished.

“What about the Queen?”

“If the King doesn’t have Ash, she’s got no reason to trade the Black Volume, and she won’t. Meanwhile we get to the falls, head back to Idris with Ash and the original Black Volume, and Dearborn’s plan is shot. We walk into the Council with both those things and we’ll be heroes. The Clave won’t let the Cohort touch us.” “Ash isn’t a thing,” said Emma.

“The King called him a weapon,” said Julian.

Emma changed tack. “We don’t know how to find Ash in the tower.”

“I know you saw those guards in the corridor, just like I did,” Julian said. “And later in the throne room. They’re Ash’s guards. We know where his room is. We’ve seen it.” His eyes were glittering with determination. “I need you with me, Emma.” “Then promise me something,” she said. “Promise we’ll take Ash to Jia, not Dearborn.” “Fine,” said Julian. “I don’t care about what happens to Sebastian Morgenstern’s son.” Real Julian would have cared, Emma thought. Real Julian would have cared about any child, because he loved his own so much. He would have seen Tavvy in Ash, and Dru, and Ty, no matter who Ash’s father was.

“So will you come with me?” he said.

I will, she thought. Because someone has to protect Ash from you, and protect you from yourself.

She rose to her feet. “I’m with you,” she said.

“Hello?” Ty moved forward into the darkness of the cave, his witchlight shining in his hand. He looked like a painting to Kit, with the illumination bright on his dark hair and pale skin. “Shade? Are you here?” Kit had his own witchlight in his pocket, but Ty’s stone was casting plenty of light, picking out the cracks in the granite walls, the wooden table scored with old marks of knives and fire, the letters on its surface flaring briefly into life: Fire wants to burn.

They’d left Dru back at the Institute; she’d gone humming off to bed, and Kit had been pleased that they’d made her happy. She’d done well with Barnabas, too. Kit had been right: She had plenty of con artist in her.

“Shade,” Ty had said the moment Drusilla was out of earshot. “We have to talk to Shade.” He’d been vibrating with excitement, his cheeks flushed, his fingers working at one of his fidget toys.

It was a clear night with a three-quarter moon, the sky alive with fast-moving clouds, blown by wind off the ocean. Ty practically ran along the edge of the water, feet soundless on the damp sand; Kit found he wasn’t quite as breathless as he would have expected trying to keep up. Maybe he was turning into more of a Shadowhunter despite himself.

“Shade?” Ty called again, and this time the shadows moved and a light flared up inside the cavern. A lamp on the table had switched on, filling the chamber with illumination and shadows. Out of the deeper shadows, a grumpy voice spoke: “Who is it? Who’s bothering me?”

“Kit Herondale and Ty Blackthorn,” Ty said, his witchlight flaring higher. “We need to talk to you.” There was a sigh and a shuffle. “You’d better have a good reason for waking me up.” The shadows moved and resolved themselves into Shade, clambering out of a sleeping bag. He wore a pair of pin-striped pajamas and fuzzy slippers on his green feet.

“We sent you a note saying we were coming,” said Kit.

Shade glared. “I was asleep. It’s three in the morning.”

The sleeping bag wiggled. A moment later Church crawled out, making chirping noises. He curled up on top of the bag, blinking his large yellow eyes.

“That isn’t very loyal,” Ty said, looking at Church sternly.

Shade yawned. “We’ve known each other a long time, that cat and I. We had some things to catch up on.” Kit felt the conversation getting away from him. “We did what you told us to do,” he said to the yawning warlock. “We’re square with the Shadow Market.” “That’s right,” said Ty. “Hypatia Vex is running it now and says we can come there whenever we want.” An odd expression passed over the warlock’s face; interestingly, Shade did not look happy. He looked surprised and disturbed. Kit filed the fact away for future consideration.

“Then you can begin the spell,” said Shade slowly. “Once you’ve acquired all the ingredients, of course.” “What are the ingredients?” asked Kit. “Please tell me we don’t have to do Malcolm’s thing with the hands of twelve murderers. I don’t know twelve murderers. I don’t even know twelve shoplifters.” “No.” Shade had begun to pace. “Malcolm brought Annabel back the way he did because he had her body. We don’t have your sister’s body, so we can’t use his methods.” “She wasn’t my sister,” murmured Kit.

“If I remember correctly, there’s only one spell from the book that you can use,” said Shade, still pacing.

“That’s right,” said Ty.

“There’s really a spell?” Kit said. They both looked at him. “I just—I don’t see how you can bring someone back from the dead when their body is gone.” Ty had gone tense all over. “The book says you can do it,” he said. “It says it’s possible.” Shade snapped his fingers, and a mug of something steaming appeared on the table. He slumped into the chair and curled his hands around it, looking grim, or as grim as a green warlock in fuzzy slippers could look. “Because there’s no body, this is a highly unstable spell,” he said. “You aren’t the first to try it. Nothing is ever truly destroyed. That much is true. There are ways that the bodiless dead can be returned. Their spirit can be placed in another body, but that is a true evil, because the first body will die.” “No!” said Ty. “I don’t want that. Livvy wouldn’t want that.”

“The body can return as a living corpse,” Shade went on. “Not dead but not entirely alive. The body could come back with a corrupted mind, looking perfectly like Livvy but unable to think or speak. The disembodied spirit might return, or in some cases a Livvy from another world—like Edom—could be snatched into ours, leaving a hole behind in the world she departed.” “It seems like there aren’t any good options,” Kit said nervously.

“But it can work,” said Ty. All the blood had drained from his face. “It has worked in the past. People have been brought back, perfectly.” “Unfortunately,” said Shade, “yes.”

Kit knew already that “yes” was all Ty would hear. “We’ll get it right,” Ty said. “We’ll get the real Livvy back.” Kit felt the back of his neck prickle. He couldn’t tell if Ty was panicking, but Kit definitely was. What in his life had he ever gotten so right that he had the nerve to volunteer for a project that absolutely couldn’t go wrong?

“What are the things we need from the Market?” Ty said. He didn’t sound like he was panicking, and his calmness let Kit breathe again.

Shade sighed and drew a piece of paper toward him across the desk; he must already have scribbled on it some time before. He began to read the list out loud: “Incense from the heart of a volcano.

Chalk powdered from the bones of a murder victim.

Blood, hair, and bone of the person to be brought over.

Myrrh grown by faeries, harvested at midnight with a silver sickle.

An object from another world.”

“The person to be brought over?” Ty said. “That’s Livvy, right?”

“Of course,” Shade said.

“Without her body, how can we get her blood, hair, and bone?” said Kit. His mind raced along with the question: Maybe it would be impossible, maybe they couldn’t get the ingredients, and there would never be a chance of getting the spell wrong and inviting disaster.

“It can be done,” said Ty quietly. His fingers touched the locket at his neck briefly. “The incense, the myrrh—we can get those at the Market.” “What about an object from another world?” said Kit.

“There are a few in this dimension,” said Shade. “Most are in the Spiral Labyrinth.” He held up a hand. “And before you ask, no, I will not help you get one. My assistance ends with advising you.” Ty frowned. “But we’ll need you to help with the spell,” he said. “Shadowhunters—we can’t do magic.” Kit knew what Ty meant. Warlocks were among the few who could naturally do magic in the world; magicians like his father had to find an energy source because they couldn’t tap into ley lines, and energy sources—especially clean ones like the one Shade had promised them—weren’t easy to get. Even if you could find someone to sell you a catalyst, Shadowhunters were forbidden by Law to buy that sort of thing, and even if Ty didn’t care about breaking the Law, it would take him years to learn how to perform magic the way Johnny Rook had.

“I said I would contribute a catalyst you could use,” said Shade. “You must do the rest yourselves. I will not touch necromancy.” Church meowed.

Ty picked up the list of ingredients; his eyes were deep and dark, more black than gray in the cave light. “Okay,” he said. “Good enough.” He took out his witchlight and gestured for Kit to follow him; Shade rose to his feet and said something about walking them out. Kit hurried after Ty, who seemed as eager to be gone as he had been to come in the first place.

They had reached the end of the tunnel, where the rock opened out into sand and ocean, when Shade put his hand on Kit’s shoulder.

“Christopher,” he said. “Wait one moment.”

Ty had already made his way out onto the beach. He was bent over; Kit realized he was stroking Church’s fur. The cat had followed them out soundlessly and was making figure eights between Ty’s legs, rubbing his head against the boy’s calves.

“Watch over Tiberius,” said Shade. There was something in his voice, an inflection, that made it sound as if he had learned English a long time ago. “There are many ways to be endangered by magic.” Kit glanced up in surprise. “What do you mean? We don’t have to kill anybody, or create any death magic energy. Isn’t that what makes necromancy wrong?” Shade sighed. “Magic is like thermodynamics,” he said. “You’re always taking something from somewhere. Every act has repercussions, and this one may have repercussions you do not expect and cannot guard against. I see you think of yourself as Ty’s protector.” His voice gentled. “Sometimes you need to guard people against the things they want, as well as the things they fear.” Kit’s heart clenched.

Out on the beach, Ty straightened up. The wind blew his hair, and he reached up his hands, unhesitating and unselfconscious, to touch the wind and the night air. His face shone like a star. In all the world, Kit had never met anyone he believed to be so incapable of evil.

“I would never let anything hurt Ty,” he said. “You see, I—”

He turned to tell Shade, to explain to him how it was, how it would always be. But the warlock had disappeared.

Mark’s skin burned softly where the pure iron manacles had been chained around his wrists.

Oban and his guard rode ahead on their horses; Manuel was in among them, as if it were natural for a Shadowhunter to ride among Unseelie hosts. He turned occasionally to smirk at Mark and Kieran, who walked behind the group. Manacles circled both their wrists, connected to a thick iron chain that clipped to the pommel of Oban’s saddle.

It was a punishment Mark had seen before. He kept an anxious eye on Kieran in case he stumbled. A prisoner who fell would be dragged along behind Unseelie horses while the guards laughed.

Kieran was already pale with pain. The cold iron affected him much more than it did Mark; his wrists were bleeding and chafed where the iron touched them.

“They spoke of hostages,” he said finally, as they reached the crest of a low hill. “Whose death are we being exchanged for?” “We’ll find out soon enough,” said Mark.

“I am afraid,” said Kieran, naked honesty in his voice. “Manuel Villalobos was at the Scholomance when I was hiding there. He is a terrible person. There is nothing he would not do. Most of the Cohort strike me as followers rather than leaders, even Zara. She does as her father tells her, as she has been taught, though they are teachings of hatred and cruelty. But Manuel is different. He does what he does because he wishes to cause people pain.” “Yes,” said Mark. “It’s what makes him dangerous. He isn’t a true believer.” He glanced around them; they were passing near to a patch of blight. He had started to get used to the sight of them, annihilated landscapes of ashy grass and dead trees, as if acid had been poured onto the earth from the sky. “We can trust in Cristina,” he said in a near whisper. “She will be looking for help for us, even now.” “Did you notice something curious?” said Kieran. “Oban did not ask us about her. Where she might have vanished to, or who she might have sought out.” “Perhaps he was aware we did not know.”

Kieran snorted. “No. Manuel did not tell him Cristina was ever there, mark my words. He would prefer Oban not be angry he had let a Shadowhunter escape.” “What is Manuel doing with Oban? No offense, but Oban doesn’t seem like the brightest of your siblings.” Kieran’s eyes narrowed. “He is a drunkard and a turnip.”

“But an ambitious turnip.”

Kieran chuckled reluctantly. “It seems to me that Manuel has stoked Oban’s ambition. It is true that the Cohort cannot influence my father, but perhaps they hope to influence who the next Unseelie King might be. A weak one, that they can influence easily. Oban would be perfect for that.” They crested another hill. Mark could see the tower rise in the distance, a black thorn piercing the blue sky. He had flown over the Unseelie Tower with the Wild Hunt, but he had never been inside. He had never wanted to go. “Why would Manuel think that there would be a new Unseelie King anytime soon? Your father has been King for so long no one can remember what King Bram looked like.” Kieran glanced at the tower. A fresh burst of laughter came from Oban and the others ahead. “Perhaps it is because the people are angry with my father. I hear things from Adaon. There are whispers of discontent. That the King has brought this blight down upon our land. That his obsession with Shadowhunters has left his people divided and impoverished. The elder faeries of Unseelie have mistrusted him since the disappearance of the First Heir. They feel that the King did not try hard enough to find her.” Mark was startled. “The First Heir was a girl? I thought that the King murdered all his female children.” Kieran didn’t say anything. Mark recalled the last time they had faced the King in Faerie, when Mark had come with Emma and Julian and Cristina to save Kieran from the Lord of Shadows. Things were different now. He flashed back suddenly to the clearing, awakening to see Cristina and Kieran in each other’s arms, just before the guards had come.

“Why did you kiss Cristina?” Mark said quietly. “If you did it to upset me or make me jealous, that was a terrible thing to do to her.” Kieran turned to him with surprise. “It was not to upset you or make you jealous, Mark.” “She likes you,” Mark said. He had known it for some time but had never spoken the words aloud before.

Kieran flushed. “That is very strange to me. I do not deserve it.”

“I am not sure I deserve her fondness either,” said Mark. “Perhaps she does not bestow her heart with the care she should.” He glanced down at his bleeding wrists. “Do not hurt her.” “I could not,” said Kieran. “I would not. And I am sorry, Mark, if you were jealous. I had not intended that.” “It is all right,” Mark said with a kind of puzzlement, as if he were surprised at the truth. “I wasn’t jealous.” Not of either of you. How is that possible?

The shadow of the tower fell over them, darkening the ground where they stood. The air seemed suddenly colder.

In front of them, the massive thorned hedge that ringed the tower rose up like a wall of spikes. White bones hung from the thorny spikes, as they had hung for hundreds of years. It had been a long, long time since a warrior had challenged the wall. And Mark could not remember ever having heard of one who had done so and lived.

“Mark,” Kieran whispered.

Mark took a step forward and nearly stumbled; the chain connecting them to the horses lay limp on the ground. Oban and the others had paused in the archway of the enormous gates that were the only way through the thorn hedge.

Kieran reached for Mark and caught at his shoulder with his manacled hands. His lips were cracked and bleeding. He stared into Mark’s eyes with a look of terrible pleading. Mark forgot their strange discussion about Cristina, forgot everything but Kieran’s pain and his own desire to protect him.

“Mark,” Kieran breathed. “I have to warn you. We will walk the path of punishment to the tower. I have seen this happen to others. It is—I cannot—” “Kieran. It will be all right.”

“No.” Kieran shook his head wildly enough to make his dark-blue hair fly around his head. “My father will have lined the path to the tower with the gentry. They will scream at us. They will throw rocks and stones. It’s how my father wants it. He threatened me with it after Iarlath’s death. Now I am responsible for Erec’s death as well. There will be no mercy for me.” He choked on his words. “I am sorry you have to be here for this.” Feeling strangely calm, Mark said, “Isn’t it better to have me with you?”

“No,” Kieran said, and in his eyes Mark thought he saw the ocean, black and silver under the moon. Distant and untouchable. Beautiful and everlasting. “Because I love you.” The world seemed to rush away into silence. “But I thought—you said we would be done with each other.” “I am not done with you,” said Kieran. “I could never be done with you, Mark Blackthorn.” Mark’s whole body hummed with surprise. He barely registered it when they began to move forward again, until Kieran’s grip slid from his shoulder. Reality came rushing back in, a smacking wave: He heard Kieran suck in his breath, steeling himself for the worst as they passed through the gates after Oban and the others.

Their chains rattled over the cobblestones of the path that led from the gates to the doors of the tower, an obscenely loud noise. The courtyard on either side was packed with Unseelie faeries. Some carried stones, while some held whips made of thorny vines.

Fumbling slightly, twisting his wrist against the manacles, Mark managed to take Kieran’s hand in his. “We will go forward without fear,” he said in a low voice. “For I am a Shadowhunter, and you are the son of a King.” Kieran threw him a grateful look. A moment later they were moving along the path, and the crowd, bearing their whips and stones, had flanked them on either side.

Mark raised his head. They would not see a Shadowhunter cringe in fear or pain. Beside him, Kieran had straightened his back; his expression was haughty, his body braced.

Braced—for blows that did not come. As Mark and Kieran walked between the rows of faeries, they stood as still as statues, their rocks unthrown, their whips unmoving.

The only sound came from Oban and his guards, their muttering rising in the silent air. Oban twisted to the side, his angry gaze raking the crowd. “Bestir yourselves, imbeciles!” he shouted. “Don’t you know what you’re supposed to be doing? These are murderers! They killed Iarlath! They murdered Prince Erec!” A murmur went through the crowd, but it wasn’t an angry murmur. Mark thought he heard Erec’s name spoken in anger, and Kieran’s with much more gentleness; Kieran himself was looking around in great surprise.

And still the crowd did not move. Instead, as Kieran and Mark moved through and among them, voices began to rise. Mark listened incredulously as each told a story. He gave me bread when I was starving by the side of the road. He intervened when the King’s redcaps had taken my farm. He saved my husband from execution. He took responsibility for a crime my child committed. He tried to save my mother from the Riders of Mannan. And for his kindness, the King sent him to the Wild Hunt.

Oban whipped around, his face twisted in rage. Manuel laid his hand on Oban’s shoulder; he leaned in and whispered in the prince’s ear. Oban subsided, looking furious.

Kieran looked at Mark in astonishment, his lips half-parted. “I do not understand,” he whispered.

“They hate your father,” said Mark. “But I do not think they hate you.”

They had reached the steps of the tower. They paused as Oban and the others dismounted. There was a flash of movement in the crowd. A small faerie child, a girl with her hair in ribbons and bare feet, slipped from among the other fey folk and darted up to Kieran. She pressed something shyly into his hand. “For your kindness, Prince Kieran.” “What was that?” Mark asked as Kieran closed his hand around the object. But the guards had already surrounded them and were pushing them toward the doors of the tower, and Kieran did not answer.

As Diana flew with Gwyn over Brocelind, smoke furled up from the forest below like gray-and-black fingers unclosing against the sky.

The Cohort had burned the blighted areas, but haphazardly—Diana could see the smoking stumps of trees, but the gray-black ashy land stretched out even farther than it had before, and some patches seemed untouched by fire. Diana looked on in dismay. What did the Cohort think they were doing?

They landed and Gwyn helped Diana down from Orion’s back. Jia was waiting for them anxiously.

Diana ran to her. “I heard you had news about Emma and Julian. Are they all right? Have they been sent back to L.A.?” Jia hesitated. She was looking thin and drawn, her skin papery and gray. “They have not. No.” Relief flowed through Diana: So Emma and Julian were still in Alicante. “I was so worried at the meeting,” she said. “What Horace is doing to Diego and the others is unthinkable. Blaming them for crimes and sealing their mouths shut so they can’t speak for themselves. It made me almost glad Emma and Julian are sequestered in that house—” “Diana. No,” Jia said. She laid a thin hand on Diana’s wrist; Gwyn had come up and was listening quietly, his grizzled head tipped to one side. “A Clave member, someone loyal to me, overheard Zara talking to Manuel. She says that Horace sent Emma and Julian to Faerie on a suicide mission. I had my people check the house, and it’s empty. They aren’t here, Diana. They were sent to Faerie.” It was a soft explosion inside her head: rage, fury, anger at herself—she’d known something was wrong, had felt it. Why hadn’t she trusted her instincts?

“Gwyn,” she said, her voice barely recognizable in her own ears. “Take me to Faerie. Now.” Jia gripped Diana’s wrist. “Diana, think. Faerie is a huge land—we don’t know where they might be—” “Gwyn and his people are hunters,” said Diana. “We will find them. Gwyn—”

She turned to him, but he had stiffened all over, like a fox scenting hounds. “ ’Ware!” he cried, and whipped an ax from the scabbard on his back.

The trees rustled; Jia and Diana barely had time to draw their own weapons when the Cohort burst into the clearing, led by Zara Dearborn, brandishing a glittering sword.

A glittering sword that Diana knew. With a feeling as if she had swallowed a lump of ice, Diana recognized Cortana.

Jessica Beausejours was with Zara, along with Anush Joshi, Timothy Rockford, and Amelia Overbeck. Zara, in her Centurion uniform, grinned in triumph. “I knew it! I knew we would catch you conspiring with Downworlders!” Gwyn raised an eyebrow. “There is only one Downworlder here.”

Zara ignored him. “I expected no better of you, Diana Wrayburn, but Consul Penhallow? Violating the Cold Peace in your own homeland? How could you?” Jia held her curved dao across her chest. “Spare me the dramatics, Zara,” she said in clipped tones. “You don’t understand what’s happening, and your tantrums cause nothing but trouble.” “We’re not conspiring with faeries, Zara,” Diana said.

Zara spat on the ground. It was a startling gesture in its savage contempt. “How dare you deny that you are conspiring when we’ve caught you red-handed?” “Zara—”

“Don’t bother,” Jia said to Diana. “She and the Cohort won’t listen to you. They only hear what they want to hear. They accept nothing that contradicts the beliefs they already hold.” Zara turned to her followers. “Take them into custody,” she said. “We will bring them to the Gard.” Gwyn threw his ax. It was a gesture so sudden that Diana leaped back in surprise; the ax sailed over the heads of the Cohort and slammed into the trunk of an oak tree. Several members of the Cohort screamed as the tree crashed over with the deafening roar of snapping branches and shattering earth.

Gwyn extended his hand, and the ax flew back into his grip. He bared his teeth at the cowering Shadowhunters. “Stay back, or I shall cut you to pieces!” “See!” Zara had fallen to her knees when the tree had collapsed; she struggled up now, clutching Cortana tightly. “See? A conspiracy! We must fight—Anush!” But Anush had fled into the bushes. The others, visibly shaken, reluctantly grouped around Zara as she took several determined steps toward Gwyn.

“What will he do?” Jia said in a quiet voice.

“He will kill them all. He’s the Wild Hunt’s leader, they are nothing to him.”

“They are children,” Jia said. “Poor Anush fled. He is only sixteen.”

Diana hesitated. They were only children—hateful children, but Gwyn could not strike them down. It was no solution.

She ran to him, heedless of what the Cohort would think, and spoke in his ear. “Leave us,” she whispered. “Please. They will take us to the Gard, but it will not be for long. You must go after Emma and Julian.” Gwyn turned to her, concern plain on his face. “But you—”

“Find them for me,” Diana said. “I will be safe!” She whistled. “Orion!”

Orion cantered into the clearing, cutting between the Cohort and Gwyn. Gwyn clambered onto his horse’s back and leaned down to kiss Diana, holding her face in his hands for a long moment.

“Be safe,” he said, and Orion lifted into the sky. The Cohort were all shouting: Most had never seen anything like a steed of the Wild Hunt before. They really were children, Diana thought wearily: They still had wonder in them, mixed with their ignorance and hate.

And she could not hurt children. She stood quietly beside Jia as Zara and Timothy relieved them of their weapons and chained their hands behind their backs.

With their invisibility potions gone, Emma and Julian had to rely on staying in the shadows, hoods up, as they crept along the corridors of the tower. Luckily, it seemed as if everyone had been summoned to some kind of event—the crowds had thinned out, and there were fewer Unseelie fey hurrying to and fro along the corridors. The guards seemed distracted as well, and no one questioned them as they slipped around the turn of a corridor and found themselves in front of the hanging tapestry with its pattern of stars.

Emma glanced around, concerned. “The guards are gone.”

The corridor was, in fact, empty. Emma’s nerves tingled. Something wasn’t right.

“Good,” Julian said. “Maybe they took a break or something.”

“I don’t like it,” Emma said. “They wouldn’t leave Ash unguarded.”

“The guards might be inside the room.”

“This doesn’t feel right—”

“Someone’s coming.” Indeed, there were footsteps in the distance. Julian’s face was tight with tension. “Emma, we have to move.” Against her better judgment, Emma drew a shortsword from her belt and slipped past the tapestry after Julian.

The room beyond was silent, eerily so, and empty of guards. Emma’s first impression was of a place both richly decorated and very cold. A large four-poster bed carved of a single massive piece of wood dominated the space. Tapestries hung from the walls, depicting exquisite scenes of natural beauty in Faerie—forests wreathed in mist, tumbling glacial waterfalls, wildflowers growing on cliffs above the sea.

Emma could not help but think about the blight. The tapestries were stunning, a loving ode to the beauty of Faerie, but outside these walls the true Lands of Unseelie were being consumed by the blight. Had the King decorated this space? Did he see the irony of it?

Julian had placed himself by the tapestry door, his sword unsheathed. He was looking around curiously—it was hard not to notice the clothes strewn everywhere. Apparently Ash, like most teenage boys, was something of a slob. A window had been wedged open and cold air drifted through. Ash’s golden crown had been dumped on the windowsill, almost as if he were daring a magpie to steal it.

Emma crept over to the bed where Ash lay, a still figure under a richly embroidered coverlet. His eyes were closed, perfect half circles fringed with silvery lashes. He looked innocent, angelic. Emma’s heart went out to him—surprising, considering his resemblance to Sebastian. But it wasn’t an exact duplication, she saw, stepping closer, so that her shadow fell over the bed.

“He looks a little like Clary,” she whispered.

“It doesn’t matter what he looks like,” Julian said. “He’s Sebastian’s son.”

He’s a child, she wanted to protest, but she knew it wouldn’t matter. She reached out to place a tentative hand on the boy’s shoulder; as she did, she saw that there was a wide scar on the side of Ash’s throat, no longer hidden by the collar of his shirt, in the shape of an X. There were odd markings on the wall behind his bed too: They looked like runes, but twisted and sinister runes, like the ones the Endarkened had worn.

A ferocious desire to protect him rose up in her, startling in both its strength and its complete lack of logic. She didn’t even know this boy, she thought, but she couldn’t stop herself from reaching over to shake him gently. “Ash,” she whispered. “Ash, wake up. We’re here to rescue you.” His eyes flew open, and she truly saw Clary in him then; they were the same color green as hers. They fixed on Emma as he sat up, reaching out a hand. They were steady and clear and a thought flashed through her head: He could be a true leader, not like Sebastian, but like Sebastian should have been.

Across the room, Julian was shaking his head. “Emma, no,” he said. “What are you—” Ash jerked his hand back and shouted: “Ethna! Eochaid! Riders, help me!”

Julian whirled toward the door, but the two Riders had already torn through the tapestry. Their bronze armor shone like blinding sunlight; Julian struck out with his blade, slashing it across the front of Eochaid’s chest, but the Rider pivoted away.

Ethna’s metallic hair flew around her as she launched herself at Julian with a scream of rage. He raised his sword but wasn’t fast enough; she crashed into him, seizing Julian and smashing him against the wall.

Ash rolled away across the coverlet; Emma seized him and yanked him back, her fingers sinking into his shoulder. She felt as if she’d emerged from a fog: dizzy, breathless, and suddenly very, very angry. “Stop!” she shouted. “Let Julian go or I’ll cut the prince’s throat.” Ethna looked up with a snarl; she was standing over Julian, her blade out. He was crouched with his back against the wall, a trickle of blood running from his temple. His eyes were watchful.

“Do not be a fool,” said Eochaid. “Do you not understand that your only chance to live is letting the prince go?” Emma pressed the blade closer against Ash’s throat. He was like a taut wire in her grip. Protect Ash, whispered a voice in the back of her head. Ash is what matters.

She bit down on her lip, the pain whiting out the voice in her head. “Explain yourself, Rider.” “We are in the tower,” said Ethna in a tone of disgust. “We cannot slay you without the King’s permission. He would be angered. But if you were threatening Ash . . .” Her look was hungry. “Then we would have no choice but to protect him.” Julian wiped blood from his face. “She’s right. They can’t kill us. Let Ash go, Emma.” Ash was looking fixedly at Julian. “You look like her,” he said with surprise.

Puzzled, Emma hesitated, and Ash took the opportunity to sink his teeth into her hand. She yelled and let go of him; a circle of bleeding dents marked the curve of her thumb and forefinger. “Why?” she demanded. “You’re a prisoner here. Don’t you want to leave?” Ash was crouched on the bed, an odd feral scowl on his face. He was fully dressed in breeches, a linen tunic, and boots. “In Alicante I would be the son of your most hated enemy. You would take me to my death.” “It isn’t like that—” Emma began, but she didn’t finish; her head flew back as Ethna delivered a stinging slap to her cheek.

“Cease your yammering,” said Eochaid.

Emma turned back once to look at Ash as she and Julian were marched from the room at sword point. He stood in the middle of the chamber, looking after them; his face was blank, without Sebastian’s haughtiness and cruelty—but without Clary’s kindness, either. He looked like someone who had pulled off a successful chess move.

Neither Julian nor Emma spoke as they were marched along the corridors, the fey folk around them murmuring and staring. The corridors gave way soon to danker and danker hallways angling more steeply down. As the light dimmed, Emma caught a brief look at the expression of frustration and bitterness on Julian’s face before the shadows clustered and she could see only moving shapes in the occasional weak illumination of green bough torches hanging on the walls.

“It seems almost a pity,” said Eochaid, breaking the silence as they reached a long, serpentine hall that led to a dark hole in a distant wall. Emma could see the glimmer of guard uniforms even in the dark. “To kill these two before they can witness the destruction of the Nephilim.” “Nonsense,” said Ethna curtly. “Blood for blood. They murdered our brother. Perhaps the King will let us swing the scythe that ends them.” They had reached the hole in the far wall. It was a doorway without a door, cut into a thick wall of stone. The guards on either side seemed intrigued. “More prisoners?” said the one on the left, who was lounging atop a massive wooden chest.

“Captives of the King,” said Ethna in a clipped voice.

“Practically a party,” said the guard, and chuckled. “Not that they stay long, mind.” Ethna rolled her eyes and hustled Emma forward with the prick of the sword between her shoulder blades. She and Julian were ushered into a wide, square room with rough-hewn stone walls. Vines grew from the ceiling, ribboning down to plunge into the hard-packed dirt floor. They wove closely together into the shape of boxes—cells, Emma realized: cells whose walls were made out of thorny vines, hard as flexible iron.

She remembered those thorns stabbing into her, and shuddered.

Ethna laughed unpleasantly. “Shiver all you want,” she said. “There is no escape here, and no pity.” She took Emma’s weapons belt from her waist and forced her to remove the Clave’s gold medallion from her throat. Emma cast Julian a panicked look—nothing would prevent them from suffering the time slippage in Faerie now.

Furious, Emma was shoved into a cell through a gap in the vines. To her relief, Julian followed a moment later. She had been afraid they would be separated and that she would go out of her mind alone. He was also weaponless. He turned to glare at the Riders as Ethna tapped the end of her sword against the cage; the vines that had parted quickly slithered and twisted together, closing up any possibility of an exit.

Ethna was grinning. The look of triumph on her face made Emma’s stomach twist acidly. “Little Shadowhunters,” she crooned. “What does all your angel blood avail you now?” “Come, sister,” said Eochaid, though he was smiling indulgently. “The King awaits.” Ethna spat on the ground before turning to follow her brother. Their footsteps faded away, and there was darkness and silence—cold, pressuring silence. Only a little dim illumination came from smoky torches high up on the walls.

The strength left Emma’s limbs like water pouring out of a broken dam. She sank to the ground in the center of the cage, cringing away from the thorns all around her.

“Julian,” she whispered. “What are we going to do?”

He dropped to his knees. She could see where goose bumps had risen all over his skin. The bloody bandage around his wrist seemed to glow like a phantom in the dark.

“I got us in here,” he said. “I’ll get us out.”

Emma opened her mouth to protest, but no words came; it was close enough to the truth. The old Julian, her Julian, would have listened when she’d said she sensed the situation outside Ash’s room wasn’t right. He would have trusted her instinct. For the first time she felt something close to true mourning for that Julian, as if this Julian wasn’t just temporary—as if her Julian might never come back.

“Do you care?” she said.

“You think I want to die in here?” he said. “I still have a self-preservation instinct, Emma, and that means preserving you, too. And I know—I know I’m a better Shadowhunter than I just was.” “Being a Shadowhunter isn’t just in fast reflexes or strong muscles.” She pressed her hand against his heart, the linen of his shirt soft against her fingers. “It’s here.” Here where you’re broken.

His blue-green eyes seemed the only color in the prison; even the vines of their cell were metallic gray. “Emma—” “It is them!” said a voice, and Emma jumped as light flared all around them. And not just any light. White-silver light, radiating from the cell opposite theirs; she could see it now, in the new illumination. Two figures stood inside, staring at them through the vines, and one of them held a glowing rune-stone in her hand.

“Witchlight,” breathed Julian, rising to his feet.

“Julian? Emma?” called the same voice—familiar, and full of surprise and relief. The witchlight grew, and Emma could see the figures in the opposite cell clearly now. She bolted upright with astonishment. “It’s us—it’s Jace and Clary.”