فصل 30

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THE RICHES THERE THAT LIE

A scratching noise at the tent flap woke Emma. She had slept dreamlessly all night, waking only when Cristina crept into the tent late and rolled herself up in her blankets. She struggled awake now, feeling groggy; she could see through the gap in the tent fabric that it was gray outside, the sky heavy with impending rain.

Helen was outside their tent. “Thirty-minute warning,” she said, and her footsteps receded as she continued with the wake-up call.

Cristina groaned and rolled out of her blankets. They had both slept in their clothes. “My stele,” she said. “We should”—she yawned—“Mark each other. Also, there had better be coffee.” Emma stripped down to her tank top, shivering as Cristina did the same. They exchanged runes—Swiftness and Sure-Footedness for Emma, Blocking and Deflecting runes for Cristina, Sure-Strike and Farsight for both. Cristina didn’t ask why Emma wasn’t getting her runes from Julian. They both knew.

They zipped and laced their way into their gear and boots and clambered out of the tent, stretching their stiff muscles. The sky was heavy with dark clouds, the ground wet with dew. It seemed as if everyone else was already awake and hurrying around the camp—Simon was zipping his gear, Isabelle polishing a longsword. Magnus, dressed somberly in dark colors, was helping a geared-up Alec strap on his quiver of arrows. Aline was drawing a Fortitude rune on the back of Helen’s neck. Mark, his weapons belt bristling with daggers, was stirring some porridge over the fire.

Cristina whimpered. “I don’t see coffee. Only porridge.”

“I always tell you coffee’s evil, addict,” said Emma. “Give me your hand—I’ll draw you an Energy rune.” Cristina grumbled but held her hand out; a good Energy rune worked much like caffeine. Emma looked at Cristina affectionately as she ran the stele over her skin. She had a suspicion she knew where Cristina had been the night before, though now wasn’t the time to ask.

“I can’t believe this is actually happening,” Cristina said as Emma returned her hand.

“I know,” Emma said. She squeezed Cristina’s hand before putting her stele away. “I’ll have your back if anything happens. You know that.” Cristina touched her medallion and then Emma’s cheek, her eyes grave. “May the Angel bless you and keep you safe, my sister.” Raised voices drew Emma’s attention before she could say anything else. She turned to see Julian standing with Ty and Kit; Ty was speaking loudly, clearly angry, while Kit hung back with his hands in his pockets. As she headed over, she saw Kit’s expression more clearly. It shocked her. He looked utterly drained and despairing.

“We want to be there with you,” Ty was saying. Mark had started over, abandoning the porridge. Helen, Aline, and Kieran stood nearby, while the others were politely not paying attention. “We want to fight beside you.” “Ty.” New runes stood out black and gleaming on Julian’s wrists and collarbones. Emma wondered who had done them—Mark? Helen? It didn’t matter. It should have been her. “This isn’t a fight. It’s a parley. A peace meeting. I can’t bring my whole family.” “It’s not like you’re invited and we’re not,” said Ty. He was in gear; so was Kit. A shortsword hung at Ty’s hip. “None of us are invited.” Emma hid a smile. It was always hard to argue with Ty when he made good points.

“If we all show up, it’ll be chaos,” Julian said. “I need you here, Ty. You know what your job is.” Ty spoke reluctantly. “Give a warning. Stay safe.”

“That’s right,” Julian said. He took Ty’s face in his hands; Ty was still a head shorter than him. “Stay safe, Tiberius.” Mark looked relieved. Kit still hadn’t spoken a word. Over Ty’s head, Julian nodded at Magnus, who stood beside Alec in the shelter of a nearby tree. Magnus nodded back. Interesting, Emma thought.

The others had begun to approach now that it seemed the argument was over: Cristina and Kieran, Diana, Isabelle and Simon, Clary and Jace. Jace went over to Kit and touched the boy on the shoulder with all the gentleness Emma knew he was capable of, but which he rarely showed. As Emma watched, Jace offered Kit a slim silver dagger with a design of herons in flight etched on the handle. Kit took it carefully, nodding his head. Emma couldn’t hear them talking, but Kit at least looked a little less miserable.

Kieran and Cristina had been speaking to each other in low voices. Kieran moved away from her now, coming to face Julian and the rest of those who were going to the Fields—Emma and Cristina, Alec and Mark. Kieran’s dark hair curled damply around his face. “It is my time to go as well, I think.” “I am sorry you can’t remain with us for this part of the plan,” said Julian. “You have been a great help, Kieran. It feels as if you belong with us.” Kieran gave Julian a measuring look. “I did not see you clearly enough in the past, Julian Atticus. You do have a ruthless heart. But you also have a good one.” Julian looked faintly surprised, and then even more surprised as Kieran went to kiss Mark good-bye—then turned to Cristina and kissed her as well. Both smiled at him as everyone stared. Guess I was right, Emma thought, and raised an eyebrow at Cristina, who blushed.

Kieran murmured something to the two of them that Emma couldn’t hear, and melted into the woods, vanishing like mist.

“Those of us leaving camp must go,” said Diana. “The parley is soon and it will take an hour at least to walk to the Fields.” Clary was talking to Simon; she patted his shoulders and turned worriedly to Isabelle, who hugged her. Alec had gone to speak with Jace. Everywhere were parabatai, preparing to be parted, even if briefly. Emma felt a sense of unreality. She had expected the bonds to be broken by now. It was strange to be standing where she was—not yet fleeing, not yet hated or exiled.

Alec clasped Jace’s hand. “Take care.”

Jace looked at him for a long moment, and let him go. Clary moved away from Simon and went to stand with Jace. They watched as Magnus crossed the wet grass to Alec, inclined his head, and kissed him gently.

“I wish you could come,” Alec said, his eyes bright.

“You know the deal. No Downworlders scaring Horace,” said Magnus. “Be good, my archer boy. Come back to me.” He went to stand with Jace and Clary. Helen and Aline joined them, and so did Kit and Ty. They made a small and silent group, watching as the others turned and walked into the woods of Brocelind.

“Are you ever going to talk to me again?” Ty said.

He and Kit were sitting in a green hollow in the forest, close to the campsite. A gray boulder covered in green-brown moss rose behind them; Ty was leaning his back against it, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

Kit barely remembered coming back from Lake Lyn the night before. Ty had hardly been able to walk. He had leaned on Kit most of the way, but Kit hadn’t spoken then, either. Not even when it started to rain and they splashed through miserable dampness together. Not when Ty had to stop to dry-heave by the side of the path. Not when he doubled over and gasped for Julian as if somehow Julian would appear out of thin air and make everything better.

It was as if Kit’s emotions were trapped somewhere in an airless killing jar. Ty didn’t want him—not as a friend, not as anything. Every breath hurt, but his mind shied away from why: from who he really blamed for what had happened.

“We’re supposed to be keeping quiet,” was all he said now.

Ty gave him a doubtful look. “That’s not it,” he said. “You’re mad at me, I think.”

Kit knew he should tell Ty what he was feeling; it was more than unfair to expect him to guess. The only problem was that he wasn’t sure himself.

He remembered returning to camp, remembered crawling into their tent together, Ty curling up into himself. Kit had wanted to get Julian, but Ty had only shaken his head, pressing his face into his blankets, chanting under his breath until his muscles had relaxed and he’d fallen into an exhausted sleep.

Kit hadn’t slept.

He reached into his pocket. “Look—last night, after—well, before we left the lake I went back up to the fire.” It had been ash and char, save one shining remnant. Livvy’s gold necklace, glimmering like pirate treasure among the ashes.

Kit held it out now and saw Ty’s eyes crinkle at the corners the way they did when he was very surprised.

“You got it for me?” Ty said.

Kit kept holding the necklace out. It swung between them, a shimmering pendulum. Ty reached his hand out slowly to take it. The blood had been burned away from the surface. The locket shone clean as he fastened it around his neck.

“Kit,” he began haltingly. “I thought that you—I thought that it would be—”

Leaves crunched; a branch snapped. Kit and Ty fell instantly silent. After a moment, hand on the pendant at his throat, Ty rose to a crouch and began to whistle.

Emma and the others made their way in near-total silence through the woods, which were damp and green and thick with leaves and water. Cold drops of rain broke through the canopy occasionally and slid down the back of Emma’s collar, making her shiver.

They had reached a fork in the road some ways back. Diana, Isabelle, and Simon had gone to the right. The others had gone to the left. There had been no good-byes, though Alec had kissed his sister on the cheek without a word.

They walked on now as a group of five: Julian first, then Mark and Cristina—not holding hands but close together, shoulders touching—and Alec and Emma, bringing up the rear. Alec was watchful, his bow ever ready, his blue eyes raking the shadows on either side of the path.

“Have you ever wanted a really big tapestry of yourself?” Emma said to him.

Alec was not the sort who rattled easily. “Why?” he said. “Do you have one?”

“I do, actually,” said Emma. “I rescued it from the Inquisitor’s office and carried it through the streets of Alicante. I got some pretty weird looks.” Alec’s mouth twitched. “I bet you did.”

“I didn’t want the Inquisitor to throw it away,” Emma said. “He wants to pretend that the Battle of the Burren didn’t matter. But I’ve been to Thule. I know what it would mean if there had never been a Clary. Or a Jace. Or a you.” Alec lowered his bow slightly. “And imagine where we’d be now,” he said, “if there hadn’t been a Julian or a you or a Cristina or a Mark. There are times, I think, where we’re each called. Where we can choose to rise up or not to rise up. What you did in Faerie—” He broke off. “You know, you should give that tapestry to Magnus. If anyone would enjoy having it, he would.” Light broke through the trees suddenly. Emma looked up, thinking the clouds had parted, and realized they had reached the edge of the forest. The trees thinned out, the sky arching overhead in shades of pearlescent gray and smoky blue.

They had left the forest. In front of them stretched the green field, all the way to the far walls of Alicante. In the distance, she could see dark figures, small as beetles, approaching the center of the Imperishable Fields. The Cohort? The Unseelie? Even with Farsight runes, they were too distant to tell.

“Emma,” Julian said. “Are you ready?”

She looked at him. For a moment it was as if no one was there but the two of them, as if they faced each other across the floor of the parabatai chamber in the Silent City, the connection between them shimmering with its force. Julian’s face was pale above the black of his gear; his blue-green eyes burned as he looked at her. She knew what he was thinking. He had come this far, to the edge of where there was no turning back. He needed her to take the last step with him.

She lifted her chin. “We choose to rise up,” she said, and, stepping onto the grass of the Fields, they began to march toward the walls of Alicante.

And the sky was full of angels.

Dru stood by the side of the canal in front of the Graymark house, holding Tavvy’s hand. All through Alicante, Shadowhunters old and young lined the streets, gazing up at the sky.

Dru had to admit that what Horace had done was impressive. It was like looking at a massive movie screen, an IMAX or something bigger. When they had first come out of the house, Maryse shooing Rafe and Max ahead of her, they’d stopped dead to gawk at the enormous square in the sky. All they’d been able to see then was the green of the Fields and a piece of gray-blue sky.

Then Horace and Zara had come into the frame, striding across the grass, and because of the size of the Projection and the angle, they had looked like angels striding across the sky. Horace looked as he always had, with one marked difference: the sleeve covering his left arm hung empty from the elbow down.

Zara had her hair loose, which was impractical for fighting but dramatic as a visual. She also had golden Cortana strapped to her side, which made Dru’s stomach turn.

“That’s Emma’s sword,” Tavvy said crossly. Dru didn’t reprimand him. She felt no less annoyed.

Horace and Zara were followed by a small group of guards—Vanessa Ashdown and Martin Gladstone among them—and a contingent of Centurions. Dru recognized some from the time they’d stayed at the Institute, like Mallory Bridgestock, Jessica Beausejours, and Timothy Rockford. Manuel wasn’t with them, though, which surprised her. He’d always struck her as someone who liked to be at the center of things.

As they took their places on the field, Maryse shook her head and muttered something about Gladstone. She had been trying to corral Max and Rafe, neither of whom were interested in the dull sky-pictures, but now she looked at Horace and frowned. “The Circle all over again,” she said. “This is just how Valentine was—so sure of his own rightness. So sure it gave him the right to decide for others how they should believe.” An audible gasp ran through the watching Shadowhunters. Not a reaction to Maryse’s words—they were all staring upward. Dru craned her neck back and saw with a shock that the Unseelie Court army was now marching across the Fields toward the Cohort.

They seemed vast, a countless array of faeries in the dusky livery of the King of Unseelie. Knights on horseback with spears of silver and bronze gleaming in the early light. Squat goblins with stern-looking axes; dryads with stout wooden staffs and kelpies gnashing their knife-sharp teeth. Marching at the front were redcaps in their blood-dyed uniforms, their iron boots ringing on the earth. They surrounded a crowned man on a horse—the new King of Unseelie. Not the one Dru was familiar with from pictures; this King was young. His crown was cocked insouciantly to the side.

As he came closer, Dru could see that he resembled Kieran slightly. The same straight mouth, the same inhumanly beautiful features, though the King’s hair was coal-black and streaked with purple. He rode up to the Inquisitor and the rest of the Cohort and gazed down at them coldly.

Maryse made a noise of surprise. Other Shadowhunters were gasping, and a few standing on Cistern Bridge clapped. As much as Dru hated Horace, she could tell this was good theater: The small band of the Cohort facing down a great Faerie army.

She was just glad she had some theater of her own planned.

“Greetings, my lord Oban,” said Horace, inclining his head. “We thank you for agreeing to take parley with us this morning.” “He’s lying,” Tavvy said. “Look at his face.”

“I know,” Dru said in a low voice. “But don’t say it where people can hear you.”

Oban slid gracefully from his horse. He bowed to Horace. There was another collective gasp that rocketed up the streets of Alicante. Faeries did not bow to Shadowhunters. “The pleasure is mine.” Horace smiled expansively. “You understand the gravity of our situation,” he said. “The death of two of our own—especially such famed Shadowhunters as Jace Herondale and Clary Fairchild—leaves a hole in the heart of our community. Such a wound cannot be borne by a civilized society. It demands recompense.” He means retribution, thought Dru. She knew the two were different, though she doubted she could have explained exactly how.

“We of the Lands of Unseelie do not disagree,” said Oban pompously. “It seems to us proved that Downworlders and Shadowhunters cannot occupy the same space in safety. Better for us to be separated and respect one another from a distance.” “Quite,” said Horace. “Respecting one another from a distance seems very fine.”

“Seriously,” Maryse muttered. “No one can be buying this crap, can they?”

Dru glanced sideways at her. “You really sound like a New Yorker sometimes.”

Maryse smiled crookedly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

There was a sudden stir. Dru looked up and saw that Horace, who had been nodding in agreement with King Oban, was staring into the distance, his mouth open in shock.

Oban turned, and a scowl—the first genuine expression he’d shown—spread across his face. “What is this intrusion?” Unable to stop herself, Dru clapped her hands together. Coming into the Projection’s focus, striding across the green fields toward the Cohort, were Julian, Emma, and the rest of their group. Against all odds, they had arrived.

The wind had risen and whipped across the Fields, its force unbroken by walls or trees. The grass bent in front of Emma and the others, and Horace’s Inquisitor robes flapped around him. Zara pushed her hair out of her face and glared furiously at Julian before turning her look of loathing on Emma.

“You,” she hissed.

Emma grinned at Zara with all the hatred sparked by the sight of Cortana hanging at Zara’s side. “I always wanted someone to hiss ‘you’ at me,” she said. “Makes me feel like I’m in a movie.” Horace sneered. “What are you brats doing here? How dare you interrupt this parley? This is a serious matter, not a game for children.” “No one said this was a game, Dearborn.” Julian stopped in between Horace and a milling crowd of faerie knights and redcaps, flanked by Mark and Alec on one side, Emma and Cristina on the other. “Nor are we children.” “I’m certainly not,” Alec pointed out mildly.

A man standing in the center of the milling redcaps pointed at Mark. He had a look of Kieran about him, with messy purple-black hair and a gold circlet tilted slightly on his head. “I know you.” Mark glared. “Unfortunately, that’s true.” He turned to the others. “That is Prince Oban.” “King Oban,” Oban snapped. “Horace—Inquisitor, see that they show me respect.”

“They shouldn’t be here at all,” said Horace. “My apologies for this intrusion.” He flipped a smug hand in their direction. “Ashdown—Gladstone—get rid of this trash.” “You heard him.” Vanessa stepped forward, her hand at the blade at her waist.

“It’s really hard to imagine what Cameron did to deserve relatives like you,” Emma said to her, and had the satisfaction of watching her turn a blotchy color.

Alec raised his bow. So did Mark.

“If you do not surrender your arms,” said Horace, “we will be forced to—”

“Is this really what you want everyone to see?” Julian interrupted. “After everything you said about the deaths of young Shadowhunters—you want to be the cause of more of them?” He turned away from Horace, toward the walls of Alicante, and spoke in a clear, hard voice. “This parley is false. It is entirely for show. Not only is the Inquisitor allied with the Unseelie Court, but he has placed Oban on the throne as his puppet.” Zara gasped audibly.

Where Horace had looked smug, he now looked stunned. “Lies. These are disgraceful lies!” he roared.

“I suppose that you’re going to say that he killed Jace and Clary as well,” said Zara.

Julian didn’t bother to look at her. He kept staring toward Alicante. Emma imagined the Shadowhunters in the city. Could they see him, hear him? Did they understand?

“I wasn’t going to say that,” said Julian. “Because they’re not dead.”

They’re not dead.

A roar went up around Dru. There was chaos in the streets: She could hear people calling out in happiness and others in surprise or anger; she could hear Jace’s and Clary’s names, spoken over and over. Tavvy raised his fists to the sky, where the image of Julian towered above them, flanked by Emma and their friends.

That’s my brother, Dru thought proudly. My brother Julian.

“It’s in very bad taste to make such jokes,” Gladstone snapped. “The world of Nephilim still mourns Jace and Clary—” “And we found their bloodstained clothes,” said Zara. “We know they’re dead.”

“People drop jackets sometimes, Zara,” said Alec. “Jace is my parabatai. If he were dead, I would know.” “Oh, feelings,” Horace said nastily. “This is all about your feelings, is it, Lightwood? We at the Cohort deal in facts! Our facts!” “No one owns facts,” Cristina said quietly. “They are immutable.”

Horace gave her a look of disgust and turned to Oban. “Jace Herondale and Clary Fairchild are dead, aren’t they?” Oban’s expression was a mixture of anger and unease. “One of my redcaps told me it was so, and as you know, my people cannot lie.” “There you have it,” said Horace. “I am out of patience with you, Blackthorn! Guards, come and take them to the Gard. Their punishment will be decided later.” “We’ll take them.” Zara stepped forward, Timothy Rockford at her side. She slid Cortana from its sheath and raised it to gesture at the intruders. “Emma Carstairs, I arrest you in the name of—” Emma reached out her hand. She reached out as she had through all the years since Julian had placed Cortana in her arms at the start of the Dark War. She reached out as she had in the thorn hedge of Faerie, as if she were reaching down through the past to touch the hands of all the Carstairs women who had held Cortana through the years.

Zara’s hand jerked. Cortana’s grip tore free of her fingers and the blade sailed across the space between them.

The hilt smacked into Emma’s hand. Reflexively, she grasped it, and raised the sword high. Cortana was hers again.

They had been sitting on one of the campfire logs, chatting, though Helen was too nervous to keep her mind firmly on the conversation. She couldn’t keep her mind off Jules and Mark, and the danger they were now facing.

“They’ll be all right,” Magnus said after he’d asked her a question twice and she hadn’t answered. She was staring off into the profusion of trees, her whole body tensed. “Horace wouldn’t harm them in front of so many people. He’s a politician.” “Everyone’s got a breaking point,” said Helen. “We’ve seen people do some pretty strange things.” Magnus’s cat eyes flashed. “I suppose we have.”

“It’s nice to see you again,” Aline said to him. “We haven’t spent much time together since Rome.” She smiled at Helen; Rome was where they had met, years ago.

“I keep telling myself I’m going to avoid wars and battles in the future,” said Magnus. “Somehow they keep coming to me. It must be something about my face.” The sound of the whistle brought Helen to her feet, along with Aline. It wasn’t much of a warning. The trees around them shook; Helen had just drawn her sword when a group of fifty or sixty heavily armed Cohort members burst from them, led by Manuel Villalobos, and headed straight for the camp.

Magnus hadn’t bothered to get up off his log. “Oh my,” he said in a bored voice. “A terrifying and unexpected attack.” Aline hit him on the shoulder. The Cohort members pounded up the slight hill and burst into the camp, encircling Magnus, Helen, and Aline. Manuel wore his full Centurion gear; his red-and-gray cloak swirled impressively as he seized Aline and yanked her back against his chest, his dagger out.

“Which tent is Jace and Clary’s?” he demanded. He gestured with his dagger. “You two! Milo, Amelia! Grab the warlock’s hands. He can’t do magic without them.” He shot Magnus a look of loathing. “You ought to be dead.” “Ah, indeed, but the thing is, I’m immortal,” Magnus said cheerfully, as a beefy Shadowhunter—Milo, apparently—yanked his hands together behind him. “Someone ought to have told you.” Helen wasn’t having as easy a time being cheerful. Aline shot her a reassuring look, but the sight of her wife in Manuel’s grip was still more than she could stand. “Let her go!” she demanded.

“As soon as you tell me where Jace and Clary are,” said Manuel. “In fact, let me phrase it in words you might understand. Tell me where they are or I’ll cut your wife’s throat.” Helen and Aline exchanged a look. “It’s that blue one over there,” said Helen, and pointed in what she hoped seemed a reluctant manner.

Manuel shoved Aline away from him. Helen caught her and they embraced tightly. “I hated that,” Helen muttered against Aline’s neck as Cohort members shot by them, their unsheathed blades flashing.

“I didn’t love it either,” Aline replied. “He reeks of cologne. Like a pinecone. Come on.” They glanced back at Magnus, who was whistling cheerfully and ignoring his guards, who looked sweaty and worried. Magnus nodded at them and they hurried after Manuel and the others, who were just approaching the blue tent.

“Grab them,” Manuel said, indicating the tent stakes. “Yank it out of the ground.”

The tent was seized, lifted off the ground, and hurled aside, collapsing in a pile of fabric.

Revealed beneath were Jace and Clary, sitting cross-legged on the dirt, facing each other. They had been playing tic-tac-toe on the ground with sticks. Clary had her hair in a ponytail and looked about fifteen.

Manuel made a sputtering noise. “Kill them,” he said, turning to his companions. “Go on. Kill them.” The Cohort looked nonplussed. Amelia took a step forward, raising her blade—then started visibly.

The trees around the campsite were rustling loudly. The Cohort members who had remained at the treeline, weapons drawn, were glancing around in puzzlement and dawning fear.

Jace drew the third in a line of X’s on the ground and tossed aside his stick. “Checkmate,” he said.

“Checkmate is chess,” Clary pointed out, entirely ignoring the Cohort surrounding them.

Jace grinned. It was a bright, beautiful grin, the sort of grin that made Helen understand why, all those years ago, Aline had kissed him just to see. “I wasn’t talking about our game,” he said.

“I said kill them!” Manuel shouted.

“But, Manu,” said Amelia, pointing a shaking finger. “The trees—the trees are moving—” Aline grasped Helen’s hand as the forest exploded.

There was a moment of stillness. Genuine wonder showed on nearly every face, even Oban’s. As a faerie, perhaps he understood the significance of Cortana’s choice, whether he liked it or not.

Emma’s gaze met Julian’s. He smiled at her with his eyes. Julian understood what this meant to her. He always did.

Zara gave a screech. “Give that back!” She advanced on Emma, who raised Cortana in triumph. Her blood sang in her veins, a song of gold and battle. “You cheaters! Thieves! Coming here, trying to spoil everything, trying to ruin what we’re building!” “Cortana doesn’t want you, Zara,” Julian said quietly. “A sword of Wayland the Smith can choose its bearer, and Cortana does not choose liars.” “We are not liars—”

“Really? Where’s Manuel?” Mark demanded. “He was in Faerie when I was there. I saw him plotting with Oban. He spoke of an alliance with the Cohort.” “Then he spoke of this parley!” Horace roared. “This is an alliance—it is no secret—”

“That was long before you told the Clave that Jace and Clary had died,” said Cristina. “Can Manuel see the future?” Horace actually stamped his foot. “Vanessa! Martin! Get rid of these intruders!”

“My redcaps can take them,” said Oban. “Shadowhunter blood makes a fair dye.”

The Cohort froze. Julian gave a small, cold smile.

“Really, Prince?” said Mark. “How would you know?”

Oban whirled on him. “You will address me as your King! I rule the Lands of Unseelie! I took the title from my father—” “But you didn’t kill him,” said Cristina. “Kieran did that. Kieran Kingson.”

The army of Unseelie had begun to mutter. The redcaps looked on stonily.

“End this farce, Dearborn,” Julian said. “Send the Unseelie army home. Come and face your people in the Council Hall.” “Face them?” Horace said, his mouth working in disgust. “And how do you suggest I do that when I have not yet arranged for justice? Would you simply forget those brave Shadowhunters, the ones who you claim as friends, who have died at the hands of Downworlders? I will not abandon them! I will speak for them—” “Or you could let them speak for themselves,” Alec said mildly. “Since, you know, here they are.” “Oh, look, and there’s Manuel,” said Emma. “We were awfully sorry to miss him, but I see he was . . .” “Don’t say it,” warned Julian.

“. . . tied up.” Emma grinned. “Sorry. Can’t resist a bad pun.”

And tied up he was: Manuel, along with a group of fifty or more Cohort members, was being marched firmly across the Fields from the edge of Brocelind Forest. Their hands were tied behind their backs. They were being propelled forward by a crowd of Shadowhunters—Aline and Helen, Isabelle and Diana and Simon.

Walking alongside them, as casually as if they were out for a morning stroll, were Jace and Clary. Above them fluttered the banner of Livia’s Watch, Clary holding the stanchion from which the banner flew. Emma’s eyes stung—Livvy’s locket and saber, flying high above the Imperishable Fields.

And behind them—behind them came a wave of all the Downworlders who had waited in the woods through the night: warlocks and werewolves and fey of all sorts, leaping and striding and stalking out from between the trees. Brocelind Forest was full of Downworlders once more.

Horace had gone still. Zara shrank in against his bulk, glaring through her tangled hair.

“What is happening?” said Zara in a dazed voice. Emma almost felt sorry for her.

Julian reached up and unbuckled the clasp holding on his cloak. It slid from his shoulders, revealing the hilt of the Mortal Sword, blackly burnished silver with angel wings outspread.

Horace stared at him, wheezing slightly. Emma couldn’t tell if he recognized the Mortal Sword or not yet; he seemed beyond that.

“What have you done, you stupid boy?” he hissed. “You have no idea—the careful planning—all we have done in the name of Nephilim—” “Well, hello there, Dearborn.” Horace jerked back, as if the sight of Jace and Clary so close burned him. Jace held Manuel in front of them by the back of his uniform, the Centurion’s expression sulky and annoyed. “It seems the rumors of our death have been greatly exaggerated. By you.” Clary thrust the stanchion she was holding into the earth, so the banner fluttered upright. “You’ve always wanted to say that, haven’t you?” she asked Jace.

Alec looked at them both and shook his head. The rest of the Shadowhunters and Downworlders had spread themselves out across the field between the parley area and the walls of Alicante. Familiar faces were mixed into the crowd: Simon and Isabelle stood close by, and near them Emma recognized Catarina, Diana, Maia, and Bat; she looked for Magnus and finally found him standing near the edge of Brocelind Forest. What was he doing so far away?

“Dearborn,” Alec said. “This is your last chance. Call off this meeting and return with us to the Council Hall.” “No,” Horace said. Some of the color had come back into his face.

“But everyone can see you lied,” Emma said. “You lied to every Shadowhunter—tried to frighten us all into obedience—” “That’s not Jace and Clary.” Horace pointed at them with shaking fingers. “These are some—some imposters—some warlock magic meant to trick and deceive—” “The Iron Sisters predicted you would say that,” Julian said. “That’s why they gave me this.” He reached behind him and drew the Mortal Sword from its scabbard. The metal seemed to sing as the blade arced across the sky, scattering sparks. An audible gasp went up from the Cohort and the Unseelie faeries; Emma could only imagine the commotion occurring in the city. “The Mortal Sword, reforged.” Silently, Julian thanked Sister Emilia and her willingness to deceive the Cohort.

Horace’s mouth worked. “A fake—a falsity—”

“Then you won’t mind if Manuel holds it,” said Julian. “Order him to take it.”

Horace froze. His eyes darted from the Sword to Manuel and back again; it was, startlingly, Oban who broke the silence.

“Well, if it is a falsity, let the boy take it,” he said. “Let us suffer this farce only briefly.” His silvery eyes flicked to Manuel. “Take the Sword, Centurion.” Tight-lipped, Manuel reached out his hands, and Julian placed the Mortal Sword in them, the blade across his palms. Emma saw Manuel jerk as if in pain, and felt a cold relief. So the Sword’s power was working. It was painful to be forced to tell the truth. The Sword’s power hurt, and not just those who lied but any who wished to protect their secrets.

Julian crossed his arms and looked at Manuel. It was a hard, cold look, a look that went back generations of Blackthorns, to those who had been Inquisitors themselves. “Did you and the Cohort try to kill Clary and Jace just now?” Manuel’s face was blotched white and red, his careful hair disarranged. “Yes,” he hissed. “Yes. I did.” He shot Horace a venomous look. “It was on the Inquisitor’s orders. When he found out they were still alive and would be in Brocelind Forest last night, he ordered us to slay them at dawn.” “But that didn’t happen,” Julian said.

“No. They must have been warned. They were waiting for us, and the woods were full of Downworlders. They attacked. We had no chance.” “So you were willing to kill fellow Nephilim and pin the blame on Downworlders,” said Julian. “Why? Why foment war?” “I did what Horace ordered me to do.”

“And in Faerie,” said Julian. “When you helped Oban become King. When you brokered an alliance between the Cohort and the Unseelie Court. Was that because Horace asked you to do it?” Manuel was biting his lip so hard blood was running down his chin. But the Sword was stronger than his will. “It was my idea,” he gasped. “But Horace embraced it—he loved the idea of pulling off a trick under the Clave’s noses—we put Oban on the throne because Oban was a fool who would do what we wanted—he would stage this parley with us, and we would pretend to reach a deal, a deal where both parties would get what they wanted. The Unseelie Court would get the Shadowhunters on their side against Seelie and other Downworlders—and the Cohort would be able to say that they had forced the Unseelie Court into a peace agreement, that they had agreed never to enter Idris again. Both sides would look strong to their people. . . .” “Enough!” Oban shouted. He reached to seize the Mortal Sword from Manuel, but Mark moved in front of him, blocking his way. “Silence this brat!” “Fine,” Julian said unexpectedly, and plucked the Sword from Manuel’s grasp. “Enough with the junior leagues. Dearborn, take the Sword.” He walked toward Horace, holding the Sword. All around Horace drooped the members of the Cohort, looking alternately shocked and furious. It wasn’t too difficult to tell who had been surprised by Manuel’s revelations, and who hadn’t.

“It’s time you spoke to your people, Dearborn,” Julian said. “They can see you. They can hear you. You owe them an explanation.” He held the Sword out to him, level and ready. “Let yourself be tested.” “We will be tested in battle!” Horace screamed. “I will prove myself! I am their leader! Their rightful Consul!” “Consuls don’t lie to their Council members,” said Julian. He lowered the Mortal Sword so that the flat of the blade lay across his left palm, wincing slightly as the truth-telling compulsion took hold. “You blamed Dane Larkspear’s death on faeries. I killed Dane Larkspear.” Emma felt her eyes widen. She hadn’t expected Julian to say that.

“Maybe a little too much radical honesty,” Simon muttered.

“I killed him because you sent him into Faerie to murder me and to murder my parabatai,” said Julian. “I’m holding the Mortal Sword. I’m not lying. You can see that.” He spoke as if he were addressing only Horace, but Emma knew he was addressing every Shadowhunter and Downworlder who could hear him. “Samantha Larkspear was hurt when she tried to torture Kieran Kingson at the Scholomance. Possibly also on your orders.” He gave a little gasp; the Sword was clearly hurting him. “You’ve set Shadowhunters against Shadowhunters and against innocent Downworlders, all in service of tricking the Council into adopting your bigoted reforms—all in service of fear—” “Yes, I did!” Horace screamed. Zara flew to her father’s side and yanked on his empty sleeve; he seemed barely to notice her. “Because the Nephilim are fools! Because of people like you, telling them Downworlders are our friends, that we can live in peace beside them! You would have us stretch out our necks willingly to the slaughtering blade! You would have us die lying down, not fighting!” He flung his right arm toward Oban. “I wouldn’t have had to accept an alliance with this drunken fool if the Clave had not been so stupid and so stubborn! I needed to show them—show them how to protect ourselves honorably from Downworlders—” “ ’Honorably’?” Julian echoed, raising the Mortal Sword so it no longer touched his palm. It was a weapon again now, not a test of the bearer’s veracity. “You drove the Downworlders out of Brocelind. You knew the Unseelie Court was spreading the blight that was killing warlocks and you did nothing. How is that honorable?” “As if all he did was nothing,” Mark spat. “He encouraged the King to spread his poisoned earth here—to slay the Children of Lilith—” “I think we’re done here.” Alec spoke coldly, in a ringing voice. “It is time for the Unseelie Court to go, Horace. Your loyalty is in question and you are no longer able to negotiate on the behalf of either Downworlders or Nephilim.” “You have no power to send us away, boy!” snapped Oban. “You are not the Consul, and our arrangement is with Horace Dearborn alone.” “I don’t know what Horace promised you,” said Jace, cool satisfaction in his tone. “But he can’t help you, Prince.” “I am the King.” Oban raised his bow.

From the knot of Downworlders, a faerie woman stepped forward. It was Nene, Mark and Helen’s aunt. She faced Oban proudly. “You are not our King,” she said.

“Because you are Seelie folk,” sneered Oban.

“Some of us are Seelie, some Unseelie, and some of the wild peoples,” said Nene. “We do not acknowledge you as the King of the Unseelie Lands. We acknowledge Kieran Kingson, who slew Arawn the Elder-King with his own hands. He has the right of the throne by blood in his veins and by blood spilt.” She stepped aside, and Kieran emerged from the circle of the fey. He had dressed himself in his clothes from Faerie: unbleached linen tunic, soft deerskin breeches and boots. He carried himself upright, his back straight, his gaze level.

“Greetings, brother Oban,” he said.

Oban’s face twisted into a snarl. “The last time I saw you, brother Kieran, you were being dragged in chains behind my horses.” “That is true,” said Kieran. “But it speaks more ill of you than it does of me.” He looked out over the ranged masses of silent Unseelie warriors. “I have come to challenge my brother for the throne of Unseelie,” he said. “The usual method is a duel to the death. The survivor shall take the throne.” Oban laughed in disbelief. “What? A duel now?”

“And why not now?” said Nene. Mark and Cristina were looking at each other in horror; it was clear neither of them had known this part of the plan. Emma doubted anyone had but Kieran himself and a few other faeries. “Or are you afraid, my lord Oban?” In a smooth, sudden move, Oban raised his bow and shot at Kieran. The arrow flew free; Kieran jerked aside, the arrow just missing his arm. It flew across the field and slammed into Julie Beauvale; she went down like a struck sapling, her whip flying from her hand.

Emma gasped. Beatriz Mendoza cried out and fell to her knees at Julie’s side; Alec whirled and shot a flurry of arrows at Oban, but the redcaps had already closed in around the King. Several went down with Alec’s arrows in them as he nocked arrow after arrow to his bow and flew toward the Unseelie warriors.

“After him! Follow Alec!” shouted Maia. Werewolves dropped to the ground on all fours, sprouting fur and fangs. With a shout, the Cohort surrounding Horace seized up their weapons and charged; Julian parried a blow from Timothy with the Mortal Sword, while Jessica Beausejours threw herself at Emma, her sword whipping around her head.

Nene dashed forward to arm Kieran with a silver sword; it flashed like lightning as he laid about him. Oban’s Unseelie faeries, loyal to their King, surged to protect him, a tide of bristling spears and swords. Mark and Cristina hurtled toward Kieran, Cristina armed with a two-edged longsword, elf-shot flying from Mark’s bow. Redcaps crumpled at their feet. Simon, Jace, and Clary had already drawn their swords and leaped into the fray.

Timothy yelled as his sword snapped in half against the blade of Maellartach. With a whimper, he vanished behind Horace, who was screaming wildly for everyone to stop, for the battle to stop, but no one was listening. The noise of the battle was incredible: swords slamming against swords, werewolves howling, screams of agony. The smell of blood and metal. Emma disarmed Jessica and kicked her legs out from under her; Jessica went down with a scream of pain and Emma whirled to find two goblin warriors with their broken-glass teeth and leathery faces approaching. She raised Cortana as one rushed at her. The other went down suddenly, its legs caught in a snare of electrum.

Emma dispatched the first goblin with a blade to the heart and turned to see Isabelle, her golden whip snared around the legs of the second.

The trapped goblin yelled and Simon took care of it with the stroke of a longsword, his expression grim. Julian called out and Emma turned to see a faerie knight rise up behind her; before she could even lift Cortana, he staggered back with one of Julian’s throwing knives sunk deep in his throat.

Emma whirled; Julian was behind her, the gleaming Mortal Sword in his hand. There was blood on him, and a bruise on his cheek, but with Maellartach in his hand he looked like an avenging angel.

Emma’s heart beat in great, powerful strokes; it was so good to have Cortana in her hand again, so good to fight with Julian by her side. She could feel the parabatai warrior magic working between them, could see it like a shimmering cord that tied them together, moving when they moved, binding but never ensnaring them.

He gestured to her to follow him, and together they plunged into the heart of the battle.

The Projection in the sky burst apart like fireworks, the images tumbling toward the city in shining shards. But Dru had seen enough. They all had.

She swung around to see Maryse behind her, staring at the sky as if blinded by an eclipse. “Poor Julie—did you see—?” Dru looked at Max and Rafe, who were clinging together, clearly terrified. “You have to get the kids into the house. Please. Take Tavvy.” “No!” Tavvy wailed as Dru pushed him toward Maryse and the red front door of the Graymark house. “No, ‘Silla, I want to go with you! NO! ” he shrieked, the word tearing her heart as she let go of him and backed away.

Maryse was staring at her, still looking stunned. “Drusilla—stay in the house—”

Behind Maryse the streets were full of people. They’d caught up weapons, dressed themselves in gear. A battle had begun, and Alicante would not wait.

“I’m sorry,” Dru whispered. “I can’t.”

She took off running, hearing Tavvy screaming for her long after she was likely out of earshot. She wove in and out of crowds of Shadowhunters in gear, bows and swords slung over their shoulders, their skin gleaming with fresh runes. It was the Dark War all over again, when they had flown hectically through the cobblestoned streets, chaos all around them. She caught her breath as she cut through Cistern Square, darted through a narrow alley, and came out in Hausos Square, opposite the Western Gate.

The great doors of the gate were closed. Dru had expected that. Lines of Cohort warriors blocked the crowds of Shadowhunters—many of whom Dru recognized from the war council meeting—from accessing them. The square was quickly filling with Nephilim, their angry voices raised.

“You cannot hold us in here!” shouted Kadir Safar, from the New York Conclave.

Lazlo Balogh scowled at him. “The Inquisitor has decreed that no Shadowhunters leave the city!” he called back. “For your own protection!” Someone grabbed at Dru’s sleeve. She jumped a foot and nearly screamed; it was Tavvy, grubby and disheveled. “The Silent Brothers—why don’t they do something?” he demanded, distress printed all over his small face.

The Silent Brothers were still standing at the watch points they’d been assigned, motionless as statues. Dru had passed many of them the night before, though none had tried to stop her or asked her business. She couldn’t think about the Silent Brothers now, though. She seized Tavvy and almost shook him.

“What are you doing here? It’s dangerous, Tavvy!”

He stuck out his jaw. “I want to be with you! I won’t be left behind anymore!”

The crowd burst into a fresh spate of shouting. The Cohort guarding the gate was starting to look rattled, but none of them had moved.

There was no time to send Tavvy back. This could turn into a bloodbath at any moment, and even more than that, Dru’s family and friends were on the Imperishable Fields. They needed help.

She grabbed Tavvy’s hand. “Then keep up,” she snapped, and they started to run, shoving and pushing their way through the crowd to the other side of the square. They ran down Princewater Canal and over the bridge, reaching Flintlock Street in a matter of minutes. It was deserted—some houses had been abandoned so quickly that their doors still swung open.

Halfway down the street was the shop with its small sign. DIANA’S ARROW. Dru flew to the door and rapped on it hard—three fast knocks, then three slow. Open up, she prayed. Open, open, open— The door flew wide. Jaime Rocio Rosales stood on the other side, dressed in black battle gear. He carried a gleaming silver crossbow, pointed directly at her.

“It’s me,” Dru said indignantly. “You know—the one who got you out of jail?”

“You can never be too careful, princess,” he said with a wink, and lowered the bow, calling over his shoulder for Diego and the others. They began to pour out into the street, all in gear, bristling with brand-new weapons: longswords and rapiers, crossbows and maces, axes and bolas. “Who taught you how to pick locks like that, anyway? I never got a chance to ask you last night.” Kit Herondale, Dru thought. The thought of Kit reminded her of something else, too. Tavvy was staring round-eyed at all the gleaming weaponry: Diego was sporting an ax, Divya a two-handed bidenhänder, Rayan a Spanish bola. Even Jia was decked out with her favorite sword, a curved dao. “Okay, everyone,” Dru said. “These weapons are Diana’s, and after today, they have to be returned to the store.” “No worries,” said Jaime. “I have written out a receipt.”

“He has not written out a receipt,” said Diego.

“I considered it,” said Jaime.

“Sometimes it is not the thought that counts, little brother,” said Diego, and there was a deep warmth in his voice that Dru had never heard before. She sympathized—she knew what it was like to lose a brother and get him back.

“We have to go,” Tavvy said. “Everyone at the gates is shouting and the Cohort won’t let them out.” Jia stepped forward. “They cannot keep us trapped in the city,” she said. “Follow me.” Jia seemed to have a mental map of the city in her head. She cut across several bigger streets, through narrow alleys, and behind houses. In what seemed like minutes they came out into Hausos Square.

“Someone let the prisoners out!” shouted a voice, and then other voices joined in, with many calling Jia’s name.

“Move aside!” Rayan shouted. He had set himself on one side of Jia, beside Diego. Divya and Jaime were on the other. Dru hurried behind, still holding Tavvy’s hand, along with the others who had escaped the Gard. “Make way for the Consul!” That cut through the shouting. The crowd fell silent as Jia carved a path among the throng like a battleship cutting through heavy weather. She walked proudly, the dim sun gleaming on her gray-black hair. She reached the center of the locked gate, where Lazlo Balogh stood, a spear upright at his side.

“Open the gate, Lazlo,” she said in a quiet voice that nevertheless carried. “These people have a right to join their friends and family in battle.” Lazlo’s lip curled. “You are not the leader of the Clave,” he said. “You are under investigation. I am acting on the orders of Horace Dearborn, Inquisitor and temporary Consul.” “That investigation is over,” Jia said calmly. “Horace Dearborn came to power unlawfully. He has lied and betrayed us. Everyone here heard the words from his own mouth. He unfairly imprisoned me as he has now imprisoned us in our city while lives are at risk on the Fields. Open the gates.” “Open the gates!” shouted a boy with dark hair—Dru saw Divya smile. It was Anush, her cousin.

“Open the gates!” Divya cried, thrusting her sword into the air. “Open the gates in the name of Raziel!” Jaime whistled, his grin infectious. “Abre las puertas!”

The cry rose into the air. More and more Nephilim joined in—Kadir Safar and Vivianne Penhallow, the cry of “Open the gates!” lifting into a chorus. Tavvy and Dru joined in, Dru losing herself for a moment in the shouting, the feeling of being part of something bigger and stronger than herself alone. She climbed onto a bench, pulling Tavvy up beside her, so she could see the whole scene: the obviously uncomfortable Cohort, the shouting Nephilim, the few Shadowhunters who stood quiet and uncertain.

“We will not disobey the true Consul!” shouted Lazlo, his face darkening. “We will die here before you force us to betray the Law!” The cries faltered; no one had expected that. Tavvy’s eyes widened. “What does he mean?” The crowd had frozen. No Nephilim wanted to be forced to harm another Nephilim, especially after the nightmare of the Dark War. Jia seemed to hesitate.

A Silent Brother stepped forward. Then another, and another, their parchment robes rustling like leaves in the wind. The crowd shrank back to make way for them. Dru couldn’t help but stare. The last time she had looked at a group of Silent Brothers, it had been the day of her sister’s funeral.

A silent voice echoed across the square. Dru could see by the expressions on the faces of the others in the crowd that everyone could hear it, echoing inside their minds.

I am Brother Shadrach. We have conferred among ourselves as to what the Law instructs us to do. We have concluded that the true Consul is Jia Penhallow. Brother Shadrach paused. He and the others made a soundless tableau, ranged against the members of the Cohort. Open the gates.

There was a silence. Balogh’s face worked.

“No!” It was Paige Ashdown. There was a high, angry note in her voice—the same sharp and mean tone she’d always used when she called Ty names, when she sneered at Dru’s clothes and weight. “You can’t tell us what to do—” Brother Shadrach raised his right hand. So did each of the other Brothers. There was a sound like something enormous tearing in half, and the gates blew open, slamming into the Cohort members as if they had been smacked by a gigantic hand. The air was full of the sound of their yells as they were knocked aside; the gates yawned open, and beyond them, Dru could see the Imperishable Fields, green under a gray sky and overrun with fighting.

“Nephilim!” Jia had drawn her dao; she lowered it to point directly ahead at the raging battle. “Nephilim, go forth!” Roaring with the desire to fight, Shadowhunters began to pour out of the open gates of the city. Most of them stepped over the fallen Cohort as they rolled on the ground, groaning in pain. Only Cameron Ashdown, visible thanks to his red hair, paused to help his sister Paige to her feet.

Diego and the others began to move toward the gates. Dru saw Jaime reach over and tap his brother on the shoulder; Diego nodded, and Jaime peeled off from the group and ran toward Dru. She stood frozen in surprise on her bench as he flew through the crowd toward her. He was graceful as a thrown knife, his smile as bright as the edge of its flashing blade.

He reached her; with her standing on the bench, they were the same height. “We could not have done this without you,” he said. “You are the one who set us free.” He kissed her on the forehead, his lips light and quick. “On the battlefield, I will think of you.” And he was gone, running toward his brother as Dru wished she were running toward hers.

She had dreamed that she might fight too, alongside the others. But she could not leave Tavvy. She sat down on the bench and pulled him into her lap, holding him as they watched Diego and Jaime, Rayan and Divya, even Cameron Ashdown, vanishing into the crowd surging through the gates onto the Fields.