فصل 31

31

A REDDER GLOW

“I can’t believe Magnus did this to us,” said Ty. He and Kit were sitting in the hollow below the oak tree, near the half-destroyed campsite. Kit was chilled from sitting on the ground for so long, but it wasn’t as if he could go anywhere. Before heading out to the battlefield with the others, Magnus had fastened both Ty and Kit to the roots of the oak tree with flickering chains of light.

“Sorry, guys,” he’d said, blue sparks dancing from his fingers. “But I promised Julian you’d stay safe, and the best way to make sure that happens is to make sure you stay right here.” “If he hadn’t, you’d be following Julian and the others to the Imperishable Fields,” said Kit. “You can see his reasoning.” He kicked at the chain around his ankle. It was made of glimmer—there was no real substance to it, just shining loops of light, but it held him in place as tightly as if it had been made of adamas. When he touched the light itself, he got a faint shock, like the shock of static electricity.

“Stop fighting it,” said Ty. “We haven’t been able to break out yet; we’re not going to be able to now. We’ll have to find another solution.” “Or we could just accept that we have to wait for them to get back,” said Kit, sinking back against the roots. He suddenly felt very tired—not physically, but deep down.

“I don’t accept that,” said Ty, poking at the glimmering chain around his ankle with a stick.

“Maybe you should learn to accept things that can’t be changed.”

Ty looked up, his gray eyes flashing in his thin face. “I know what you’re really talking about,” he said. “You are mad at me.” “Yeah,” Kit said. “I’m mad at you.”

Ty threw the stick aside; Kit jumped. “You knew I was going to raise Livvy,” he said. “You knew it all along and you told me it was fine. You went along with it until the very last minute and then you told me not to do it. I thought you cared, but you lied to me. Just like everyone else.” Kit gasped with the unfairness of it. I thought you cared? He’d told Ty how much he cared and Ty had treated it like nothing. The humiliation of the night before flooded back over him in a hot wave, sparking a bitter rage. “You only care about what’s best for you,” he said between his teeth. “You raised Livvy for you, not for her or anyone else. You knew the damage it might do. You only thought of yourself. I wish— I wish I’d never known you—” Ty’s eyes filled with sudden tears. Shocked, Kit fell silent. Ty was Ty; he didn’t weep easily, but he was wiping tears from his face with shaking hands. Kit’s rage vanished; he wanted to crawl across the hollow toward Ty, who was shaking his head, saying something under his breath in a low voice— “I’m here.”

Ty’s expression changed completely. There were still tears on his cheeks, but his lips had parted in amazement. In wonder.

She knelt at the edge of the hollow, half-transparent. The wind didn’t lift the edges of her brown hair, nor did she shiver in her long white dress. The dress he had wondered about the night before, thinking she would never have chosen it.

Only now did Kit realize that she hadn’t: The dress was what she had been burned in, a Shadowhunter funeral dress.

“Livvy,” Ty said. He tried to stand, but the cord of light around his ankle jerked him back down. He tumbled onto some moss.

The ghost of Livvy Blackthorn smiled. She came down into the hollow—not climbing or falling, but drifting, like a feather on the wind.

“What are you doing?” asked Ty as she knelt down beside him.

“I shouldn’t have been so angry with you last night,” said Livvy. “You meant well.”

“You came to apologize?” said Kit.

Livvy turned to look at him. The gold locket gleamed at her throat. It was strange to see two of it—the one Ty wore, real and shining, and the one that flickered on Livvy’s neck. A whisper of her memories? Death’s way of projecting an image of what people expected Livvy to look like?

“I forgot,” Livvy said. “You can see ghosts, Herondale.”

She sounded like Livvy. But not like Livvy. There was a cool distance in her tone, and real Livvy would have called him Kit.

Still, she bent to touch Ty’s ankle gently, and at her touch, Magnus’s chain of light flickered and vanished. Ty struggled to his knees. “Why did you do that? Because you’re sorry?” “No,” said Livvy. “Ghosts don’t really do things because they’re sorry.” She touched Ty’s cheek, or at least she tried—her fingers passed through the outline of his body. Ty shivered but kept his gaze locked on her. “Julian and Mark and Helen and Emma are at the Imperishable Fields,” said Livvy, her eyes unfocused, as if she were seeing what was happening elsewhere. “You must go to help them. You must fight in the battle. They need you on their side.” As if it were an afterthought, she turned and touched Kit’s chain. It vanished—and so did Livvy. She bent her head and was gone, not even a wisp of mist to show she had ever been there.

Devastation passed across Ty’s face and Kit felt a stab of pity. What would it be like for him, even if Livvy came and went as a ghost? She would never stay long, and there was no way to be sure that if she did go, she would return. It would be like losing her again and again and again.

Ty got to his feet. Kit knew he would say nothing about Livvy. “You don’t have to come to the battle,” Ty said. “You can stay here.” He began to scramble out of the hollow. Wordlessly, Kit followed.

Cristina knew her Shadowhunter history better than most. As she raced across the green grass, she thought of the past: that here on the Imperishable Fields was where Jonathan Shadowhunter had battled a legion of demons. As she ran, slashing out with her sword, she followed in his footsteps.

Mark was at her side. He was armed with a bow, lighter and smaller than Alec’s, but capable of shooting with speed and precision. The Unseelie army surged toward them as they pushed their way toward Kieran, and Mark’s hand went to his bow over and over, felling trolls and ogres with elf-bolts to the throat and chest. Cristina swung at the smaller, faster redcaps, hacking and slashing, noting with a distant horror that their own blood vanished against their already bloodstained uniforms.

A roar went up from behind them. “What’s that?” Mark demanded, wiping blood and sweat from his eyes.

“Reinforcements coming to join Horace and the others,” Cristina said grimly. “They were on guard around the city.” Mark swore under his breath. “We have to get to Kieran.”

Cristina imagined Mark was having the same panic she was—there was only one of Kieran, and a mass of redcaps and Unseelie foot soldiers, from kelpies to goblins, who had sworn loyalty to Oban. In whatever direction she glanced, she saw Unseelie folk locked in battle with Downworlders and Shadowhunters: Simon and Isabelle were holding off imps with sword and whip, Alec felling ogres one after another with his bow, Maia and Bat tearing at trolls with claws and teeth. In the distance, she saw Emma and Julian fighting back-to-back, and Jace, locked in a fight with Timothy Rockford—but why was Jace using the flat of his blade . . . ?

“There he is,” Mark said. They had crested a hill; down the slope was Kieran. He carried the sword Nene had given him and was facing off against a broad-shouldered redcap in massive iron boots. Mark swore. “They call him General Winter because he can wipe out a whole village faster than a deadly frost.” “I remember him.” Cristina shivered—she recalled the fierce fighting of the redcaps in the throne room of the Unseelie Court. “But—he’ll kill Kieran. I’ve read about redcaps. Mark, this is bad.” Mark didn’t disagree. He was gazing at Kieran with worried eyes. “Come on.”

They made their way down the slope, running past a number of Unseelie soldiers who were racing for the thick of the battle. Oban was still surrounded by a circle of goblins, protecting him: A few redcaps had formed a loose group around Winter and Kieran. They seemed to have congregated to enjoy the fight.

The redcaps cheered as Winter lunged with his swordstaff, landing a glancing blow against Kieran’s shoulder. Kieran’s white shirt was already striped with blood. His hair was white, the color of snow or ash, his cheekbones blazing with color. He parried the next blow of the swordstaff and lunged for Winter’s torso; the redcap general barely slid aside in time to avoid the thrust.

Winter laughed. “What a pity! You fight like a King,” he said. “In a hundred years you might have been good enough to face me.” “Bastard,” Mark hissed. “Cristina—”

She was already shaking her head. “If we go for Winter now, the other guards will fall on us,” she said. “Quick—signal Gwyn. He’ll attack Oban. It might give us a chance.” Mark’s eyes flashed with realization. He cupped a hand around his mouth and whistled, the low, humming, Wild Hunt whistle that seemed to vibrate inside Cristina’s bones.

A shadow passed across the sky. It wheeled and returned: Gwyn on the back of Orion. He flew low over the field; Cristina saw Diana turn and reach up her arms. A moment later Gwyn had swung her up beside him on Orion. They soared back up into the air, Diana and the leader of the Wild Hunt.

Together, they flew low over the goblins surrounding Oban. Diana, her dark hair flying behind her, bent low from the horse’s back, swinging her sword down, slicing across the chest of a goblin guard. The others yelled and began to scatter as Diana harried them from the sky, Gwyn grinning beneath his helmet.

But Kieran was still in desperate trouble. He was barely holding off Winter, whose swordstaff rang again and again against his blade. As Cristina watched in horror, one of Winter’s blows knocked Kieran to the ground; he rolled aside and sprang to his feet, barely missing a second, deadly strike.

Mark and Cristina took off running toward him, but a redcap guard who had been watching the fight swung around to block their path. At this close range, Mark’s bow was of less use; he drew a shortsword from his belt and flung himself at the guard, hacking fiercely at the redcap as he tried to reach Kieran. Another guard rose up in front of Cristina; she dispatched him with a slashing blow, rolling under the stabbing path of another spear. A metal boot crashed into her side and she cried out, feeling her ribs break. Agonizing pain seared through her as she crumpled to the ground.

Meanwhile, Oban’s goblin guard had had enough. Dropping their weapons in their haste to escape, they fled away from Oban into the thick of the battle, Diana and Gwyn following. Oban, abruptly alone in the field, looked around in furious panic before seizing up a goblin’s sword. “Come back, you bastards!” he shouted. “Come back here! I order you!” Gasping in agony, Cristina tried to push herself to her feet. The sear of broken bones made her jackknife against the ground; she saw two redcaps above her and thought: This is the end.

They fell, one on either side of her, both dead. A blood-covered Mark leaned over her, his face white. “Cristina! Cristina!” Cristina caught at Mark, gasping in pain. “Iratze.”

Mark fumbled for his stele as Winter shouted aloud. “King Oban!”

Cristina turned her head to the side. Winter stood over Kieran, who was crumpled on the ground, his sword lying shattered at his side. Cristina’s heart sank even as Mark drew a swift iratze on her skin.

She barely noticed the pain depart. Oh, Kieran.

“General Winter!” Oban cried, waving his hands at the redcap standing over Kieran as if he were swatting at a fly. Stained lace flew from his sleeves and his velvet breeches were crushed beyond repair. “I command you to kill the traitor!” Winter shook his head slowly. He was a massive figure, his shoulders almost splitting the seams of his blood-dyed uniform. “You must do this, sire,” he said. “It is the only way to render your claim on the throne a true one.” With a petulant frown, Oban, sword at his side, stalked forward, crossing the swatch of grass between himself and Kieran. Mark looked down at Cristina. She nodded, yes, and he thrust out a hand, raising her to her feet.

They looked at each other once. Then Mark broke to the right, darting toward Winter and Kieran.

Cristina strode to the left and stepped directly in front of Oban. “You will not touch Kieran,” she said. “You will not take another step.” She heard Winter cry out in surprise. Mark had thrown himself on the redcap general’s back. Winter flung him off, but not before Kieran had staggered to his feet.

Oban looked at Cristina with exasperation. “Do you know who I am, Shadowhunter girl?” he demanded. “Do you dare to cross the path of the Unseelie King? You are no one and nothing important.” Cristina raised her sword between herself and Oban. “I am Cristina Mendoza Rosales, and if you hurt or kill Kieran, then you will have to deal with me.” She saw the flicker in Oban’s silvery eyes and wondered why she had thought he looked like Kieran. They were nothing alike. “You are not such stuff as Kings are made of,” she said in a low voice. “Run, now. Leave this behind you and live.” Oban glanced at Winter, who was battling both Mark and Kieran; they were pressing him back, and back. Dead redcaps lay scattered around the field; the grass was slippery with blood. In the distance, Gwyn and Diana circled on Orion.

In Oban’s eyes Cristina saw his horror, not at the death around him but at the vision of all of it slipping away—kingship, riches, power.

“No!” he cried, and lunged at her with his sword.

Cristina met Oban’s blow with her own, swinging her sword in a savage arc. Surprise flickered in his eyes as their blades rang together. He fell back in surprise, but recovered quickly. He was a drunk and a wastrel, but still a prince of Faerie. When he lunged again, teeth bared, his sword clanged against hers hard enough to ring down through her bones. She stumbled, caught herself, and slashed at him again—and again. He met her blows, his own sword swift and furious. The tip of it nicked her shoulder and she felt the blood begin to flow.

Cristina began to pray.

Blessed be the Angel, my strength, who teaches my hands for war, and my fingers to fight.

All her life she had wanted to do something to ease the pain of the Cold Peace. Here was her chance. Raziel had brought it to her. She would do this for Emma, for the Blackthorns, for Diego and Jaime, for Mark and Kieran, for all the Rosaleses. For everyone harmed by the peace that was truly a war.

A calm stillness filled her heart. She raised her blade as if it were Glorious, as if it were a shining blade of heaven. She saw fear in Oban’s eyes, even as he moved to strike out at her again, bringing his sword around in a sideways arc. She spun in a full circle, avoiding his blow, and as she turned she drove her blade between his ribs.

A sigh seemed to pass through the world. She felt the metal of her sword grind against bone, felt hot blood splash over her fist. She jerked the sword back; Oban staggered, gazing down in disbelief at the blood spreading across the front of his doublet.

“You,” he breathed, still in disbelief. “Who are you?”

No one important.

But there was no point speaking. Oban had slumped to the ground, his hands falling loose at his sides, his eyes filming over. He was dead.

Mark and Kieran were battling desperately and heedlessly on. Cristina knew they were fighting not for their own lives but for each other.

“Prince Oban is dead!” she shouted. “Oban is dead!”

She stepped forward on the blood-wet grass, calling to Winter, to Mark and Kieran, to everyone who could hear.

It was General Winter who heard her cry. He stood, as tall and forbidding as a wall between Cristina and the boys she loved. His red-capped head turned. His red eyes took in Cristina, and then what lay behind her, a heap of blood and velvet.

His knuckles where he held his sword went white. For a moment Cristina pictured him taking his revenge for his King on Kieran and Mark. Her breath caught in her throat.

Ponderous and terrifying as an avalanche, Winter sank slowly to his knees. He bowed his blood-darkened head. His voice boomed like thunder as he said, “My liege lord, King Kieran.” Kieran and Mark stood side by side, blades still held high, breathing in hard jolting unison. Cristina walked across the blood-drenched earth to stand so she and Mark were flanking Kieran.

Kieran’s face was deadly pale. There was a forlorn, lost look about him, but his eyes searched Cristina’s face as if he might find himself there. She clasped his hand. Kieran’s eyes traveled from Cristina to Mark, and his chin lifted. He stood with his back straight as a blade. Cristina watched him set his slender shoulders as if preparing to bear a heavy burden.

She swore an oath silently to herself: She and Mark would help him bear it.

“Prince Oban is dead,” Mark said. His voice lifted to the skies, to Diana and Gwyn circling high above their heads. “Kieran Kingson is the new King of Unseelie! Long live the King!” * * *

They had made it to the edge of the forest, half-running the whole way, tripping over tree roots in their haste to get to the Imperishable Fields. There was no defined border between the Fields and the forest: The trees thinned out and Ty stopped dead, his breath catching. Kit stopped beside him, staring.

It looked like a movie. He couldn’t help the thought, though he felt vaguely ashamed of it—like a movie with incredible effects and attention to every detailed piece. He had thought of battles as organized, two lines of soldiers advancing on each other. Instead, this was chaos—less a chess game than a collapsed Jenga tower. Soldiers fought in clumps, rolled into ditches, spread in haphazard patterns across the Fields. The air stank of blood and roiled with noise—the clang of metal on metal, soldiers shouting, the howl of wolves, the screams of the wounded.

The noise. Kit turned to Ty, who had gone pale. “I can’t—I didn’t bring my headphones,” Ty said.

Kit hadn’t remembered them either, but then he hadn’t really expected to be in the fight. He hadn’t even imagined there would be a fight on this scale. It was massive. The gates of the city of Alicante were open, and more Shadowhunters were pouring out, adding to the noise and chaos.

Ty couldn’t do this. He wouldn’t survive being at the center of that with nothing to protect his ears, his eyes.

“Do you see Julian?” Kit asked. Maybe if Julian was nearby, if they could just get to him— Ty’s expression cleared slightly. “Hold on.” He checked the inside of his jacket, where he’d stashed several knives and a slingshot. He had a pocketful of stones as well; Kit had seen them earlier.

Ty jogged to the nearest tree—a big, spread-branched oak—and began to shinny up it.

“Wait!” Kit ran to the base of the trunk and looked up. Ty was already vanishing among the leaves. “What are you doing?” “I might be able to see the others from a higher vantage,” Ty called down. A branch rattled. “There they are—I see Alec. And Jace; he’s fighting some of the Cohort. Mark and Cristina are over by the redcaps. There’s Helen—a troll is coming up on her from behind—” There was a whistling rattle and a rustle of leaves. “Not anymore,” Ty added in a pleased voice, and Kit realized he must have used his slingshot. “Kit, come up here—you can see everything.” There was no answer.

Ty leaned down through the branches, searching the forest floor below the oak. It was bare. Kit was gone.

Alec had found himself a rock, one of the few on the Fields. This was a good thing, because he was at his best from a slight elevation—as Jace jogged toward him, weaving through Unseelie soldiers and friendly Downworlders alike, he watched with brotherly admiration as Alec let arrow after arrow fly with deadly speed and more deadly precision.

“Alec.” Jace reached Alec. A troll was running toward them, its tusks stained with blood, its ax raised. Its eyes gleamed with hate. Jace tugged a knife from his belt and flung it and the troll went down, gurgling, the blade in its throat.

“What is it?” Alec didn’t glance at him. He nocked his bow again, drew, and impaled a glass-toothed goblin that had been running toward Simon. Simon gave him an offhand salute and went back to fighting a mossy thing Jace suspected was a dryad gone wrong.

“The gates of the city are open—”

“I noticed.” Alec shot the dryad. It ran off toward the trees.

“More Cohort members are coming onto the field.”

“So are more of our allies. Jia’s here,” said Alec.

“True.” An ogre came at Jace from the left. He cut it down with quick efficiency. “Where’s Magnus?” Alec watched Simon with narrow eyes; he’d joined Clary in cutting down a redcap. The redcaps were the deadliest faerie soldiers on the field, but Jace was pleased to see Clary handle hers with aplomb. She slashed at its knees, and when it fell, Simon lopped off its head. Good solid parabatai work.

“Why do you want to know where Magnus is?” Alec said.

“Because these Cohort members are all Shadowhunters,” Jace said frankly. “I’ve been trying not to kill them. I’ve been using the flat of my blade, whacking them on the heads when they go down, or letting Clary use her knockout runes, but it’s a lot harder not killing people than killing them.” He sighed and threw a knife at an attacking pixie. “We could use Magnus’s help.” “You know,” Alec said, “vampires are really good at taking people down without killing them. Just grab a person, drink enough blood to make them pass out, and voilà.” “Not helpful,” Jace said. Another troll rushed at them. Jace and Alec reached for their weapons at the same time. The troll eyed them, turned, and ran off.

Alec laughed. “You’re in luck, parabatai,” he said, and pointed toward the edge of Brocelind Forest.

Jace followed his gesture. The edge of the trees was deeply shaded, but Clary had put Farsight runes on him earlier. He could even see a small figure perched halfway up an oak tree, using a slingshot to take down Unseelie soldiers. Interesting. He also saw Magnus, who had just stepped out of the shadows beneath the trees.

He was in full warlock regalia—a cloak of black sewn with silver stars, silver chains at his throat and wrists, hair spiked to maximum height. Blue fire spread from his hands. It flowed up into the air, and the already thick clouds began to draw together.

Clary jogged over to them, picking her way among dead trolls and ogres. She was beaming. “I thought he was worried he couldn’t do it!” she exclaimed. “He looks so cool.” “Just watch,” Alec said, winking at her. “And he does look cool.” He shot an approaching troll, just in case anyone was worried he was slacking off.

Jace hadn’t been. The field was starting to roil in chaos, werewolves and warlocks, faeries and Shadowhunters, turning to look at Magnus as blue-black magic unfurled from his hands, spreading into the sky.

The sky itself began to darken. It was as if a sheet were being drawn across it: Light filtered down, but not all light—a dim bluish light like the illumination of stars or moonshine. Gwyn and Diana circled against the darkening sky.

Magnus began to sway. Jace sensed Alec tensing up. This was immense magic—the kind that could drain a warlock’s power.

Another figure stepped from the woods. A man with green skin and curling horns, hair as white as Catarina’s. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt with white lettering.

He placed his hand on Magnus’s shoulder.

“Is that Ragnor Fell in a ‘Ragnor Lives’ T-shirt?” said Clary in amazement. Ragnor was one of Magnus’s oldest friends and had spent several years pretending to be dead and then several more pretending to be a warlock called Shade. Jace and Clary had good cause to know him well.

“I wouldn’t wear a ‘Simon Lives’ T-shirt to a battle,” said Simon, who was standing within earshot. “Seems like asking for trouble.” Alec laughed. “I think he’ll be okay,” he said as Ragnor held fast to Magnus and Magnus raised his hands, releasing more blue-black light. “He’s just giving Magnus some of his strength.” The sky had turned dark as sunset, without the gleam of the setting sun. Magnus lowered his hands as from the woods behind him, protected by the new darkness, exploded the vampires—Lily in the lead, racing across the field to join the battle.

“I know what you said,” said Jace, watching as the vampires closed the gap between themselves and the Cohort, “but did the vampires get the memo about not killing Shadowhunters?” Alec grinned.

“By the Angel!” Aline swore, her mouth dropping open.

Helen whipped around, raising her sword. Fighting alongside the people you loved was always terrifying. You weren’t just battling to protect yourself; you were fighting for them as well. She would have battled a Greater Demon bare-handed to save Aline.

Aline caught at Helen’s sword arm. “My mom!” She was almost incoherent. “They’re coming out of the city—and my mom is with them!” The gates of Alicante had been thrown wide and Shadowhunters were pouring through. At the head of the cavalcade she could see Jia, dressed in battle gear with a massive curved dao in her hand and Centurions—Diego, Rayan, Divya, and others—on either side of her. Scariest mother-in-law ever, Helen thought.

Helen and Aline raced toward the new arrivals. As they got closer, Aline broke free and ran to throw her arms around her mother. Jia lowered her sword and hugged her daughter fiercely with her free arm, their dark heads bent together.

“Where’s Dad?” Aline said, drawing back to study her mother’s face.

“Still in the city. He’s coordinating with Carmen Mendoza and the Silent Brothers to make sure that people inside stay safe.” “But how did you get out of the Gard?” Aline asked.

Jia almost smiled. “Drusilla let us out last night. She’s a very enterprising child! Speaking of Blackthorns, Helen, come here.” A little hesitant, Helen approached Jia. She’d always thought her mother-in-law was impressive, but she’d never been more intimidating than in this moment.

Jia put an arm around her and hugged her so tightly Helen remembered her own mother Eleanor and the strength of her embrace. “My darling, you’ve done such a wonderful job at the Institute,” Jia said. “I am so proud.” Divya sniffled. “That is so sweet.”

Jia ended the hug, all business again. “All right, everyone, enough gawking. We are entering a battle, one where we will be fighting other Shadowhunters. Ones we would prefer not to kill. We need to make a Malachi Configuration.” Helen dimly remembered what a Malachi Configuration was—a temporary magical prison created by adamas and runes. It was sometimes used by the Inquisitor or the Silent Brothers when they had no other way to hold a prisoner.

Diego responded first. “On it!” He grabbed a seraph blade and crossed over into the edge of the Fields before kneeling to stab it into the earth. “I’ll take north; Divya, you go south; Rayan, go east. We need to mark the four cardinal directions.” “Bossy, bossy,” said Divya, but she was smiling. Aline moved to help as well, going to the western point. The rest of the newcomers were drawing weapons. Jaime had his crossbow out and was clearly itching to jump into the fight.

Jia said, “Remember what Drusilla said about the Watch’s plan. Try not to kill Cohort members if you have a choice. Herd them back here toward the configuration. They’re still Shadowhunters, even if they are misguided.” With whoops and cries the Shadowhunters raced onto the field and plunged into the battle just as a sweet chiming noise sounded and the Malachi Configuration flared up.

Light poured from the four angel blades, forming a cage whose walls were made of shifting light. It looked delicate as butterfly wings, prismatic as glass. Helen gazed at the configuration and hoped that their plan to spare the lives of the Cohort would not be in vain. The luminous walls of the prison looked too fragile to hold so much hate.

“Let me go!” Kit yelled. He knew it wouldn’t do much good. Emma had him firmly by the back of the shirt and was marching him along the edge of the forest, keeping to the shadows. She looked absolutely furious.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. She held her golden sword in her free hand, her gaze darting around in mingled anger and watchfulness. “When I saw you I almost had a heart attack! You’re supposed to be at camp!” “What about Ty?” Kit said, twisting against Emma’s iron grip. “He’s back there! He’s up a tree. We can’t just leave him alone.” Something whistled over their heads, and an approaching ogre went down in a heap, a neat circle punched into the middle of its forehead.

“He seems to be doing fine,” Emma said dryly. “Besides, I promised Tessa I wouldn’t let you near battles or faeries and this is a battle full of faeries. She’s going to kill me.” Kit was stung. “Why no battles or faeries? I’m not that bad of a fighter!”

Emma swung him around so he faced her, thankfully letting go of the back of his shirt as she did so. “It’s not about that!” she said angrily. Her gear was dirty and bloodstained, her face scratched and cut. Kit wondered where Julian was—parabatai usually fought in battle together, didn’t they?

“I don’t see what’s so important about me,” Kit said.

“You’re more important than you think,” Emma said. Her eyes went suddenly wide. “Oh no.” “What?” Kit looked around wildly. At first he saw nothing unusual—or at least, nothing unusual for a huge ongoing brawl between faeries and Shadowhunters.

Then a shadow fell over them, and he realized.

The last time he had seen the Riders of Mannan had been in London. There were six of them now, gleaming in bronze and gold; their horses were shod with gold and silver, their eyes inky black. The Riders wore armor without joints or rivets to hold it together—a smooth, liquidy bronze that covered them from neck to foot like the gleaming carapaces of insects.

“Get behind me, Kit.” Emma had gone pale. She stepped in front of Kit, lifting Cortana. “Stay down. They’re probably coming for me, not you.” The Riders hurtled toward them, like a shower of falling stars. They were beautiful and awful. Kit had taken only the Herondale dagger Jace had given him. He realized now how unprepared he had been. How foolish.

One of the Riders jerked and yelled, clasping at his arm. Ty’s slingshot, Kit realized, and felt a rush of reluctant warmth and a sudden stab of fear—what if he never saw Ty again?

The struck Rider spat a curse; they were almost overhead, and Kit saw their faces—their bronze hair, their sharp cold features.

“Six of you against one?” Emma shouted, the wind whipping her hair. “Are you that dishonorable? Come down one by one and fight me! I dare you!” “It seems you cannot count, little Shadowhunting murderer,” said Ethna, the only woman among the Riders. “There are two of you.” “Kit is a child,” said Emma, which annoyed Kit even as he realized she was probably right to say it. Kieran’s voice was in his head: The children of Mannan have never been defeated.

Across the field, Julian was running toward them. Helen ran alongside him, and Aline. But they would never reach Emma and Kit in time.

“Kit is the child,” said Etarlam with a smirk. “The descendant of the First Heir.”

“Give him to us,” said Karn. “Give him to us and we might spare you.”

Kit’s throat had gone dry. “That’s not right,” he said. “I have no faerie blood. I’m a Shadowhunter.” “One can be both,” said Ethna. “We guessed it when we saw you in that dirty city.”

She meant London, Kit thought dizzily. He remembered Eochaid looking at him, saying: I know you. I know your face.

“You look just like her,” said Eochaid now with a smirk. “Just like Auraline. And just like your mother.” “We slew her,” said Ethna. “And now we will slay you, too, and wipe out any trace of your tainted bloodline from this world and ours.” “What?” Kit forgot his fear, forgot Emma’s exhortation that he stay behind her. Forgot that anyone was coming to help them. Forgot everything except Ethna’s words. “You killed my mother? My mother?” “What did you think happened to her, child?” Ethna said. “Yes, we spilled her blood at the King’s orders. She died screaming for you, though even when we tortured her, she never spoke your name or revealed your whereabouts. Perhaps that will be a comfort for you, in these last moments!” She burst out laughing, and in a moment, the Riders were all laughing, their horses rearing back against the sky.

Cold fire spread through Kit’s veins; he moved toward the Riders, as if he could reach up and pull them from the sky.

He felt the Talent rune Ty had given him begin to burn on his upper arm.

Emma swore, trying to grab at Kit and draw him behind her. “You can’t,” she was saying. “You can’t, they’re unbeatable, Kit—” The Riders drew their swords. Metal flashed in the sky. They blocked out the sun as they hurtled down toward Emma and Kit. Emma raised her sword as Ethna, blaze-eyed astride her stallion, smashed into her, blade against blade. Emma was lifted off her feet and hurled backward. She hit the turf with an impact Kit could hear. She scrambled to her feet as Ethna wheeled her steed around, laughing, and started to race to Kit, but the others were coming—they were driving their horses toward Kit with such force that the grass below them flattened—he raised his hands as if he could ward them off with a gesture, and heard Eochaid laugh— Something inside him cracked apart, flooding his body with power. It surged through him, electric, exploding from the palms of his hands with enough force to press him to his knees.

Emma looked at him incredulously as white light shot from his hands and surrounded the Riders like a net. Kit could hear them screaming in horror and surprise; they urged their horses higher, into the sky— He closed his hands into fists, and the horses vanished. Winked out of existence between one breath and the next. The Riders, who had already plunged high into the sky to get away, fell screaming through the air to the ground; they crashed down among the surge of battle and disappeared from view.

Kit rolled onto his back on the grass. He was gasping for breath. Dying, he thought. I’m dying. And I cannot be who they said I am. It’s impossible.

“Kit!” Emma was crouching over him, pulling the collar of his shirt aside to place an iratze there. “Kit, by the Angel, what did you do?” “I don’t—know.” He felt like there was no breath in his body. His fingers scrabbled weakly against the dirt. Help me, Emma. Help me.

Tell Ty—

“It’s all right.” There was someone else bending over him, someone with a familiar face and calming voice. “Christopher. Christopher, breathe.” It was Jem. Closing his eyes, Kit let Jem’s gentle arms lift him from the ground, and darkness came down like the curtain at the end of a play.

“Emma!”

Dazed, Emma stumbled a little as she straightened up. She had been bending over Kit, and then Jem had come—and Kit was gone. She was still dizzy from the shock of the Riders’ attack and the strangeness that had followed.

Kit had made the Riders’ steeds disappear and they’d fallen into the crowd of battle, wreaking havoc. And now Julian was here, looking at her with worry and concern.

“Emma,” Julian said again, putting his hands on her shoulders and turning her to look at him. “Are you all right?” “Aline and Helen,” she said breathlessly. “They were with you—”

“They went back to help the others,” he said. “The Riders are causing chaos on the field—” “I’m sorry,” Emma said, “I didn’t know that Kit—”

“I’m not sorry,” Julian said, and there was a savagery in his tone that made her look up, her head clearing. Julian’s face was smudged with blood and dirt. His gear was ripped at the shoulder, his boots thick with churned mud and blood. He was beautiful. “Whatever happened, whatever Kit did, he saved your life. The Riders would have killed you.” She was breathless with fear, not for herself but for Julian. The Riders hated them both. Gwyn and Diana were circling over the Fields, calling out that Oban was dead, that Kieran was King. Perhaps Kieran could order the Riders around—perhaps not. At the moment, they had not sworn allegiance to him. They were masterless, here for blood and vengeance, and very dangerous.

“Do you need an iratze?” Julian was still holding her shoulders. She wanted to hug him, wanted to touch his face and make sure he was whole and unharmed. She knew she couldn’t.

“No,” Emma said. Runes between them were too dangerous. “I’m fine.”

Slowly he bent his head and touched his forehead to hers. They stood for a moment, motionless. Emma could feel the parabatai energy in them both, vibrating beneath their skin like an electric current. There was no one around them; they were at the very edge of the battle, almost in the woods.

She felt herself smile a little. “Ty’s up a tree with a slingshot,” she said, almost in a whisper.

Julian drew back, a look of amusement ghosting across his face. “I know. Safest place for him, I guess, though when I find out how he got out of Magnus’s enchantment, I’m not sure which of them I’m going to kill.” There was a sudden commotion; Emma looked over at the field and saw flashes of bronze. The Riders had regrouped; they were laying about themselves with their blades, cutting a path through the Shadowhunters. Several bodies lay crumpled on the ground: with a pang, she recognized Vivianne Penhallow’s strawberry-blond hair, now flecked with blood.

Emma grabbed Cortana. “Julian—where’s the Mortal Sword?”

“Gave it to Jace,” he said as they both hurried across the trampled grass. “I hated carrying that thing around. He’ll enjoy it.” “Probably,” Emma admitted. She looked around: The skies overhead roiled blue-black. The bodies of Downworlders and Shadowhunters were scattered across the field; as they pressed on, Emma nearly stepped on a corpse in a Centurion uniform, eyes rolled to the sky. It was Timothy Rockford. She fought down a wave of nausea and turned away. A redcap surged up behind her.

She raised Cortana, the blade slicing the air.

“Emma!” Julian caught at her shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said as the redcap turned and vanished back into the crowd. “The Unseelie soldiers don’t know what to do. Some are still following Oban. Some are retreating at Kieran’s orders. It’s chaos.” “So it could be ending?” she said, breathless. “We could be winning?”

He drew the back of his hand across his face, smudging more dirt on his cheekbones. His eyes were brilliant blue-green in the odd light of the clouds; his gaze ran up and down her, and she recognized his look as the embrace he couldn’t give, the words he couldn’t say.

“The Cohort won’t give up,” he said instead. “They’re still fighting. We’re trying not to harm them, but they’re not making it easy.” “Where’s Horace?” Emma demanded, craning her head to see what was happening across the field.

“He’s kept himself surrounded by his followers,” Julian said, leaping over the body of a dead troll. “Jace and the others are trying to get to him, but the Cohort are willing to die for him and we don’t want to kill them. Like I said, they’re not making it easy.” “We should get back and help.” She started to head across the field, Julian beside her. Downworlders flashed past them, hurling themselves at Unseelie faeries and Cohort Nephilim. Jessica Beausejours was struggling to fend off a black-haired vampire with a seraph blade, while nearby a werewolf rolled on the ground with a massive troll, two sets of fangs snapping.

Emma heard someone yell. It was Mark—she could see Cristina, too, not far away, sword to sword with Vanessa Ashdown. Cristina was fighting carefully, trying not to hurt Vanessa; Vanessa was showing no such care—she held a swordstaff in her hand and was pushing Cristina back with slamming blows.

Mark, though—Mark was facing Eochaid. A Rider had found him.

Emma and Julian took off instantly, racing toward Mark. He was backing away, bow in hand, taking careful aim, but each arrow that hit Eochaid seemed only to slow him down, not to stop him.

No one’s killed one of Mannan’s Riders in all the history I know.

Emma had killed one of the Riders. But Emma had Cortana. Mark had only an ordinary bow, and Cristina and Kieran were both caught up in the vast crowd. They could never make it to Mark in time.

Emma heard Julian whisper his brother’s name. Mark. They were racing flat-out over the uneven ground—Emma could feel the parabatai energy driving them forward—when something reared up and struck her. She went flying, hit the ground, rolled to her feet.

Standing in front of her was Zara.

She was cut and filthy, her long hair matted in clumps of blood and dirt. Her colorful Centurion gear had been cut to ribbons. There were tracks of dirty tears on her face, but her hands, gripping a longsword, were steady. As was her gaze, fixed on Cortana.

“Give me back my sword, you bitch,” she snarled.

Arrested by Emma’s fall, Julian spun around and saw his parabatai facing Zara Dearborn. Zara was whipping her sword back and forth while Emma watched her with a puzzled look: Zara wasn’t a very good fighter, but she wasn’t this bad.

Emma met Julian’s eyes as she raised Cortana: Go, go to Mark, her expression said. Julian hesitated a moment—but Emma could more than handle Zara. He whirled around and ran for his brother.

Mark was still fighting, though he was pale, bleeding from a cut across his chest. Eochaid seemed to be playing with him, as a cat might play with a mouse, thrusting his sword and then turning it aside to slash rather than stab. It would mean a slow death of cuts and bloodletting. Julian felt the sourness of rage in the back of his throat. He saw Cristina slam the hilt of her sword against Vanessa’s head; Cameron’s cousin went down hard and Cristina turned, sprinting toward Mark.

Another Rider cut her off. Julian’s heart sank; he was nearly there, but he recognized Ethna, with her long bronze braid and vicious scowl. She carried a sword in one hand, a staff in the other, and swung out at Cristina, knocking her hard to the ground.

“Stop!”

The word was a gravel-toned bellow. Cristina and Mark were both on the ground; their opponents turned, staring. Kieran stood before them, his shoulder knotted with white bandages. It was Winter who had spoken: The redcap stood upright, swordstaff in hand. He pointed the sharp end of it at Eochaid.

“Stop,” he said again. “The King commands that you stand down.”

Eochaid and Ethna exchanged a look. Their metallic eyes simmered with rage. They would not soon forget being cast down from the sky and humiliated.

“We will not,” said Eochaid. “Our King was Arawn the Elder. He commanded us to slay the Blackthorns and their allies. We shall enact that command and no word from you shall change it.” “We have not yet sworn allegiance to you,” said Ethna. “You are not our King.”

Julian wondered if Kieran would flinch. He didn’t. “I am your King,” he said. “Leave them be and return to Unseelie or be considered traitors.” “Then we will be traitors,” said Ethna, and brought her longsword down.

It never struck its target. The air seemed to ripple, and suddenly Windspear was diving toward Ethna, rearing back: He struck Ethna full in the chest with his front hooves. There was a clang as she was flung backward. A moment later, Cristina was on her feet, her wrist bleeding but her grip on her sword steady.

“Go to Mark!” she shouted, and Kieran leaped onto Windspear’s back and plunged toward Eochaid; the Rider was like a fall of sparks, graceful and inevitable. He flew into the air, whipping around with his sword in hand, the blade clashing against Kieran’s.

Mark leaped into the air—a spinning, graceful leap—and caught hold of Eochaid, wrapping his arms around the Rider’s throat from behind. They tumbled to the ground together; Eochaid leaped to his feet. Julian raced toward Mark, hurling himself between his brother and the Rider, bringing up his sword to parry a slashing blow.

Eochaid laughed. Julian barely had time to help Mark to his feet when something struck him from behind—it was Karn the Rider, a roaring tower of bronze. Julian whirled and hit back with all his force. Karn staggered back, looking surprised.

“Nice hit,” Mark said.

It’s because of Emma. I can feel the parabatai bond burning inside me.

“Thanks,” he said, raising his blade to fend off another blow from Karn. Kieran and Cristina were harrying Eochaid; Ethna was battling Winter to his knees. Even the parabatai strength wasn’t enough, Julian knew. The Riders were too strong. It was a matter of time.

There was another flash of bronze. Mark muttered a curse: It was Delan, the one-handed Rider, drawn to his siblings. Now there were four of them: only Etarlam and Airmed were still missing, somewhere in the battle.

Delan wore a bronze half mask and swung a golden spiked flail; he was running toward Kieran, the flail swinging— An ax crashed into him from behind, sending him sprawling. It was Eochaid’s turn to swear. Ethna yelled, even as Delan staggered to his feet and spun to face his attacker.

It was Diego Rosales. He winked at Kieran just as the flail swung toward his head; he fended it off with the flat of his ax. Kieran, who had looked both astonished and pleased at Diego’s appearance, leaped from Windspear’s back and raced toward Delan. Winter darted after him as Cristina swung at Ethna— There was a shattering crack as Cristina’s sword broke. She gasped, leaped backward—Mark and Kieran turned, stricken—Ethna raised her blade— And was blown off her feet. Lines of golden energy laced across the field, lifting each of the Riders into the air and sending them tumbling across the grass like scattered toys. Julian turned in astonishment to see Hypatia Vex standing nearby with her hands raised, light cascading from her fingertips.

“Magnus sent me over,” she said as the battling Nephilim stared at her. Even Winter was staring, looking as if he might have fallen in love. Julian suspected his chances with Hypatia weren’t good. “This’ll buy us some time, but they’ll be back. The Riders of Mannan . . .” She sighed dramatically. “Shadowhunters. Why do I always end up mixed up in their business?” * * *

Zara was fighting like a wild thing. Emma had remembered Zara as a mediocre warrior, and she was, but from the moment their two blades had touched, Zara had been electrified. She swung her blade as if she meant to hack down a tree with it; she flung herself at Emma over and over, sloppily leaving her defenses completely open. As if she didn’t care if she lived or if she died.

And perversely, it was making Emma hold back. She knew she had every right and reason to strike Zara down. But Zara seemed wild with what Emma could only identify as grief—she had lost friends, Emma knew, dead on the field like Timothy. But Emma suspected her grief was more for the bitterness of losing and the sting of shame. Whatever happened, the Cohort would never regain their glory. The lies they had told would never be forgotten.

Julian had seen to that.

“You couldn’t just leave well enough alone,” Zara hissed, lunging at Emma with her wrist held stiffly. Emma evaded the blow easily without needing to parry. “You had to be the moral busybodies. You had to stick your nose in everywhere.” “Zara, you took over the government,” Emma pointed out, stepping aside as Zara lunged again. At this rate Zara would tire herself out. “Your father tried to murder us.” “Because you wanted to hurt us,” Zara hissed. “Because there’s an us and a them, Emma, there always is. There’s the ones who want to protect you and the ones who want to hurt you.” “That’s not true—”

“Really?” Zara tossed her filthy, bloody hair back. “Would you have been my friend? If I’d asked you?” Emma thought of the things Zara had said about Downworlders. About Mark. About half-breeds and perverts and registries and cruelties large and small.

“That’s what I thought,” Zara sneered. “And you think you’re so much better than me, Emma Carstairs. I laughed when Livvy died, we all did, just at the looks on your smug, stupid faces—” Rage flooded through Emma, white-hot. She slashed out with Cortana, turning the blade at the last second so that the flat hit Zara, knocking her off her feet. She hit the ground on her back, coughing blood, and spat at Emma as she leaned over her, laying the tip of Cortana against her throat.

“Go on,” Zara hissed. “Go on, you bitch, do it, do it—”

Zara was the reason they were all here, Emma thought, the reason they were all in danger: The Cohort had been the reason they had needed to fight and struggle for their lives, had been the reason Livvy had died there on the dais in the Council Hall. The yearning for vengeance was hot in her veins, burning against her skin, begging for her to thrust the blade forward and cut Zara’s throat.

And yet Emma hesitated. An odd voice had come into her head—a memory of Arthur Blackthorn, of all people. Cortana. Made by Wayland the Smith, the legendary forger of Excalibur and Durendal. Said to choose its bearer. When Ogier raised it to slay the son of Charlemagne on the field, an angel came and broke the sword and said to him, “Mercy is better than revenge.” She had taken down the pictures in her room because she was done with vengeance. Cristina was right. She needed to be done. In that moment she knew she would never cut the parabatai rune, no matter what happened now. She had seen too many parabatai on the battlefield today. Perhaps being parabatai was a weakness that could trap you. But so was any kind of love, and if love was a weakness, it was a strength, too.

She moved the sword aside. “I won’t kill you.”

Tears spilled from Zara’s eyes and streaked down her dirty face as Emma stepped away from her. A second later Emma heard Julian call her name; he was there, hauling Zara to her feet by one arm, saying something about taking her where the prisoners were. Zara was looking from him to Emma, not trying to struggle; she stayed passive in Julian’s grip, but her eyes—she was looking past Julian, and Emma didn’t like the look on her face at all.

Zara made a little choking noise, almost a laugh. “Maybe I’m not the one you have to worry about,” she said, and pointed with her free hand.

Julian went white as chalk.

In a cleared space on the field, under the blue-black sky, stood Annabel Blackthorn.

It was as if the sight of her formed itself into a fist that punched Emma directly in the guts. She gasped. Annabel wore a blue dress, incongruous on the battlefield. A vial of red fluid glimmered at her throat. Her dark brown hair lifted and blew around her. Her lips curved into a smile.

Something was wrong, Emma thought. Something was very, very wrong, and not just the fact that Annabel couldn’t possibly be here. That Annabel was dead.

Something was more wrong than that.

“You didn’t really think you could kill me, did you?” Annabel said, and Emma saw that her feet were bare, pale as white stones on the bloody ground. “You know I am made of other stuff. Better stuff than your sister. You cannot make my life run out with my blood as I squeal for mercy—” Julian let go of Zara and ran at her. He tore across the ground and flung himself at Annabel, just as Emma screamed his name, screamed at him that something was wrong, screamed at him to stop. She started toward him, and a blow hit her hard in the back.

The pain came a second later, hot and red. Emma turned in surprise and saw Zara standing with a small knife in her hand. She must have taken it from her belt.

The hilt was red and dripping. She had stabbed Emma in the back.

Emma tried to lift Cortana, but her arm felt as if it wasn’t working. Her mind, too, was racing, trying to catch up to her injury. As she tried to call out to Julian, choking on blood, Zara slammed the knife into Emma’s chest.

Emma’s legs went out from under her. She fell.