Instead he turned his head and looked behind them. Cristina had her eyes closed; she was holding her pendant, her mouth moving in silent prayer. Emma held Cortana the same way, her eyes watchful and glittering. She would defend them to the last, Kieran too; she would go down under the hooves of the dark cavalry.
And they were coming. Mark could see them, shadows between the trees. Horses like black smoke, blazing eyes like red coals, shod in silver and burning gold. Fire and blood gave them life: They were murderous, and brutal.
Mark thought he could see the King, riding at their head. His battle helmet was etched with a pattern of screaming faces. Its faceplate covered only that half of the King's face that was human and beautiful, leaving the dead gray skin exposed. His single eye burned like red poison.
The sound of their coming was like the sound of a glacier breaking apart. Deafening, deadly. Mark wished suddenly that he could hear what Cristina was saying, the words of her quiet prayer. He watched her lips move. Angel, provide for us, bless us, save us.
"Mark." Julian turned his head toward his brother, his blue-green eyes suddenly unguarded, as if he were about to say something he had been desperate to say for a long time. "If you--"
The hill seemed to crack apart. A large square in the front of it peeled away from the rest and swung open like a door. Mark's mouth fell open. He had heard of such things, hills with doors in the sides, but he had never seen one.
Light glowed from the opening. It seemed to be a corridor, winding into the heart of the hill. A young faerie woman with gently pointed ears, her pale hair bound back with ropes of flowers, stood in the entryway, holding a lamp. She reached out a hand toward them.
"Come," she said, and her voice had the undeniable accent of the Seelie Court. "Come quickly, before they reach you, for the King's riders are savage and they will not leave you alive."
"And you?" Julian said. "Do you mean us well?"
Only Julian would argue with providence, Mark thought. But then Julian trusted no one but his family. And sometimes, not even them.
The woman smiled. "I am Nene," she said. "I will aid you and not harm you. But come, now, quickly."
Mark heard Cristina whisper a thank-you. Then they were all racing again, not daring to look behind them. One by one they leaped through the door and onto the packed earth inside. Mark and Julian came last, carrying Kieran. Mark caught one last glimpse of the dark riders behind them, and heard their screams of disappointed rage. Then the door slammed shut behind them, sealing up the hill.
13
DREAMLAND
Emma looked around in wonder. The entranceway bore no traces of having been carved out of a hillside. It was made of smooth ash-colored stone, the roof of blue marble patterned with gilded stars. A shadowed corridor led deeper into the hill.
The faerie woman, Nene, raised her lamp. It was filled with darting fireflies that cast a limited glow over their small group. Emma saw Julian with his mouth set in a hard line, Cristina holding her pendant tightly. Mark was lowering Kieran to the ground, his hands gentle. It took her a moment to realize Kieran was unconscious, his head lolling back, clothes dappled in blood.
"We are on Seelie Lands now," said Nene. "You can use your runes and witchlights." Her gaze on Kieran was troubled. "You can heal your friend."
"We can't." Julian flipped his witchlight out of his pocket. Its illumination rushed over Emma like the relief of water in the desert. "He's not a Shadowhunter."
Nene drifted closer, her pale eyebrows arched in consternation. Mark was on the ground, holding Kieran, whose face was drained icy-white, his closed eyes pale crescents in his blanched face. "Is he a Hunter?" she asked.
"We both--" began Mark.
"Is there anything you can do for him?" Emma interrupted, before Mark said too much.
"Yes." Nene knelt down, setting her lamp on the floor beside her. She took a vial from the inside of the sleeveless white fur jacket she wore over her dress. She hesitated, looking at Mark. "You do not need this? You are not injured?"
He shook his head, puzzled. "No, why?"
"I brought it for you." She uncorked it. Setting it to Kieran's lips, she crooned something under her breath in a language unfamiliar to Emma.
Kieran's lips parted and he swallowed. Pale gold liquid ran from the corners of his mouth. His eyes fluttered open and he pulled himself upright, swallowing a second mouthful and a third. His eyes met Nene's over the rim of the bottle and he turned his face away, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Save the rest," he said hoarsely. "It's enough."
He staggered to his feet, Mark helping him. The others had put away their steles. A new Healing rune burned on Emma's arm, an Energy rune beside it. Still, her body ached, and her heart hurt. She kept seeing her father, over and over, looking up at her from the grass.
It hadn't been him, not really, but that didn't make the image less painful.
"Come," said Nene, putting the vial away. "The drink will only sustain him a short time. We must hurry to the Court."
She started down the corridor and the others followed, Mark supporting the staggering Kieran. Julian had his witchlight stone out, and the hall was bright. The walls looked like intricate mosaic from a distance, but up close Emma could see that they were clear resin, behind which the petals of flowers and wings of butterflies were pressed flat.
"My lady," said Cristina. Her hair, like Emma's, was tangled with leaves and burrs. "What did you mean you brought that drink for Mark? How did you know he would come here?"
"We had guests, here in the Court," said Nene. "A Shadowhunter girl with red hair and a blond boy."
"Jace Herondale and Clary Fairchild," guessed Emma.
"They told me of the Blackthorns. That was a name I knew. My sister Nerissa loved a Blackthorn man, and had two of his children, and died of her love of him when he left her."
Mark stopped in his tracks. Kieran gave a slight hiss of pain. "You're my mother's sister?" he said incredulously.
"I think they usually call that your aunt," said Emma.
Mark gave her a dark look.
"I am the one who carried you and your sister to your father's doorstep and left you there for him to raise," said Nene. "You are my blood."
"I am beginning to wonder if any of you do not have a long-lost relative in Faerie," said Kieran.
"I don't," said Cristina, sounding regretful.
"Half Mark's relatives are faeries," pointed out Emma. "Where else would they be?"
"How did you know I would need saving?" said Mark to the faerie woman.
"The phouka who let you through the moon gate is an old friend," Nene said. "He told me of your journey, and I guessed your mission. I knew you would not survive the Lord of Shadows' tricks without aid."
"The burning arrows," Julian said. The corridor had now turned from stone and tile to packed earth. Roots dangled from the ceiling, each one twined with glimmering flowers that lit the darkness. Veins of minerals in the rock shimmered and changed as Emma looked at them. "That was you."
Nene nodded. "And a few others, of the Queen's Guard. Then I had only to stay a few steps ahead of you and open this door. It was not simple, but there are many doors to Seelie, all over the King's Lands. More than he knows." She cast a sharp look at Kieran. "You will not speak of this, will you, Hunter?"
"I thought you imagined me Nephilim," said Kieran.
"That was before I saw your eyes," she said. "Like my nephew, you are a servant of Gwyn." She sighed softly. "If my sister Nerissa had known her son would grow to be so cursed, it would have broken her heart."
Julian's face darkened, but before he could speak, a figure loomed up in front of them. They had reached a place where the corridor opened into a circular room, with other hallways leading off it in a dizzying array of directions.
Blocking their forward progress was a faerie knight. A tall, wheat-skinned man with a somber expression, he wore robes and a doublet of brilliant multicolored fabric. "Fergus," said Nene. "Let us go b
y."
He arched a dark brow and replied with a torrent of words in an odd, birdlike language--not angry, but clearly annoyed. Nene held up a hand, her voice sharp in response. As Emma watched her, she thought she could detect some resemblance to Mark. Not just the pale blond hair, but the delicacy of her bones, the deliberateness of her gestures.
The knight sighed and stepped aside. "We can go now, but we will be called to an audience with the Queen at first light," said Nene, hurrying forward. "Come, help me get the Hunter to a room."
Emma had quite a few questions--how they could tell when it was first light down here, why Nene seemed to dislike the Wild Hunt so much, and, of course, where they were going. She kept them to herself, though, and eventually they reached the end of a corridor where the walls were polished rock, gleaming with semiprecious stones: tiger's-eye, azurite, jasper. Gaps in the rock were covered with long velvet hangings, embroidered with glimmering thread.
Nene swept one of the hangings aside, revealing a room whose walls were smooth and curved in toward a domed ceiling. White hangings drifted down, half-covering a bed made of thick branches wound with flowers.
Nene set down her lamp. "Lay the Hunter down," she said.
Kieran had gone quiet since they'd entered the Seelie Court proper. He let Mark lead him over to the bed. He looked pretty awful, Emma thought, as Mark helped Kieran settle onto the mattress. She wondered how many times Mark had done this sort of thing for Kieran when Kieran was exhausted after a hunt--or how many times Kieran had done it for Mark. Being a Hunter was a risky job; she couldn't imagine how much of each other's blood they'd seen.
"Is there a healer in this Court?" Mark asked, straightening up.
"I am the healer," said Nene. "Though I rarely work alone. Usually I am assisted, but the hour is late and the Court half-empty." Her gaze fell on Cristina. "You will help me."
"Me?" Cristina looked startled.
"You have a healing air about you," said Nene, bustling up to a wooden cabinet and throwing the doors open. In it were jars of herbs, dangling strings of dried flowers, and vials of different-colored liquids. "Can you name any of these?"
"Foamflower," said Cristina promptly, as if they were in class. "Miner's lettuce, false lily, queen's cup."
Nene looked impressed. She pulled a stack of linens, including strips cut neatly into bandage size, from a drawer and handed them to Cristina. "Too many people in the room will slow a patient's healing. I will take these two next door; you must remove Kieran's clothes."
Cristina's cheeks flamed. "Mark can do that."
Nene rolled her eyes. "As you like." She turned toward the bed, where Kieran was collapsed back against the pillows. There were rusty smears of blood all over Mark's shirt and skin, but he didn't seem to notice. "Crush some foamflower, give it to him with water. Do not bandage him yet. We must inspect the wound."
She hurried from the room, and Emma and Julian dashed after her. They went only a few steps down the corridor, to where a dark red curtain hid an open door. Nene pushed it aside and gestured the two of them to come in.
Once inside, Emma had to suppress a gasp. This room was much grander than the other. The roof was lost in shadows. The walls were silvery quartz, and glowed from within, lighting the room with a soft radiance. Creamy white and ivory flowers cascaded down the walls, perfuming the air with the scent of a garden. A massive bed stood on a platform, steps leading up to it. It was piled with velvet cushions and a rich coverlet.
"Will this do?" Nene asked.
Emma could only nod. A hedge atop which grew a lattice of roses stretched across one end of the room, and behind it a cascade of water rushed down the rocks. When she glanced around the hedge, she saw that it emptied into a rock pool, lined with green and blue stones that formed the shape of a butterfly.
"Not as fancy as the Institute," she heard Julian say, "but it'll do."
"Whose room is this?" Emma asked. "Is it the Queen's?"
Nene laughed. "The Queen's chambers? Certainly not. This is Fergus's--actually, he has two. He is much favored in Court. He won't mind if you sleep here; he has night watch."
She turned to walk away, but stopped at the curtain and glanced back at them. "You are my nephew's brother and sister?"
Emma opened her mouth, then closed it again. Mark was more of a brother to her than anything else. Certainly more of a brother than Julian.
"Yes," Julian said, sensing her hesitation.
"And you love him," said Nene.
"I think you will find, if you take the time to get to know him, that he is easy to love," said Jules, and Emma's heart expanded, yearning for him, for him and Mark together, happy and laughing as brothers should be, and for the challenge in Julian's eyes when he looked at Nene. You owe my brother the love he deserves; show it, or I turn my back on you.
Nene cleared her throat. "And my niece? Alessa?"
"Her name is Helen now," said Julian. He paused for a moment, and Emma could see him weighing the mention of Helen's situation and dismissing it--he did not trust Nene enough, not yet. "Yes, she is my sister; yes, I love her as I love Mark. They are both easy to love."
"Easy to love," echoed Nene, in a musing voice. "There are few of our people I would ever have said were easy to love." She ducked back through the door. "I must hurry back, before that Hunter boy expires," she said, and was gone.
Julian looked at Emma with arched eyebrows. "She's very . . ."
"Yes," agreed Emma, not needing the rest of the words to know what he meant. She and Julian almost always agreed on people. She felt her mouth curve up as she smiled at him, despite everything, despite the incredible, impossible strain of the night.
And it wasn't as if the risk was over, she thought, turning to gaze at the room. She had hardly ever been in such a beautiful space. She had even heard of cave hotels, places in Cappadocia and Greece where gorgeous rooms were dug out of rocks and draped with silks and velvets. But it was the flowers, here, that tugged at her heart--those white flowers that smelled like cream and sugar, like the white flowers that grew in Idris. They seemed to radiate light.
And then there was the bed. With a sort of belated shock, she realized that she and Julian had been left alone together in a wildly romantic room with only one, very large and very plush, bed.
Definitely, the night's worries were not over, at all.
*
When Nene returned, she cleaned Kieran's wound gently with damp linens, pressing the edges of the cut carefully with her fingers. He sat upright and rigid on the edge of the bed, not moving or acknowledging what was going on, but Cristina could see from the deep crescent marking his lower lip that he was in pain.
Mark sat quietly beside him. He seemed wrung out, exhausted, and did not move to hold Kieran's hand, only sat with his shoulder touching the other boy's. But then, they had never been the hand-holding type, Cristina thought. The Wild Hunt had not been a place where such gentle expressions of affection were welcome.
"There was monkshood on the Unseelie's arrow," Nene said when she was done cleaning the wound. She held her hand out for a bandage and began wrapping Kieran's slender torso. He had been undressed and re-dressed in clean trousers, a shirt folded on the bed next to him. There were scars on Kieran's back, not unlike the ones on Mark's, and they stretched to the tops of his arms and down his forearms, too. He was thin but strong-looking, with clear lines of muscles in his arms and across his chest. "If you were a human or even ordinary fey, it would have killed you, but Hunters have their own protection. You will live."
"Yes," Kieran said, an arrogant tilt to his chin. But Cristina wondered. He didn't say, Yes, I knew I would live. He had doubted, she suspected. He had feared he would die.
She rather admired his bravery. She couldn't help it.
Nene rolled her eyes, finishing with the bandages. She tapped Cristina's shoulder as Kieran shrugged his shirt on, doing the buttons up with slow, shaking fingers, and indicated a shallow marble dish on the nightstand, filled with d
amp cloths swimming in a greenish liquid. "Those are poultices to prevent infection. Put a new one on the wound every two hours."
Cristina nodded. She wasn't sure how she would set an alarm or wake up every two hours, or if she was simply meant to stay awake through the night, but she would manage, either way.
"Here," Nene said, leaning down to Kieran with another vial. "Drink this. It will not harm you, only help you."
After a moment, Kieran drank. Suddenly he pushed the vial away, coughing. "How dare you--" he began, and then his eyes rolled back and he sank down to the pillows. Mark caught him before his wounded back could touch the bed, and helped Nene carefully roll him onto his side.
"Don't feel bad," Mark said, noticing Nene's set jaw. "He always falls asleep yelling that."
"He needed to rest," was all Nene said. She swept from the room.
Mark watched her go, his face troubled. "She is not what I imagined, when I dreamed that I might have family in Faerie," he said. "For so many years I looked and asked, and there was no sign of them. I had given up."
"She went out of her way to find you and save you," said Cristina. "She clearly cares for you."
"She doesn't know me," said Mark. "Faeries feel very strongly about blood. She could not leave me to fall into the hands of the Unseelie King. What happens to one member of a family reflects upon the others of that bloodline."
She touched your hair, Cristina wanted to say. She had seen it only very quickly: As Nene had reached to bandage Kieran's back, her fingers had brushed the fine edges of Mark's pale hair. He hadn't noticed, and Cristina wondered now, if she told him, if he would even believe her.
Cristina sat down on the foot of the bed. Kieran had curled up, his dark hair tangled beneath his restless head. Mark was leaning back against the headboard. His bare feet were on the bed, only a few inches from Cristina; his arm lay outstretched, his fingers nearly touching hers.
But his gaze was on Kieran. "He doesn't remember," he said.
"Kieran? What doesn't he remember?"
Mark pulled his knees up to his chest. In his torn and bloody shirt and trousers, he looked more like the ragged figure he'd been when the Wild Hunt had let him go. "The Unseelie Court beat him and tortured him," he said. "I expected it. It's what they do to their prisoners. After I untied him, as soon as I got him out of the clearing, I realized they'd done him some kind of damage that meant he didn't remember killing Iarlath. He doesn't remember anything since that night he saw us talking in the kitchen."
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