فصل 16

16

A THOUSAND THRONES

Oban and his guards had led Mark and Kieran blindfolded through the tower, so if there were more reactions to Kieran’s presence, Mark had been unable to note them. He had, however, heard Manuel and Oban laughing about what the King was likely to do to Kieran, and to Mark as well, and he had struggled against his manacles in rage. How dare they speak that way when Kieran could hear them? Why would anyone take pleasure in such torture?

They had been led finally to a windowless stone room and left there, their hands still manacled. Oban had torn their blindfolds from them as he walked out of the room, laughing. “Look one last time upon each other before you die.” And Mark did look at Kieran now, in the dim room. Though there were no windows, light filtered down from a grating far above. The room was close, oppressive as the bottom of an elevator shaft.

“It is meant to be horrible,” Kieran said, answering the question Mark had not asked. “This is where the King keeps prisoners prior to bringing them before the throne. It is meant to terrify.” “Kieran.” Mark moved closer to the other boy. “It will be all right.”

Kieran smiled painfully. “That is what I love about mortals,” he said. “That you can say such things, for comfort, whether they be true or not.” “What did that girl give you?” Mark said. Kieran’s hair was blue-black in the shadows. “The little girl, on the steps.” “A flower.” Kieran’s hands were bound in front of him; he opened one and showed Mark the crushed white bloom. “A white daffodil.” “Forgiveness,” Mark said. Kieran looked at him in puzzlement; his education had not been flower-focused. “Flowers have their own meanings. A white daffodil means forgiveness.” Kieran let the flower fall from his hand. “I heard the words those people said as I went through the courtyard,” he said. “And I do not remember.” “Do you think your father made you forget?” Mark’s hands had begun to ache.

“No. I think it did not matter to me. I think I was kind because I was a prince and arrogant and careless and it suited me to be kind, but I could just as easily have been cruel. I do not remember saving a farm or a child. I was drunk on an easy life in those days. I should not be thanked or forgiven.” “Kieran—”

“And during the Hunt, I thought only of myself.” White threads shot through Kieran’s dark hair. He let his head fall back against the stone wall.

“No,” said Mark. “You thought of me. You were kind to me.”

“I wanted you,” Kieran said, a hard twist to his mouth. “I was kind to you because it benefited me in the end.” Mark shook his head. “When mortals say that things will be all right, it is not only for comfort,” he said. “In part it is because we do not, as faeries do, believe in an absolute truth. We bring our own truth to the world. Because I believe things will be all right, I will be less unhappy and afraid. And because you are angry at yourself, you believe that everything you have done, you have done out of selfishness.” “I have been selfish,” Kieran protested. “I—”

“We are all selfish sometimes,” said Mark. “And I am not saying you have nothing to atone for. Perhaps you were a selfish prince, but you were not a cruel one. You had power and you chose to use it to be kind. You could have chosen the opposite. Do not dismiss the choices you made. They were not meaningless.” “Why do you try to comfort and cheer me?” Kieran said in a dry voice, as if his throat ached. “I was angry with you when you agreed to return to your family from the Hunt—I told you none of it was real—” “As if I did not know why you said that,” said Mark. “I heard you, in the Hunt. When they whipped you, when you were tormented, you would whisper to yourself that none of it was real. As if to say the pain was all a dream. It was a gift you meant to give me—the gift of escaping agony, of retreating into a place in your mind where you were safe.” “I thought the Shadowhunters were cruel. I thought they would hurt you,” said Kieran. “With you, with your family, I have learned differently. I thought I loved you in the Hunt, Mark, but that was a shadow of what I feel for you now, knowing what loving-kindness you are capable of.” The elf-bolt at his throat shone as it rose and fell with his quick breathing.

“In the Hunt, you needed me,” said Kieran. “You needed me so much I never knew if you would want me, if you did not need me. Do you?” Mark stumbled a little, moving closer to Kieran. His wrists were burning fire, but he didn’t care. He pressed close to Kieran, and Kieran’s bound hands caught at Mark’s waist, fumbling to pull Mark closer to him. His heels lifted off the ground as he leaned into Kieran, the two of them trying to get as close as possible, to comfort each other despite their bound hands.

Mark buried his face in the crook of Kieran’s neck, breathing in his familiar scent: grass and sky. Perhaps this was the last grass and sky he would ever know.

The door to the cell swung open and a burst of light cut at Mark’s eyes. He felt Kieran go tense against him.

Winter, the redcap general, stood in the doorway, his shirt and cap the color of rusty old blood, his iron-soled boots clanging on the stone floor. In his hand was a long, steel-tipped pike.

“Move apart, the both of you,” he said, voice clipped. “The King will see you now.” * * *

Emma flew to the front of the cell—and remembered the thorns just in time, leaping back from touching them. Julian followed with a greater hesitation.

“Oh, thank the Angel you’re here,” said Emma. “I mean, not that you’re here, in prison, that’s bad, but—” She threw up her hands. “I’m glad to see you.” Clary chuckled wanly. “We know what you mean. I’m glad to see you, too.” Her face was smudged and dirty, her red hair tied up in a knot at the back of her head. In the light of the rune-stone, Emma could see that she looked a little thin; her dirt-stained jean jacket hung loose around her shoulders. Jace, behind her, was tall and golden as ever, his eyes bright-burning in the dimness, his chin shadowed with rough beard.

“What are you doing here?” he said, dispensing with pleasantries. “Were you in Faerie? Why?” “We were on a mission,” said Julian.

Clary ducked her face down. “Please don’t tell me it was to find us.”

“It was to find the Black Volume of the Dead. The Inquisitor sent us.”

Jace looked incredulous. “Robert sent you here?”

Emma and Julian glanced at each other. There was an awful silence.

Jace moved closer to the thorned bars of the cage that held him and Clary. “Whatever you’re not telling us, don’t hold it back,” he said. “If something happened, you need to let us know.” Perhaps not surprisingly, it was Julian who spoke. “Robert Lightwood is dead.” The witchlight blinked out.

In the darkness, with her Night Vision rune useless, Emma could see nothing. She heard Jace make a muffled noise, and Clary whispering. Words of comfort, words of soothing—Emma was sure of it. She recognized herself, murmuring to Julian in the quiet of night.

The whispering stopped, and the witchlight flickered back on. Jace was holding it in one hand, his other wrapped tightly around one of the vines. Blood ran from between his fingers, down his arm. Emma imagined the thorns stabbing into his palm and winced.

“What about everyone else?” he said in a voice so tight it was barely human. “What about Alec?” Emma moved closer to the front of the cell. “He’s fine,” she said, and filled them in as quickly as she could on what had happened, from Annabel’s murder of Robert and Livvy to Horace’s ascension as Inquisitor.

There was a silence when she was done, but at least Jace had let go of the vine.

“I’m so sorry about your sister,” Clary said softly. “I’m sorry we weren’t there.” Julian said nothing.

“There isn’t anything you could have done,” said Emma.

“The King is close to getting the Black Volume,” said Jace. He opened and closed his bloody hand. “This is really bad news.” “But you didn’t come here for that,” said Julian. “You came here to find Ash. He’s the weapon you’re looking for, right?” Clary nodded. “We got a tip-off from the Spiral Labyrinth that there was a weapon in Faerie that the Unseelie King had access to, something that could ify Shadowhunter powers.” “We were sent here because of our angelic blood. Rumors of the ineffectiveness of Shadowhunter magic in the Courts were swirling; the Silent Brothers said we would be more resistant to the effects,” said Jace. “We don’t suffer from time slippage here, and we can use runes—or at least we could, before they took our steles away. At least we still have these.” He held up the glowing witchlight, pulsing in his hand.

“So we knew we were looking for something,” said Clary. “But not that it was my—that it was Ash.” “How did you figure it out?” said Emma.

“We found out pretty early on that the King had kidnapped the Seelie Queen’s son,” said Jace. “It’s something of an open secret in the Courts. And then the first time Clary saw him—from a distance, we were captured before we ever got close—” Clary moved restlessly inside the cell. “I knew who he was right away. He looks exactly like my brother.” Emma had heard Julian and Livvy and Mark and Dru say the words “my brother” more times than she could count. It had never sounded the way it did when Clary said it: imbued with bitterness and regret.

“And now the King has the Black Volume, which means we have hardly any time,” said Jace, brushing his hand lightly across the back of Clary’s neck.

“Okay,” said Julian. “What exactly does the King plan to do with the Black Volume to make Ash a weapon?” Jace lowered his voice, though Emma doubted anyone could hear them. “There are spells in the Black Volume that would imbue Ash with certain powers. The King did something like this once before—” “Have you heard of the First Heir?” said Clary.

“Yes,” Emma said. “Kieran mentioned him—or at least mentioned the story.”

“It was something his brother Adaon told him.” Julian was frowning. “Kieran said his father had wanted the book since the First Heir was stolen. Maybe to raise the child from the dead? But what does that have to do with Ash?” “It’s an old story,” said Jace. “But as you know—all the stories are true.”

“Or at least true in part.” Clary smiled up at him. Emma felt a spark of longing—even in the darkness and cold of this prison, their love was undamaged. Clary turned back to Julian and Emma. “We learned that long ago the Unseelie King and the Seelie Queen decided to unite the Courts. Part of their plan involved having a child together, a child who would be heir to both Courts. But that wasn’t enough for them—they wanted to create a faerie child so powerful that he could destroy the Nephilim.” “Before the child was born, they used rites and spells to give the child ‘gifts,’ ” said Jace. “Think Sleeping Beauty but the parents are the wicked faeries.” “The child would be perfectly beautiful, a perfect leader, inspiring of perfect loyalty,” said Clary. “But when the child was born, she was a girl. It had never even occurred to the King that the child wouldn’t be male—being who he is, he thought the perfect leader had to be a man. The King was furious and thought that the Queen had betrayed him. The Queen, in turn, was furious that he wanted to abandon their whole plan just because the child was a girl. Then the child was kidnapped, and possibly murdered.” “No wonder—all that stuff about the King hating daughters,” Emma mused.

“What do you mean ‘possibly’?” said Julian.

Jace said, “We weren’t able to find out what happened to that child. No one knows—the claim of the King was that she was kidnapped and murdered, but it seems likely she escaped Faerie and lived on.” He shrugged. “What’s clear is that Ash has mixed in him the blood of royal faeries, the blood of the Nephilim, and the blood of demons. The King believes he’s the perfect candidate to finish what they began with the First Heir.” “The end of all Shadowhunters,” Julian said slowly.

“The blight the King has already brought here has been taking hold slowly,” Clary said. “But if the King is allowed to perform the spells he wants to on Ash, Ash will become a weapon even more powerful than the blight. We don’t even know everything he’ll be able to do, but he’ll have the same mixture of seraphic and infernal blood that Sebastian did.” “He’d be demonic, but impervious to runes or angelic magic,” said Jace. “He could bear runes, but nothing demonic could hurt him. The touch of his hands could make the blight spread like wildfire.” “The blight is already in Idris,” said Emma. “Parts of Brocelind Forest have been destroyed.” “We need to get back,” Clary said. She looked even paler than she had before, and younger. Emma remembered Clary on the roof at the L.A. Institute. Knowing something awful is coming. Like a wall of darkness and blood. A shadow that spreads out over the world and blots out everything.

“We can’t wait any longer,” Jace said. “We have to get out of here.”

“I’m guessing that wishing to get out of here hasn’t worked so far, since you’re still imprisoned,” said Julian.

Jace narrowed his eyes.

“Julian,” Emma said. She wanted to add sorry, he has no feelings of empathy, but she didn’t because at that moment she heard a shout, followed by a loud thump. Jace closed his hand over his witchlight, and in the near-total darkness, Emma backed away from the walls of the cage. She didn’t want to accidentally walk face-first into the stabbing thorns.

There was a grinding sound as the door of the prison swung open.

“Probably guards,” said Clary in a low voice.

Emma stared into the shadowy dimness. There were two figures coming toward them; she could see the gold glint of the braid on guard uniforms.

“One’s carrying a sword,” Emma whispered.

“They’re probably coming for us,” Clary said. “We’ve been down here longer.”

“No,” Julian said. Emma knew what he was thinking. Jace and Clary were valuable hostages, in their way. Emma and Julian were Shadowhunter thieves who had killed a Rider. They would not be left in the dungeons to languish. They would be beheaded quickly for the enjoyment of the Court.

“Fight back,” Jace said urgently. “If they open your cell, fight back—”

Cortana, Emma thought in desperation. Cortana!

But nothing happened. There was no sudden and comforting weight in her hand. Only a pressure against her shoulder; Julian had moved to stand next to her. Weaponless, they faced the front of their cell. There was the sound of a gasp, then running feet—Emma raised her fists— The smaller of the guards reached their cell and grabbed at one of the vines, then yelped in pain. A voice murmured something in a faerie language, and the torches along the walls burst into dim flame. Emma found herself staring through the tangle of vines and thorns at Cristina, wearing the livery of a faerie guard, a longsword strapped across her back.

“Emma?” Cristina breathed, her eyes wide. “What on earth are you doing here?” * * *

Watch over Tiberius.

Kit was doing just that. Or at least he was staring at Ty, which seemed close enough. They were on the beach below the Institute; Ty had taken off his socks and shoes and was walking at the edge of the water. He glanced up at Kit, who was sitting on a rise of sand, and beckoned him closer. “The water isn’t that cold!” he called. “I promise.” I believe you, Kit wanted to say. He always believed Ty. Ty wasn’t a liar unless he had to be, though he was good at hiding things. He wondered what would happen if Helen asked them both straight-out if they were trying to raise Livvy from the dead.

Maybe he would be the one who told the truth. After all, he was the one who didn’t really want to do it.

Kit rose slowly to his feet and walked down the beach to join Ty. The waves were breaking at least twenty feet out; by the time they reached the shoreline they were white foam and silver water. A surge splashed up and over Ty’s bare feet and soaked Kit’s sneakers.

Ty had been right. It wasn’t all that cold.

“So tomorrow we’ll go to the Shadow Market,” said Ty. The moonlight played delicate shadows over his face. He seemed calm, Kit thought, and realized that it had been a long time since he hadn’t felt like Ty was a tightly strung wire, thrumming by his side.

“You hated the Shadow Market in London,” Kit said. “It really bothered you. The noises, and the crowd—” Ty’s gaze flicked down to Kit. “I’ll wear my headphones. I’ll be all right.”

“. . . and I don’t know if we should go again so soon,” Kit added. “What if Helen and Aline get suspicious?” Ty’s gray gaze darkened. “Julian told me once,” he said, “that when people keep coming up with reasons not to do something, it’s because they don’t want to do it. Do you not want to do this? The spell, everything?” Ty’s voice sounded tight. The thrumming wire again, sharp with tension. Under the cotton of his shirt, his thin shoulders had tightened as well. The neck of his shirt was loose, the delicate line of his collarbones just visible.

Kit felt a rush of tenderness toward Ty, mixed with near panic. In other circumstances, he thought, he would just have lied. But he couldn’t lie to Ty.

He splashed farther into the water, until his jeans were wet to below his knees. He turned around, the foam of the surf splashing around him. “Didn’t you hear what Shade said? The Livvy we get back might not be anything like our Livvy. Your Livvy.” Ty followed him out into the water. Mist was coming down to touch the water, surrounding them in white and gray. “If we do the spell correctly, she will be. That’s all. We have to do it right.” Kit could taste salt on his mouth. “I don’t know . . .”

Ty reached out a hand, sweeping his arm toward the horizon, where the stars were beginning to fade into the mist. The horizon was a black line smudged with silver. “Livvy is out there,” he said. “Just past where I can reach her, but I can hear her. She says my name. She wants me to bring her back. She needs me to bring her back.” The corner of Ty’s mouth trembled. “I don’t want to do it without you. But I will.” Kit took another step into the ocean and paused. The deeper he went, the colder it got. And wasn’t that the case with everything, he thought. There are many ways to be endangered by magic.

I could walk away, he said to himself. I could let Ty do this on his own. But I can’t tell myself that it wouldn’t be the end of our friendship, because it would. I’d end up locked out of Ty’s plans, just like Helen, just like Dru. Just like everyone else.

It felt like the air was being choked out of his lungs. He spun back toward Ty. “Okay. I’ll do it. We can go to the Shadow Market tomorrow.” Ty smiled. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that a smile broke across his face, like the sun rising. Kit stood breathless, the water receding around him, as Ty came up and put his arms around Kit’s neck.

He remembered holding Ty on the roof of the Institute in London, but that had been because Ty was panicking. It had been like holding a wild animal. This was Ty hugging him because he wanted to. The soft cotton of Ty’s shirt, the feeling of Ty’s hair brushing against his cheek as he hid his expression from Ty by burrowing his face against the other boy’s shoulder. He could hear Ty breathing. He threaded his arms around Ty, crossing his cold hands over Ty’s back. When Ty leaned into him with a sigh, he felt like he’d won a race he didn’t know he was running.

“Don’t worry,” Ty said quietly. “We’re going to get her back. I promise.”

That’s what I’m afraid of. But Kit said nothing aloud. He held on to Ty, sick with a miserable happiness, and closed his eyes against the prying light of the moon.

“We are here to help you,” said Cristina’s companion. Emma recognized him, belatedly: Prince Adaon, one of the Unseelie King’s sons. She had seen him the last time she was in Faerie. He was a tall faerie knight in the colors of Unseelie, handsome and dark-skinned, two daggers at his waist. He reached out to grasp the vines of their cell, which parted under his touch. Emma wriggled out through them and flung her arms around Cristina.

“Cristina,” she said. “You beautiful badass, you.”

Cristina smiled and patted Emma’s back while Adaon freed Julian and then Jace and Clary. Jace was the last to slip through the vines. He raised an eyebrow at Julian.

“What were you saying about wishing to be rescued?” he said.

“We cannot stay here long,” said Adaon. “There will come others, guards and knights alike.” He glanced up and down the row of cells, frowning. “Where are they?” “Where are who?” said Emma, letting go of Cristina reluctantly.

“Mark and Kieran,” said Cristina. “Where are Mark and Kieran?”

“I came here to rescue my brother, not empty the palace’s prisons of criminals,” said Adaon, who Emma was beginning to think might not be the world’s most jolly person.

“We’re very appreciative of your efforts,” said Clary. She had noticed Emma was shivering with cold. She took off her denim jacket and handed it to Emma with a gentle pat on her shoulder.

Emma slipped the jacket on, too cold and tired and hurt to protest. “But—why would Mark and Kieran be here? Why are you here, Cristina?” Adaon had begun to stride up and down the line of cells, peering into each one. Cristina looked around nervously. “Mark, Kieran, and I heard that Dearborn sent you on a suicide mission,” she said to Emma and Julian. “We came to help you.” “But Mark isn’t with you?” said Julian, who had snapped to attention at the sound of his brother’s name. “Did you get separated here? Inside the tower?” “No. They were kidnapped on the road, by the worst of my brothers,” said Adaon, who had returned from his search of the cells. “Cristina came to me for help. I knew Oban would have brought Mark and Kieran here, but I thought they would be in the prison.” His mouth set in grim lines. “Oban was always overeager. He must have taken them straight to my father instead.” “You mean to the throne room?” said Emma, slightly dizzy with the suddenness with which things were happening.

“Yes,” said Adaon. “To the King. They would be valuable prizes, and Oban would be eager to collect.” “They’ll kill Kieran,” Cristina said, a thin thread of panic in her voice. “He already escaped execution once. They’ll kill Mark, too.” “Then we’d better get there and prevent it,” said Jace. Under the dirt and the beard, he was starting to look more like the Jace Emma had always known, the one she had once wanted to be like—the best warrior of all the Shadowhunters. “Now.” Adaon gave him a scornful look. “It’s too dangerous for you, Nephilim.”

“You came here for your brother,” Julian said, his eyes blazing. “We’re going after mine. If you want to stop us, you’ll have to use force.” “We should all go together,” Clary said. “The more of us there are, the more easily we can defeat the King.” “But you are powerless here, Nephilim,” said Adaon.

“No,” Jace said, and the witchlight blazed up in his hand, light spearing through his fingers. They all stood bathed in its white light. Cristina stared with her mouth open; Adaon betrayed shock the way faeries usually did, by moving one or two facial muscles slightly.

“Very well,” he said coolly. “But I will not risk being caught by the guards wandering the tower openly, like fools. All of you walk before me. You will behave as my prisoners now.” “You want us to act like prisoners being marched to the King?” said Julian, who didn’t look delighted at the thought.

“I want you to look afraid,” said Adaon, drawing his sword and motioning for them to get in front of him. “Because you should be.” * * *

Diana had expected to be locked in a cell in the Gard’s prisons, but instead she was brought to a surprisingly luxurious room. A Turkish rug covered the floor and a fire burned high in a carved stone fireplace. Deep velvet armchairs were pulled up to the fire; she sat in one, stiff with tension, and stared out the picture window at the rooftops of Idris.

Her mind was full of Gwyn, and of Emma and Julian. What if she had sent Gwyn into danger? Why had she assumed he would travel to Faerie to find two Shadowhunters only because she had asked?

As for Emma and Julian, two words circled in her head like sharks, over and over.

Suicide mission.

Horace Dearborn entered, carrying a silver tray with a tea service on it. Now I’ve seen it all, Diana thought as he sat down and settled the tray on a small table between them.

“Diana Wrayburn,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to have a private conversation with you for a long time.” “You could have invited me to the Gard at any time. You didn’t need to have me arrested in the woods.” He sighed deeply. “I’m sorry it had to happen like that, but you were consorting with faeries and breaking the Cold Peace. Understand, I like a woman with spirit.” His gaze slid over her in a way that made her feel like shuddering.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Where’s Jia?”

Horace picked up the teapot and began to pour. Every move was measured and calm. “By the will of the Council, the Consul is under house arrest for the time being, until her connection with faeries is investigated.” It wasn’t really a surprise, but it still felt like a blow. “Don’t tell me. Her trial will be held as soon as the Mortal Sword is ‘reforged,’  ” Diana said bitterly.

He bobbed his head enthusiastically. “Exactly, exactly.” He set the teapot down. “An unfortunate situation. And one you could find yourself in—unless you’re willing to make a bargain with me.” “What kind of bargain?”

He handed her a teacup; mechanically, Diana took it. “The next Council meeting will be a difficult one, as the Clave is brought to understand that future decisions must be arrived at without the Consul. A transition of power is always difficult, wouldn’t you say?” Diana stared at him stonily.

“Let me be clear,” Horace said, and though his expression was easy and friendly, there was no friendliness in his eyes. “Take my side at the next Council meeting. You have influence over people. The L.A. Institute, the New York Institute—many Institutes will listen to you. If you back me as the next Consul, a replacement for Penhallow, so will they.” “People listen to me because I don’t compromise my values,” Diana said. “They know when I say something, I believe it. I could never believe you would make a good Consul.” “Is that so?” The false friendliness had vanished from his face. “Do you think I care about your values, Diana Wrayburn? You’ll stand by my side, because if you don’t, I will reveal your secret to the Clave.” Diana’s throat tightened. “What secret?”

Horace rose to his feet, his expression thunderous. “For all your talk of values, I know you have a secret. I know you’ve refused to become head of the Los Angeles Institute all these years—letting a madman run it—I know you carry a shadow with you, Diana Wrayburn, and I know what it is. I know you submitted yourself to mundane medical treatment in Bangkok.” Stunned and furious, Diana was silent. How did he know? Her mind raced: The Clave considered a Shadowhunter who let mundane doctors look at their blood, learn their secrets, a traitor. Never mind that Catarina had covered up all her unusual test results. Horace would blame her anyway.

“And let me tell you this,” said Horace. “I will use that information to the fullest unless you do as I say. You will be torn from those Blackthorns you love so dearly. Imprisoned, perhaps, alongside other traitors.” “Unless what?” Diana said dully.

“Unless you agree to stand by my side at the next meeting and declare that Jia is incompetent and that I should be the next Consul. Do you understand?” Diana felt as if she were seeing herself through the wrong end of a telescope, a tiny figure with Horace looming vastly over her. “I understand.” “And do you agree to throw your support behind the Cohort?”

“Yes.” She got to her feet. She was very conscious of her torn and dirty clothes—the Cohort had not been gentle with her or Jia, though they had surrendered quietly.

Horace opened his mouth, perhaps to call for the guards to take her away. Moving more swiftly than she would have thought possible, Diana seized the Inquisitor’s sword from the belt at his waist and swung it.

Horace screamed. He staggered back, still screaming, and fell to his knees; there was blood all over his robes. His arm was hanging at a strange angle.

Guards burst into the room, but Diana had already run to the window and thrown it open. She hurled herself onto the roof, skidding nearly to the edge before she arrested her fall by catching at the slate tiles.

The guards were at the window. She scrambled to her feet and raced across the roof, looking for an overhang she could swing down from. A shadow passed across the moon, obscuring the demon towers. She heard the sound of hoofbeats, and she knew.

As the guards crawled through the window, she hurled herself from the roof.

“Diana!” Gwyn banked Orion, turned, reached out to catch her. She landed awkwardly, hurling her arms around his neck. Strong hands wrapped her waist; she glanced back once and saw the pale faces of the guards watching from the roof of the Gard as they sailed into the night.

Dru flipped off the TV in the middle of The Deadly Bees, which was unusual because it was one of her favorite bad movies. She’d even bought a pair of gold bee earrings at Venice Beach once so she could wear them while she watched the death-by-stinger scenes.

She was too restless to sit still, though. The excitement she’d felt outside the 101 Coffee Shop still prickled the back of her neck. It had been so much fun being teamed up with Kit and Ty, laughing with them, in on their plans.

She swung her legs off the sofa and headed barefoot out into the hallway. She’d painted the toenails on one foot acid green, but she didn’t feel like sticking around to do the other one. She felt like finding Livvy and curling up with her on her bed, laughing at out-of-date mundane magazines.

The pain of remembering Livvy changed from moment to moment; sometimes a dull, aching one, sometimes a sharp flash as of being stuck with a hot needle. If Julian or Emma were here, she could have talked to them about it, or even Mark. As she passed the big staircase leading down to the entryway, she could hear the sound of voices from the Sanctuary. Helen’s, friendly and calm, and Aline’s, sharp and authoritative. She wondered if she would have gone to either of them even if they hadn’t been so busy. Dru couldn’t really imagine it.

She thought of tonight, though, giggling in the back of the car with Kit and Ty, and the desert wind in her hair. It carried the smell of white oleander even in the center of Hollywood. The night had filled the gnawing urge to do something inside her that she hadn’t even realized was there.

She reached the twins’ bedrooms. Ty and Livvy had always had bedrooms directly across from each other; the door of Livvy’s room was shut tight and had been since they’d returned from Idris.

Dru laid her hand on it, as if she could feel her sister’s heartbeat through the wood. Livvy had painted her door red once, and the flaking paint was rough against Dru’s fingers.

In a horror movie, Dru thought, this was when Livvy would burst out half-rotted, clawing at Dru with her dead hands. The idea didn’t frighten her at all. Maybe that was why she liked horror movies, Dru thought; the dead never stayed dead, and those left behind were too busy wandering unwisely around in the woods to have time to grieve or feel loss.

She left Livvy’s door and went over to Ty’s. She knocked, but there was music playing in the room and she couldn’t hear a reply. She pushed the door open and froze.

The radio was on, Chopin blasting, but Ty wasn’t there. The space was freezing. All the windows were wide open. Dru almost tripped getting across the room to slam the largest window shut. She looked down and saw that Ty’s books were scattered over the floor, no longer in neat rows determined by subject and color. His desk chair lay in pieces, his clothes were scattered everywhere, and there were smears of dried blood on his sheets and pillowcases.

Ty. Oh, Ty.

Dru closed the door as hastily as she could without slamming it, and hurried off down the hallway as if a monster from one of her old movies were chasing her.

They stopped outside the prison, where the dead body of the guard lay draped over the wooden chest Emma had noticed earlier. Adaon grimaced and used the tip of his boot to shove the guard’s body aside. It hit the bloodstained flagstones with a thump. To Emma’s puzzlement, Adaon knelt and shoved the chest open, the hinges groaning and squeaking.

Her puzzlement vanished quickly. The chest was full of weapons—longswords, daggers, bows. Emma recognized the sword the Riders had taken from her, and Julian’s as well. She craned her neck to stare, but she didn’t see the medallion anywhere among the confiscated items.

Adaon seized up a number of swords. Jace held out his hand for one.

“Come to papa,” he crooned.

“I can’t believe you have a beard,” Emma noted, momentarily diverted.

Jace touched his bristly cheek. “Well, it has been a week, at least. I expect it makes me look manly, like a burnished god.” “I hate it,” said Emma.

“I like it,” said Clary loyally.

“I don’t believe you,” said Emma. She stuck out her hand toward Adaon. “Give me my sword. Jace can use it to shave.” Adaon glared at all of them. “You shall bear no blades. You cannot be armed if you are meant to be prisoners. I will carry the swords.” He swung them up over his shoulder as if they were a bunch of kindling. “Now, come.” They marched ahead of Adaon, through the now-familiar dank underground corridors. Julian was silent, lost in thought. What did he feel? Emma wondered. He loved his family, still, but he had said it was different now. Did that mean he wasn’t terrified for Mark?

Emma moved closer to Cristina. “How did you end up finding Adaon?” she whispered. “Did you just click your ruby heels together and demand to be taken to the Unseelie King’s hottest son?” Cristina rolled her eyes. “I saw Adaon in London, with Kieran,” she whispered. “He seemed to care about Kieran. I took a chance.” “And how did you get to him?”

“I’ll tell you later. And he is not the hottest Unseelie prince. Kieran is the hottest,” Cristina said, and blushed beet red.

Emma eyed Adaon’s muscles, which were bunching spectacularly under his tunic as he balanced the swords. “I thought Kieran was at the Scholomance?” Cristina sighed. “You missed a lot. I will tell you everything, if we—”

“Survive?” Emma said. “Yeah. I have a lot to tell you, too.”

“Be quiet!” snapped Adaon. “Enough chatter, prisoners!”

They had emerged from the underground tunnels into the lower levels of the tower. Seelie and Unseelie faeries streamed by, hurrying to and fro. A passing redcap gave Adaon a broad wink.

“Good work, Prince,” he growled. “Round up those Nephilim!”

“Thank you,” said Adaon. “They’re very rowdy.”

He glared at Cristina and Emma.

“Still think he’s hot?” Cristina muttered.

“Possibly more so,” whispered Emma. She felt an insane urge to giggle, despite the awful situation. She was just so happy to see Cristina again. “We’re going to get through this, and we’re going to get back home, and we’re going to tell each other everything.” “That is enough. The two of you, move apart,” Adaon snapped, and Emma sheepishly went to walk next to Clary. They had reached the less crowded, more residential part of the tower, with its rows of richly decorated doors.

Clary looked exhausted, her clothes stained with blood and dirt.

“How did you get caught?” Emma murmured, keeping a weather eye on Adaon.

“The Riders of Mannan,” said Clary in a low voice. “They’ve been set the task of guarding Ash. We tried to fight them off, but they’re more powerful here than they are in our world.” She glanced sideways at Emma. “I heard you killed one of them. That’s pretty impressive.” “I think it was Cortana, not me.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of the right blade,” said Clary. “I miss Heosphoros sometimes. I miss the feel of it in my hand.” Heosphoros, like Cortana, had been forged by the legendary weapon-maker Wayland the Smith. Every schoolchild knew Clary had carried the sword into Edom and slain Sebastian Morgenstern with it, and that it had been destroyed in the resulting conflagration.

Was Clary thinking about Sebastian? Without being able to stop herself, Emma whispered, “I don’t think Ash has to be like his father. He’s still a little kid. He could grow up better—kinder.” Clary’s smile was sad. “So he got to you, too.”

“What?”

“ ’A perfect leader, inspiring of perfect loyalty,’ ” Clary said. “The King has already done things to Ash, using his blood, I think, to make him like the First Heir. When you talked to him, you wanted to follow him and protect him, didn’t you?” Emma blanched. “I did, but—”

“Prince Adaon!” called a rough voice. Emma looked up to see that they stood in front of the rows of redcaps guarding the throne room. The leader of them—the one with the bloodiest, reddest cap and uniform—was looking at Adaon with some surprise. “What is this?” “Prisoners for the King,” Adaon barked.

“These were caught a week hence.” The redcap pointed at Jace and Clary.

“Aye, but I discovered these others in the prison, attempting to free them.” Adaon indicated Cristina, Julian, and Emma. “They are Nephilim spies. They claim they have information for the King, which they would trade for their miserable, wormlike lives.” “Wormlike?” Julian muttered. “Really?”

“Hold here a moment,” said the redcaps’ leader. He ducked through the archway. A moment later he had returned, a faint smirk on his face. “Prince Adaon, pass through. Your father would see you, and prayed me give you the expectation of a familial reunion.” A familial reunion. The King could just mean himself, of course. But he could also mean Kieran—and Mark.

Julian had reacted too, if silently. His hand tightened as if he could grip an imaginary blade, and his eyes fixed on the dark archway.

“Thank you, General Winter,” said Adaon, and began to lead them all forward.

This time they weren’t walking into the throne room invisible to all eyes. This time they would be seen. Emma’s throat was dry, her heart pounding.

Unlike the Seelie Queen’s ever-changing throne room, the inner sanctum of the King was unaltered. The massive Portal still covered one wall. It showed a blowing desert landscape, where trees poked out of the ground like skeleton hands clawing for air. The yellow-bright desert light lent an unnatural tint to the room, as if they stood in the light of invisible flames.

The King was upon his throne, his one eye blazing red. In front of him were Mark and Kieran, surrounded by redcaps. Mark’s hands were manacled together; Kieran knelt, his bound wrists connected to a metal chain sunk into the stone floor. When they jerked around to see who had come in, shock and relief flooded across Mark’s face, followed by horror. There was a bloody cut across Kieran’s forehead.

His lips formed a single word. Cristina.

Cristina gave a ragged gasp. Emma reached to catch her friend’s wrist, but she was frozen in place.

It was Julian who bolted forward, his gaze fixed on Mark. Adaon caught him with his free arm and yanked him back. Emma remembered what Julian had said about the atavistic need to protect Ty. It seemed he felt it for his other siblings too: He was still struggling as Adaon turned and said something to Jace. The Strength rune on Jace’s forearm flashed as he flung an arm around Julian’s chest, immobilizing him.

“Keep him back!” Winter, the redcap general, pointed the tip of his pikestaff at Julian. More redcaps had streamed in to stand between Adaon’s captives and the King, a thin crimson line.

Julian’s body was a taut line of tension and hate as he stared at the King, who was grinning his odd, half-skeletal grin. “Well done, Adaon,” the King said. “I hear you foiled an attempt to escape our prisons.” Mark’s shoulders slumped. Kieran gazed at his father with loathing.

“Look your fill, my son,” the King said to Kieran. “Your friends are all my prisoners. There is no hope for you.” He turned. “Let me see them, Adaon.” With the tip of his sword, Adaon urged Emma and the others closer to the throne. Emma felt her chest tighten, remembering the last time she had stood before the King of Unseelie, how he had looked into her heart somehow and seen what she had most wanted, and given it to her as a dose of poison.

“You,” said the King, his eyes on Emma. “You fought my champion.”

“And she won,” said Cristina proudly, her back straight.

The King ignored her. “And you slew a Rider, my Fal. Interesting.” He turned to Julian. “You disrupted my Court and took my son hostage. His blood is on your hands.” Lastly, he gazed at Jace and Clary. “Because of you we suffer the Cold Peace.” Adaon cleared his throat. “Then why are they still alive, Father? Why have you not killed them?” “Not helpful,” Jace muttered. He had let go of Julian, who stood poised like a runner waiting for the starting gun.

“Leverage against the Clave,” said the King, caressing the arm of his throne. The stone was carved with a pattern of screaming faces. “To us they are enemies. To the Clave, they are heroes. It is ever the way with war.” “But do we not seek an end to the Cold Peace?” said Adaon. “If we return these prisoners to the Clave, we could reopen negotiations. Find common ground. They will see that we are not all bloodthirsty murderers, as they believe.” The King was silent for a moment. He was expressionless, but there was a look of apprehension on Kieran’s face that Emma didn’t like.

At last the King smiled. “Adaon, you are truly the best of my sons. In your heart you long for peace, and peace we shall have—when the Nephilim realize we have a weapon that can destroy them all.” “Ash,” Emma whispered.

She hadn’t even meant to speak aloud, but the King heard. His ghastly face turned toward her. In the depths of his cavernous eye sockets, pinpoint lights gleamed.

“Come here,” he said.

Julian made a noise of protest—or maybe it was something else; Emma couldn’t tell. He was biting his lip hard, blood running down his chin. He didn’t seem to notice, though, and he did nothing to stop her as she turned to go toward the King. She wondered if he even knew about the blood.

She approached the throne, moving past the line of redcaps. She felt utterly naked without a weapon in her hand. She hadn’t felt so vulnerable since Iarlath had whipped her against the quickbeam tree.

The King thrust out a hand. “Stop,” he said, and Emma stopped. There was enough adrenaline coursing through her that she felt a little drunk. She wanted nothing more than to fling herself at the King, tear at him, punch and kick him. But she knew that if she tried, she would be dead in an instant. The redcaps were everywhere.

“One of you I will choose to return to the Clave as my messenger,” said the King. “It could be you.” Emma raised her chin. “I don’t want to carry your messages.”

The King chuckled. “I didn’t want you to kill one of my Riders, but you did. Perhaps this shall be your punishment.” “Punish me by keeping me here,” said Emma. “Let the others go.”

“A noble, but stupid, attempt at a ploy,” said the King. “Child, all the wisdom of the Nephilim could fit into one acorn in the hand of a faerie. You are a young and foolish people and in your foolishness, you will die.” He leaned forward, the pinpoint gleaming in his right eye blooming into a circle of flame. “How do you know of Ash?” “No! No! Leave him alone!” Emma whirled; a woman’s scream lanced through the room like the sweep of a sharp blade. She felt herself tense further; Ethna and Eochaid had stalked into the room, marching Ash between them. He was without his gold crown and looked sulky and angry.

Rushing along behind him was Annabel, crying out. “Stop! Haven’t you done enough? Stop, I tell you! Ash is my charge—” She saw Emma and froze. Her eyes darted toward Adaon, lighting on Julian, who stared back at her with blazing hatred. Jace was gripping his shoulder again.

She seemed to shrink into her clothes—a gray linen dress and woolen jacket. Her left hand was a claw that clutched the true Black Volume.

“No,” she moaned. “No, no, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to do it.”

Emma heard a deep growl. A moment later she realized it was Mark, his chains rattling. Annabel gasped, recognizing him. She staggered back as one of the redcaps darted toward Mark, pike raised.

Mark backed up—but he wasn’t retreating, Emma saw, only loosening the chains that bound his wrists. He spun, flinging the chains around the redcap’s neck; the pike crashed to the ground as he seized the length of chain and jerked, hard.

The guard was flung backward, hurtling into his fellow redcaps. They all stumbled. Mark stood poised and breathing hard, his eyes fierce and hard as glass. Winter gazed at him and Kieran with a considering look.

“Shall I kill him for you, liege?” said Winter.

The King shook his head, clearly annoyed. “Have him beaten to his bones later. Redcaps, be more wary of the prisoners.” He sneered. “They bite.” Annabel was still moaning softly. She cast a terrified look at Emma, Julian, and Mark—which was ridiculous, Emma thought, as they were all obviously prisoners—and a longing one at Ash.

Perfect loyalty, Emma thought. No wonder Annabel had attached herself so swiftly and tightly to Ash.

The King snapped his fingers at Emma. “Return to Adaon, girl.”

Emma bristled but said nothing. She sauntered back across the room to Adaon and the others, refusing to give the King the satisfaction of hurrying.

Emma reached the rest of the group just as Annabel gave another whimpering scream. Emma pushed in next to Julian, taking his arm. His muscles jumped under her touch. She wrapped her hand around his forearm and Jace stepped away from them, giving them space.

Emma could feel the shape of the bloody rag tied around Julian’s forearm under her fingers. Remember what Livvy would want, she thought. Don’t get yourself killed.

The King turned to Eochaid. “Give Ash your sword, Rider.”

Eochaid reeled back, clearly stunned. He turned toward Ethna, but she shook her head, her bronze hair spilling over her shoulders. Her message was clear: Do it.

They watched as Eochaid handed over his gleaming bronze-gold sword. It was far too big for Ash, who took it with the grip of someone who was used to handling weapons, but not ones this big and heavy. He stared at the King with shocked eyes.

“Cut Kieran’s throat, Ash Morgenstern,” said the King.

He isn’t even pretending, Emma thought. He doesn’t care if we know exactly who Ash is or not.

“No!” cried Mark. He lunged toward Ash and Kieran, but the redcaps cut him off. They were incredibly quick, and angry now—he had hurt one of their own.

Clary gasped. Emma could hear Cristina whispering frantically beside her, though not the individual words. Kieran stayed where he was, gazing flatly into the distance as if the King hadn’t spoken.

“Why?” said Ash. His voice shook. Emma wondered if it was real or faked for sympathy.

“You must spill royal blood,” said the King, “and Kieran’s is the most expendable.” “You are a bastard!” Mark shouted, struggling against his manacles and the grip of the redcaps.

“This is too much,” Annabel cried. “He’s just a child.”

“Which is why this must be done now,” said the King. “The Dark Artifices would kill an older child.” He leaned forward to look Ash in the face, a parody of a concerned adult. “Kieran will die regardless,” he said, “whether your hand wields the blade or not. And if you do not do it, he will die slowly, in howling pain.” Kieran’s gaze tracked slowly across the room—but not toward Ash. He looked at Cristina, who was gazing helplessly at him, and then at Mark, struggling in the redcaps’ grip.

He smiled.

Ash took a step forward. The sword hung loose in his hand and he was biting his lip. At last Kieran glanced at him.

“Do what you must, child,” he said, his voice kind and quiet. “I know what it is to be given no good choice by the King of the Unseelie Court.” “Ungrateful whelp!” barked the King, sneering at Kieran. “Ash—now!”

Emma looked wildly toward Julian and the others. Adaon couldn’t help them; there were too many redcaps, and the Riders were impossible to fight— More redcaps spilled into the room. It took Emma a moment to realize they were running. Fleeing in terror from the storm that followed—a slender figure blazing in scarlet and gold, with red hair flowing around her like spilled blood.

The Seelie Queen.

An expression of surprise crossed the Unseelie King’s face, followed swiftly by rage. Ash dropped the sword he was holding with a clatter, backing away from Kieran as the Queen approached.

Emma had never seen the Seelie Queen like this. Her eyes were brilliant, blazing with unfaerie-like emotion. She was like a tidal wave, rushing toward her son.

“No!” Annabel’s screech was almost inhuman. Thrusting the Black Volume into her jacket, she bolted toward Ash, her arms held out.

The Seelie Queen turned in one smooth motion and flung out her hand; Annabel sailed into the air and slammed into the rock wall of the chamber. She slid to the floor, gasping for breath.

She had given the Riders time, though, to gather around Ash. The Queen strode toward them, her face radiant with power and rage.

“You cannot touch him,” said Ethna, her voice shimmering with a metallic hum. “He belongs to the King.” “He is my son,” said the Queen with contempt. Her gaze flickered between the two Riders. “You are of the oldest magic, the magic of the elements. You deserve better than to lick the boots of the Unseelie King like dogs.” She tore her gaze from Ash and stalked up to the King, light flickering in her hair like tiny flames. “You,” she said. “Deceiver. Your words of an alliance were so many dried leaves blown on the empty air.” The King set the copy of the Black Volume on the arm of his throne and rose to his feet. Emma felt a bolt of wonder go down her spine. The King and Queen of Faerie, facing off before her. It was like a scene out of legend.

Her fingers itched almost unbearably for a sword.

“I do what I do because I must,” said the King. “No one else has the strength to do it! The Nephilim are our single greatest enemy. They always have been. Yet you would make treaties with them, seek peace with them, live alongside them.” He sneered. “Give your body to them.” Emma’s mouth dropped open. So rude, she mouthed at Cristina.

The Queen straightened her back. She was still thin and wan, but the power of her Queenship seemed to radiate through her like light through a lamp. “You had your chance with our child, and because you did not believe a woman could be strong, you threw it away. I will not give you another of my children for your careless slaughter!” The First Heir, Emma thought. So it’s true.

There was a murmur of shock in the room—not from the human prisoners, but from the Riders and redcaps. A dark flush of rage went over the King’s face. He flung out his arm, sheathed to the elbow in a golden gauntlet, toward the roiling Portal on the north wall.

“Gaze upon this Portal, glorious Queen,” he said through his teeth, and the image in the Portal began to change. Where before the desert landscape had been deserted, it was possible now to see darting figures among the poison-colored whirls of sand. The sky above the landscape had turned to a scorched rust and gold.

Emma heard Clary make a strange choking noise.

“I have torn a hole through to another world,” said the King. “A world whose very substance is poisonous to Nephilim. Already our lands are protected by its earth, and already the poison begins to spread in Idris.” “It’s not the ley lines,” Cristina whispered. “It’s the blight.”

They spun to stare at the Portal. The scene had changed again. It now showed the same desert in the aftermath of a battle. Blood stained the sand red. Bodies were strewn everywhere, twisted and blackened by the sun. Faint screams and wailing could be heard, dim as the memory of something horrible.

Jace whirled on the King. “What is this? What is this world? What have you done?” Clary’s hand circled Emma’s wrist, gripping tightly. Her voice was a bare whisper. “That’s me.” Emma stared through the Portal. Wind blew the sand in harsh gusts, uncovering a body in black Shadowhunter gear, the chest torn open and white bone showing. A spill of red hair threaded through the sand, mixing with blood.

“That was my dream,” Clary whispered. Her voice was choked with tears. Emma stood frozen, staring at Clary’s dead body. “That’s what I saw.” The sand blew again, and Clary’s body vanished from view just as Jace turned back around. “What world is this?” he demanded.

“Pray you never have to find out,” said the King. “The land of Thule is death, and it will rain down death in your world. In Ash’s hands it will be the greatest weapon ever known.” “And what will be the cost to Ash?” demanded the Queen. “What will be the cost to him? Already you have placed spells upon him. Already you have bled him. You wear his blood around your throat! Deny it, if you can!” Emma stared at the vial around the King’s throat: She had thought it was a scarlet potion. It was not. She remembered the scar on Ash’s throat and felt sick.

The King chuckled. “I have no wish to deny it. His blood is unique—Nephilim blood and demonic blood, mixed with the blood of the fey. I draw power from it, though only a fraction of the power Ash could have if you allow me to keep the Black Volume.” The Queen’s face twisted. “You are bound by your oath to return it to me, King—” The King tensed; Emma didn’t understand as much about faeries as Cristina did, but she knew that if the King had sworn he would return the book to the Queen at dawn, he would have no choice but to do it. “It will bring us both indescribable power. Just let me show you—” “No!” A streak of gray linen and dark hair shot across the room and caught hold of Ash, whirling him off his feet.

Ash cried out as Annabel seized him. She flew with him across the room, Ash’s wrist gripped tightly in her hand. The Riders rushed after her, the redcaps circling from the door. Whirling like a trapped rabbit, she bared her teeth, Ash’s wrist still caught in hers.

“I will speak your name!” she shrieked at the King, and he froze. “In front of all these people! Even if you kill me, they will all have heard the word! Now tell them to stand down! They must stand down!” The King made a choking sound. As the Queen stared in disbelief, he clenched his fists so tightly that his gauntlets bent and shattered. Their metal stabbed into his skin and blood bloomed around the jagged edges.

“She knows your name?” the Queen demanded, her voice rising. “That Nephilim knows your name?” “Stand down, Riders,” the King said in a voice that sounded as if he were being strangled. “Stand down, all of you!” The Riders and redcaps froze. Realizing what was happening, the Queen shrieked and ran toward Annabel, raising her hands. But she was too late. Throwing her arms around Ash, Annabel hurled herself backward through the Portal.

There was a sound as of thick fabric tearing. The Portal stretched apart and closed over Annabel and Ash. The Queen skidded to a stop, twisting her body to avoid crashing through the Portal.

Julian sucked in his breath. The image in the Portal had changed—now they could see Annabel and Ash standing in the broken wasteland, sand swirling about them. The Queen screamed, holding out her hands as if she could touch Ash, could enfold him in her arms.

For a moment Emma almost pitied her.

The sand whirled again, and Ash and Annabel vanished from view. The King slumped down on his throne, his face in his hands.

The Queen spun away from the Portal, striding toward the throne. Grief and rage were etched onto her features. “You have done the second of my children to his death, Lord of Shadows,” she said. “There shall never be another.” “Enough of your foolishness!” the King snapped. “I am the one who sacrificed for our child!” He indicated the ruin of his face, the glimmer of white bone where flesh should be. “Your children were and always have been nothing but ornaments to your vanity!” The Queen screamed something in a language Emma didn’t understand and flung herself at the King, drawing a jeweled dagger from her bodice.

“Guards!” the King shouted. “Kill her!”

But the redcaps had frozen, staring in shock at the Queen as she brought the dagger down. The King threw up an arm to defend himself. He roared in pain as the knife sank into his shoulder, and blood splattered the ground below the throne.

It seemed to spur the redcaps into action. They raced forward to seize the Queen, who turned on them in fury. Even the Riders were staring.

“Now,” Adaon said.

He moved lightning fast, flinging the swords he held into the eager hands of the Shadowhunters who surrounded him. Emma caught one out of the air and raced toward Mark and Kieran, Julian and Cristina on either side of her.

Her nerves caught fire as the redcaps, realizing what was going on, rushed at the advancing Nephilim. She had hated every moment of standing still; as one redcap lunged at her she leaped for the nearest boulder, caromed off it, and used the force of her rebound to sever another’s head as she landed. Blood sprayed, blackish red.

The King’s face suffused with blood as he saw what his son was doing. “Adaon!” he bellowed, the sound like a roar, but Adaon was already racing toward Mark and Kieran, knocking redcaps aside with savage blows from his broadsword.

That’s right, Emma thought with a savage pleasure, every one of your sons hates you, King.

She spun to engage another redcap, her blade clashing against his iron pikestaff. Jace and Clary were battling more redcaps. Julian and Cristina were behind Adaon, pushing toward Kieran and Mark, who were surrounded by guards.

“Riders!” the King cried, spittle flying from his lips. “Stop him! Stop Adaon!” Eochaid sprang, leaping over the heads of a group of redcaps to land in front of Adaon. The prince’s broadsword moved with incredible speed, parrying Eochaid’s blade. Adaon shouted at Cristina and Julian to get to Mark and Kieran, and turned back to Eochaid just as Ethna strode up to them, her sword drawn.

Emma ducked low, cutting at the redcap’s legs; she said a silent prayer of thanks for Isabelle’s bracelet, powering her blows as her own body weakened. The guard went down in a welter of blood as Jace raced to Adaon’s side. His sword slammed against Ethna’s with a ringing clang.

And Emma remembered why she had always wanted to be Jace Herondale when she was a kid. His sword flew around him like sunlight dancing off water, and for several moments he drove Ethna back, while Adaon pressed Eochaid, driving him farther away from the throne and from Kieran and Mark.

Clary leaped over a boulder, landing beside Emma; she was panting and her sword was drenched in blood. “We have to hold the redcaps off,” she said. “Come with me!” Emma darted after her, slashing at guards as she went. A group of redcaps including General Winter had surrounded Cristina and Julian, preventing them from getting near Kieran and Mark.

Emma sprang for the rough wall of the throne room. She scrambled up one-handed, looking down on the chaos below. The Queen and King were battling back and forth before the throne. Adaon and Jace were holding their own against the Riders, though Adaon had a long cut across one shoulder that was bleeding freely. And Clary was spinning, quick and fast, jabbing at the redcap guards and then darting back out of reach with startling swiftness.

Emma flung herself off the wall, air rushing past her as she flipped and twisted, landing boots-first and sending Winter sprawling. The other redcaps rushed her and she swung her blade in an arc, slicing the tips from their pikestaffs. She sprang away from Winter and advanced on the other guards, her sword arcing in the air. “I slew Fal the Rider,” she said in her most menacing voice. “I will slay you, too.” They paled markedly. Several fell back, as behind them Julian and Cristina rushed to Mark and to Kieran. Julian hauled Mark to his feet, bringing his sword down to sever the chain that connected Mark’s wrists. They swung free, each one still bearing an iron wristband.

Mark caught hold of his brother with his manacled arms and hugged him quickly, fiercely. Emma’s eyes prickled but there was no time to look at them; she spun and kicked and slashed, the world a chaos of silver and ice and blood.

Emma heard Cristina call her name.

Ice turned to fire. She ran toward the sound, leaping over toppled rocks, and found Cristina standing with a shattered blade in her hand. Kieran was still kneeling, pieces of the broken sword scattered around the chain that bound his wrists to the earth.

“Emma, please—” Cristina began, but Emma was already bringing her blade down. It wasn’t Cortana, but it held; the chain shattered and Kieran leaped to his feet. Cristina seized him by the arm.

“We must go,” she said, her eyes frantic. “I can use the artifact to return us—” “Call everyone to you,” Emma said. She pressed her sword into Cristina’s hand. “I need to get the copy of the Black Volume.” Cristina tried to shove the sword back at Emma. “What? Where?”

But Emma was already running, kicking off the uneven floor to hurl herself at the steps to the throne. She heard the King bellow; she heard Julian cry out her name. She had reached the top of the steps. The throne loomed up before her, dark and granite, the printer-bound pages of the Black Volume resting on a great stone arm.

Emma seized the book and spun around just in time to hear Adaon cry out, a hoarse shout of pain. Eochaid had him trapped against the side of a massive boulder. The front of Adaon’s tunic was soaked with blood, and Eochaid’s sword kissed his throat.

“Shall I slay him, King?” Eochaid said in a gloating voice. Most of the bystanders in the room had frozen. Cristina had her hand over her mouth; she was the one who had brought Adaon here, after all. Even the redcaps were staring. “Your traitor son? Shall I end his life?” The Queen began to laugh. Redcaps had caught her by the arms, but she was still smiling her strange, catlike smile. “Oh, my lord,” she said. “Is there a one of your sons that does not hate your name?” The King bared his teeth. “Cut his throat,” he said to Eochaid.

Adaon’s muscles tensed. Emma’s brain worked frantically—she saw Kieran start forward, but there was no way he could reach Adaon in time—Eochaid raised his blade like an executioner, his other arm braced against Adaon’s chest— There was a horrible choking cry. Adaon, Emma thought wildly, stumbling down the steps, but no, Eochaid was turning away from his captive, his sword still raised, his face contorted in surprise.

The King was sinking to his knees, blood running freely down the front of his rich doublet. Kieran’s hand was still raised in the air. Something protruded from the King’s throat—a sliver of what looked almost like glass. . . .

The elf-bolt arrowhead, Emma realized with a start. Kieran had flung his necklace at the King with incredible force.

Eochaid and Ethna rushed toward the King, their gleaming swords in hand, their faces pictures of dismay. Adaon, too, walked toward his father. Kieran did not move. He was leaning heavily on Cristina’s shoulder, his face expressionless.

Kneeling, the King clawed at his throat. To Emma’s shock, he seemed to be weakening—his hand scrabbled at the embedded elf-bolt, and then fell to his side, hanging uselessly.

Adaon looked down at him. “Father,” he said in a low voice. “Forgive me.”

Ethna’s face contorted into a mask. Jace and Clary, both bloody and filthy, were staring in amazement. Distantly, Emma knew she was seeing something remarkable. The dying of a King who had ruled for a thousand years.

Ethna whirled to glare at Kieran. “Kinslayer!” she cried. “Patricide!”

“He was trying to save Adaon!” Mark shouted back. “Are you blind, Rider?”

“Because he wants to be King,” snarled Eochaid. “Because he wants the throne!” The Queen began to laugh. She drew free of the redcaps who had held her as if their touch were no more than spiderwebs, though several fell screaming to the floor, their palms burned and blackened, their fingers snapped.

“Already they scavenge for your throne like dogs worrying at a bone,” she said to the King, as blood ran out of the corners of his mouth and his eyes rolled up to the whites.

She seized Adaon by the arm. He cried out in shock and pain; the Queen’s hair whipped around them both as she grinned down at the King.

“You took my son,” she said. “Now I take yours.”

She vanished, and Adaon vanished with her. The King gave a cry and fell to the ground, scrabbling at the earth with gauntleted hands. His crown tumbled from his head and struck the stone floor as he choked out garbled words. Perhaps he was trying to say the Queen’s name, perhaps Adaon’s. Perhaps even Kieran’s. Emma would never know. The King’s body stiffened and slumped, and both Eochaid and Ethna cried out.

He had gone still. But his blood continued to run out around him, snaking across the floor in rivulets. The redcaps were scrambling back from the King’s body, their faces masks of horror.

Winter lowered the pikestaff he had been aiming at Emma. “The King is dead! King Arawn is dead!” he cried, and Emma realized it must be true: It was safe to speak the King’s true name now that he was no longer alive.

The redcaps fled—save Winter, who held his ground—pouring out of the throne room in a river of crimson. Cristina was shouting for the other Shadowhunters; she held Mark by one hand, and he gripped a stunned-looking Kieran. Jace and Clary were scrambling over a pile of boulders to get to them. Julian was only yards away; Emma began to run as the King’s body burst into flames.

She cast one look back over her shoulder. The King was burning and so was the ground everywhere his blood had spilled—small fires and larger ones, burning fierce and hot, consuming the stone floor as if it were kindling. The King’s body had already vanished behind a sheet of flames.

A figure reared up out of the smoke, cutting Emma off.

It was Ethna. She gleamed all over like a weapon, her bronze armor unsmudged, her metallic eyes gleaming with bloodlust. “My oath to the King died with him,” she said, baring her teeth. “Your life is forfeit now, murderer!” She lunged at Emma. Emma’s sword was gone; she flung up the copy of the Black Volume, and Ethna’s sword plunged into it. Ethna flung it aside in disgust; the shredded remains of the book landed on the burning ground, its pages bursting into flames.

Emma could hear Clary calling out to her, and the others, shouting for her to come quickly. She realized with a sinking heart that they must not be able to see her; they wouldn’t know she needed help, they wouldn’t know— Ethna’s blade flew through the air, bronze cutting through smoke. Emma twisted aside and fell to the ground, rolling to avoid the slashing blows that followed. Each time Ethna’s blade barely missed her, it cut a deep gouge into the stone floor.

It was getting harder for Emma to breathe. She scrambled to her knees, only to have Ethna plant a booted foot in her shoulder. She shoved, and Emma sprawled backward, hitting the ground hard.

“Die on your back, bitch,” Ethna said, raising her sword high.

Emma flung her hands out as if they could ward off the blade. Ethna laughed, swung down— And toppled sideways. Emma scrambled upright, choking on smoke and disbelief.

Julian.

He had thrown himself onto Ethna and was kneeling on her back, stabbing her over and over with something clutched in his fist. Emma realized with a shock that it was the iron figurine that Simon had given to him. Ethna was screaming, trying to writhe away from the iron. Emma whirled around: The room was blazing with fire, the boulders glowing like red-hot coals. Hot pain stabbed her side; a coal had landed on the sleeve of her jacket. She yanked it off furiously and stomped on it, putting the fire out. Sorry, Clary.

She thought she could still see the dim figures of the others through the smoke. The surface of the Portal seemed to ripple like melting glass.

“Julian!” she screamed, and held out her hand. “Leave her! We have to get to the others!” He looked up, his eyes wild with rage, and Ethna wrenched away from him with a yelp of anger and pain. Julian landed on his feet, already racing toward Emma. Together they fled toward the sound of Cristina’s voice, rising and desperate, shouting their names. Emma thought she could hear Mark, too, and the others— A sheet of flame blazed up from the ground, knocking them backward. They swung around, looking for a way around it, and Emma gasped: Ethna and Eochaid were striding toward them, Ethna bloodied and glaring, Eochaid gleaming and deadly.

The Riders were at the heart of their power. Emma and Julian were starving, exhausted, and weakened. Emma’s heart sank.

“Cristina!” she screamed. “Go! Go! Get out of here!”

Julian caught hold of her wrist. “There’s only one way.”

His eyes flicked toward the wall—she tensed, then nodded—and the two of them took off running, just as the Riders began to raise their blades.

Emma heard them cry out in confusion and disappointed bloodlust. She didn’t care; the Portal was looming up in front of her like the dark window of a high-rise building, all shadow and gleam.

She reached it and leaped, Julian’s hand in hers, and together they sailed through the Portal.

Diego wasn’t sure how long he’d been in the barren stone cell. There were no windows, no sense of time passing. He knew Rayan and Divya were in the same prison, but the thick stone walls of the cells kept them from being able to shout or call to each other.

It was almost a relief when there were footsteps in the corridor and—instead of the usual guard who came twice a day with a plate of bland food—Zara appeared, resplendent in Centurion gear. He would have thought she would be smirking, but she was oddly expressionless. Cortana was strapped to her side, and she caressed its hilt absently as she looked at him through the bars, as if she were stroking the head of a dog.

“My dear fiancé,” she said. “How are you finding the accommodations? Not too cold and unwelcoming?” He said nothing. The rune of Quietude the Cohort had put on him had been removed almost immediately after the meeting, but that didn’t mean he had anything to talk to Zara about.

“And to think,” she went on. “If you’d played your cards a little differently, you might have been living in the Gard tower with me.” “And that wouldn’t have been cold and unwelcoming?” spat Diego. “Living with someone I hate?” She flinched a little. Diego was surprised. Surely she knew they hated each other?

“You have no right or reason to hate me,” she said. “I’m the one who was betrayed. You were a convenient marriage prospect. Now you’re a traitor. It would shame me to marry you.” Diego let his head fall back against the wall. “Good,” he said wearily. “You have taken everything from me. At least I no longer have to pretend to love you.” Her lips tightened. “I know you never intended to go through with the marriage. You were just trying to buy time for your vigilante brother. Still—I’ll make you a deal. You claim Jaime still has the faerie artifact. We want it. It should be in government hands.” Her lips twisted into an ugly smirk. “If you tell us where to find it, I’ll pardon you.” “I haven’t the vaguest idea,” said Diego. “And carrying that sword around won’t make you Emma Carstairs.” She glared at him. “You shouldn’t have said that. Or the thing about how I’ve taken everything from you already. You still have a lot left to lose.” She turned her head. “Milo? Bring the second prisoner forward.” There was a blur of movement in the shadowy corridor, and the cell door opened. Diego strained forward as a dark figure was hurled into the cell alongside him.

Milo slammed the door shut and locked it as the new arrival groaned and sat up. Diego’s heart turned over in his chest. Even bruised and bloody, with his lip cut and a burn scar on his cheek, he would recognize his younger brother anywhere.

“Jaime,” he breathed.

“He seems to know no more about the artifact than you do,” said Zara. “But then, without the Mortal Sword, we can’t make him tell the truth. So we have to fall back on more old-fashioned methods of dealing with liars and traitors.” She traced the hilt of Cortana with loving fingertips. “I’m sure you know what I mean.” “Jaime,” Diego said again. The ceiling was too low for him to stand up; he crawled across the floor to his brother, pulling Jaime against him.

Jaime, half-conscious, lolled against his shoulder, his eyes almost slitted shut. His clothes were torn and wet with blood. Diego felt a cold fear at his heart: What wounds lay underneath?

“Hola, hermano,” Jaime whispered.

“During his discussions with the Inquisitor about the location of the artifact, your brother became overexcited. He needed to be subdued.” Now Zara did smile. “The guards accidentally, shall we say, injured him. It would be a shame if his injuries were to become infected or if he were to die because he lacked proper medical care.” “Give me a stele,” hissed Diego. He had never hated anyone more than he hated Zara in that moment. “He needs an iratze.” “Give me the artifact,” said Zara. “And he can have one.”

Diego said nothing. He had no idea where the Eternidad was, the heirloom that Jaime had suffered so much to protect. He held his brother tighter, his lips pressed together. He would not beg Zara for mercy.

“No?” she preened. “As you like. Perhaps when your brother is screaming with fever you will feel differently. Call upon me, Diego dear, if you ever change your mind.” * * *

Manuel strode into the throne room, smirking, Oban on his heels.

Manuel couldn’t help the smirking; as he sometimes told people, it was just the natural expression of his face. It was true that he also liked chaos, though, and right now, there was chaos aplenty to please him.

The throne room looked charred, the rock walls and floor smeared with black ash. The place reeked of blood and sulfur. Bodies of redcaps were strewn on the floor, one covered by an expensive-looking tapestry. On a far wall, the shrinking Portal showed a beach at night, under a red moon.

Oban clicked his tongue, which Manuel had learned was the faerie equivalent of letting out a low whistle. “What happened in here? It looks like the aftermath of one of my more famous parties.” Manuel poked at the tapestry-covered mound with his toe.

“And the fields outside are full of fleeing Seelie fey, now that their Queen is gone,” Oban went on. “Manuel, I demand an explanation. Where is my father?” Winter, the somber redcap leader, came over to them. He was streaked with blood and ash. “Prince,” he said. “Your father lies here.” He indicated the mound Manuel was poking with his toe. Manuel bent over and yanked the tapestry back. The thing beneath did not look human, or fey, or as if it had ever lived at all. It was the blackened, crumbling outline of a man drawn in ash, its face a rictus. Something gleamed at its throat.

Manuel knelt to take it. An etched glass vial of scarlet liquid. Interesting. He placed it in his jacket pocket.

“What’s that?” said Oban. For a moment Manuel felt a spark of worry that Oban had chosen to take an interest in something important. Fortunately, it was not the case—Oban had caught sight of a gleaming elf-bolt necklace among his father’s remains. He bent to grab the shining thing, letting it dangle from his fingers. “Kieran?” he said incredulously. “Kieran killed our father?” “Does it matter?” said Manuel in a low voice. “The old man is dead. That is good news.” It was indeed. The previous King had been an uneasy ally, if one could call him an ally at all. Though the Cohort had helped him spread the blight in Idris and that had pleased him, he had never trusted them or interested himself in their greater plans. Nor had he warned them of his intention to seize the Black Volume, an event which had irritated Horace greatly.

Oban would be different. He would trust those who had put him in power.

He was a fool.

“It might give Kieran claim to the throne if it were known,” said Oban, his slack, handsome face darkening. “Who saw the King slain? What of Kieran’s Nephilim companions?” “My redcaps saw, but they will not speak,” said Winter as Oban moved to the throne. The King’s crown rested on its seat, gleaming dully. “Prince Kieran has fled with most of the Nephilim to the human world.” Oban’s face tightened. “Where he might brag of slaying our father?”

“I don’t think he will do that,” said General Winter. A look of relief crossed Oban’s face. He did tend to respond like putty to anyone in authority, Manuel thought. “He seems to love dearly those Nephilim he has befriended, and they him. I do not think he wants the throne, or would endanger them.” “We will keep a watch out,” said Oban. “Where is Adaon?”

“Adaon was taken prisoner by the Seelie Queen.”

“Adaon taken prisoner?” asked Oban, and when Winter nodded, he laughed and tumbled into the throne’s seat. “And what of the Queen’s son, the brat?” “Gone with the undead witch, through the Portal,” said Winter. “It does not seem likely they will survive long.” “Well, the kingdom cannot go on without a ruler. It seems my destiny has found me.” Oban handed the crown to Winter. “Crown me.” With the death of the King, the Portal was disappearing. It was now the size of a porthole on a boat. Through the small circle, Manuel could see a dead city, ruined towers and broken roads. Something lay in a heap on the floor near the Portal, among the signs of a fight. Manuel stopped to pick it up; it was a bloody jean jacket.

He frowned, turning it over in his hands. It was a small jacket, a girl’s, slashed and bloody, one sleeve partially burned. He slipped his fingers into the breast pocket and withdrew a ring stamped with butterflies.

Fairchild.

Manuel returned to Oban just as Winter placed the crown on the prince’s head, looking extremely uncomfortable.

Manuel shook the jacket in Winter’s direction. “You said most of the Nephilim returned to the human world. What happened to the girl who wore this? The girl and the boy, the Nephilim prisoners?” “They went through the Portal.” Winter gestured toward it. “They are as good as dead. That land is poison, especially to those such as they.” He stepped back from Oban. “You are King now, sire.” Oban touched the crown on his head and laughed. “Bring wine, Winter! I am parched! Empty the cellars! The most beautiful maidens and youths of the Court, bring them to me! Today is a great day!” Manuel smiled down at the bloody jacket. “Yes. Today is indeed a day for celebration.”