خاتمه

EPILOGUE

The Queen sat upon her throne as faerie workmen swept in and out of the room.

Everything had changed. The color of triumph was gold, and the Unseelie King was dead. His favored son had become the Queen’s closest adviser and loyal friend. After so long immured in the ice of grief over the loss of Ash, the Queen had begun to feel alive again.

Workmen had polished the marble floors, removing the signs of burning. Gems had been placed in the walls where holes had been: They glimmered now like winking eyes, red and blue and green. Butterflies with shining wings circled the roof, casting shifting, prismatic patterns over the silk-draped throne and the low couches that had been carried in for her courtiers to lounge upon.

Soon the new Unseelie King, Kieran, would pay a visit and he would not find the throne room any less than dazzling. She was curious about the boy King. She had met him before, one of the Unseelie King’s pack of feral children, wounded and leaning upon Shadowhunters for support. That he had risen so high surprised her. Perhaps he had hidden qualities.

The new closeness of the Shadowhunters and the Unseelie Court was disturbing, of course. She had lost several good courtiers to the wiles of the Shadowhunters, Nene among them. Perhaps she should have tried harder to get the Blackthorn boy and the Carstairs girl to destroy the parabatai rune and weaken their army. But you could only plant the seeds of discord; you could not be assured that each of them would grow. The game was a long one, and impatience served no one well.

She had been distraught, too, over the loss of her son. She had been searching for him since, but with little hope. Other worlds were not magic that faeries understood well.

The golden velvet curtain that hung at the throne room’s entrance rustled, and Fergus entered. He wore a permanently sour expression these days since his place in her favor had become Adaon’s. There was more than sourness in it now, though. There was more than a little alarm. “My lady,” he said. “You have visitors.” She raised herself up in her chair to show her white silk gown, clinging and gossamer, to better advantage. “Is it the Unseelie King?” “No,” he said. “A Shadowhunter. Jace Herondale.”

She slitted her eyes at Fergus. “Jace Herondale is forbidden to enter my throne room.” The last time he had, he’d nearly stabbed her. It was irresponsible of Fergus to forget such a thing. “Are you unwell, Fergus? Why did you not send him away?” “Because I think you will want to see him, my lady. He surrendered his blades to me willingly, and he is . . . not alone.” “This had better be worth my time, Fergus, or it will cost you your second bedroom.” She waved an angry hand in his direction. “Let him in, but return as well to stand guard.” Fergus departed. The Queen idly considered having Jace pecked by pixies, but it seemed like trouble and would unnecessarily annoy the new Shadowhunter government. The word was that they had put Alec Lightwood in charge—unfortunate, as she had disliked him since he had killed Meliorn, her last champion—and he would be unlikely to forgive trouble visited on his best friend.

Perhaps this was why Jace was here? To forge an alliance? She had only just had the thought when the curtain rustled again and Fergus came in, escorting two companions, one robed and hooded.

The other was Jace Herondale, but it was not the Jace Herondale she knew. The Jace she knew had been beautiful as angels were beautiful: this Jace was older, haggard. Still handsome but in the manner of a granite cliff seared by lightning. There was no gentleness in his eyes, and he was muscled like an adult, with nothing childish left in him. There was a dark light about him—as if he carried a miasma of ill magic with him wherever he walked.

“I have his swords,” said Fergus. “You might wish to see them.”

He laid them at the Queen’s feet. A larger sword with stars imprinted on its dark silver blade, its pommel and grip coated in gold. A smaller sword of black gold and adamas, a pattern of stars down its center ridge.

“Heosphorus and Phaesphorus,” said the Queen. “But they were destroyed.”

“Not in my world,” said Jace. “In Thule, much lives that is dead here, and much is dead there that lives in your world, Queen.” “You speak in riddles,” said the Queen, though her ancient heart had begun to beat with a rare swiftness. The land of Thule is death and it will rain down death here. “Are you from the world the Unseelie King called Thule?” He swept a mocking bow. His clothes were filthy with dust, and they resembled no Shadowhunter gear she had ever seen. “I am not the Jace Herondale you know or have ever met. I am his dark mirror. I have indeed come from that world. But my friend here was born here, in your Courts.” “Your friend?” the Queen breathed.

Jace nodded. “Ash, take down your hood.”

His companion raised his hands and drew back the hood of his cloak, though the Queen knew already what she would see.

White-silver curls tumbled over his brow. He was some years older than he had been when he had gone through the Portal in the Unseelie King’s throne room. He looked a mortal in his teen years, his face already beginning to show signs of her own beauty. His eyes were green as grass as the true eyes of his father had been. He regarded her with a calm, straightforward gaze.

“Ash,” she breathed, rising to her feet. She wanted to hurl her arms around her son, but she held back. No one gave something for nothing in the Courts. “You bring my son to me,” she said. “And for that I thank you. But what do you wish in return?” “A safe place for Ash to live. To remain with him as he grows up.”

“Both those wishes can be easily granted,” said the Queen. “Is there nothing else?”

“There is one more thing,” said the Jace that was not Jace, his golden eyes hard. “I want you to bring me Clary Fairchild.”