The room beyond was silent, eerily so, and empty of guards. Emma’s first impression was of a place both richly decorated and very cold. A large four-poster bed carved of a single massive piece of wood dominated the space. Tapestries hung from the walls, depicting exquisite scenes of natural beauty in Faerie—forests wreathed in mist, tumbling glacial waterfalls, wildflowers growing on cliffs above the sea.
Emma could not help but think about the blight. The tapestries were stunning, a loving ode to the beauty of Faerie, but outside these walls the true Lands of Unseelie were being consumed by the blight. Had the King decorated this space? Did he see the irony of it?
Julian had placed himself by the tapestry door, his sword unsheathed. He was looking around curiously—it was hard not to notice the clothes strewn everywhere. Apparently Ash, like most teenage boys, was something of a slob. A window had been wedged open and cold air drifted through. Ash’s golden crown had been dumped on the windowsill, almost as if he were daring a magpie to steal it.
Emma crept over to the bed where Ash lay, a still figure under a richly embroidered coverlet. His eyes were closed, perfect half circles fringed with silvery lashes. He looked innocent, angelic. Emma’s heart went out to him—surprising, considering his resemblance to Sebastian. But it wasn’t an exact duplication, she saw, stepping closer, so that her shadow fell over the bed.
“He looks a little like Clary,” she whispered.
“It doesn’t matter what he looks like,” Julian said. “He’s Sebastian’s son.”
He’s a child, she wanted to protest, but she knew it wouldn’t matter. She reached out to place a tentative hand on the boy’s shoulder; as she did, she saw that there was a wide scar on the side of Ash’s throat, no longer hidden by the collar of his shirt, in the shape of an X. There were odd markings on the wall behind his bed too: They looked like runes, but twisted and sinister runes, like the ones the Endarkened had worn.
A ferocious desire to protect him rose up in her, startling in both its strength and its complete lack of logic. She didn’t even know this boy, she thought, but she couldn’t stop herself from reaching over to shake him gently. “Ash,” she whispered. “Ash, wake up. We’re here to rescue you.”
His eyes flew open, and she truly saw Clary in him then; they were the same color green as hers. They fixed on Emma as he sat up, reaching out a hand. They were steady and clear and a thought flashed through her head: He could be a true leader, not like Sebastian, but like Sebastian should have been.
Across the room, Julian was shaking his head. “Emma, no,” he said. “What are you—”
Ash jerked his hand back and shouted: “Ethna! Eochaid! Riders, help me!”
Julian whirled toward the door, but the two Riders had already torn through the tapestry. Their bronze armor shone like blinding sunlight; Julian struck out with his blade, slashing it across the front of Eochaid’s chest, but the Rider pivoted away.
Ethna’s metallic hair flew around her as she launched herself at Julian with a scream of rage. He raised his sword but wasn’t fast enough; she crashed into him, seizing Julian and smashing him against the wall.
Ash rolled away across the coverlet; Emma seized him and yanked him back, her fingers sinking into his shoulder. She felt as if she’d emerged from a fog: dizzy, breathless, and suddenly very, very angry. “Stop!” she shouted. “Let Julian go or I’ll cut the prince’s throat.”
Ethna looked up with a snarl; she was standing over Julian, her blade out. He was crouched with his back against the wall, a trickle of blood running from his temple. His eyes were watchful.
“Do not be a fool,” said Eochaid. “Do you not understand that your only chance to live is letting the prince go?”
Emma pressed the blade closer against Ash’s throat. He was like a taut wire in her grip. Protect Ash, whispered a voice in the back of her head. Ash is what matters.
She bit down on her lip, the pain whiting out the voice in her head. “Explain yourself, Rider.”
“We are in the tower,” said Ethna in a tone of disgust. “We cannot slay you without the King’s permission. He would be angered. But if you were threatening Ash . . .” Her look was hungry. “Then we would have no choice but to protect him.”
Julian wiped blood from his face. “She’s right. They can’t kill us. Let Ash go, Emma.”
Ash was looking fixedly at Julian. “You look like her,” he said with surprise.
Puzzled, Emma hesitated, and Ash took the opportunity to sink his teeth into her hand. She yelled and let go of him; a circle of bleeding dents marked the curve of her thumb and forefinger. “Why?” she demanded. “You’re a prisoner here. Don’t you want to leave?”
Ash was crouched on the bed, an odd feral scowl on his face. He was fully dressed in breeches, a linen tunic, and boots. “In Alicante I would be the son of your most hated enemy. You would take me to my death.”
“It isn’t like that—” Emma began, but she didn’t finish; her head flew back as Ethna delivered a stinging slap to her cheek.
“Cease your yammering,” said Eochaid.
Emma turned back once to look at Ash as she and Julian were marched from the room at sword point. He stood in the middle of the chamber, looking after them; his face was blank, without Sebastian’s haughtiness and cruelty—but without Clary’s kindness, either. He looked like someone who had pulled off a successful chess move.
Neither Julian nor Emma spoke as they were marched along the corridors, the fey folk around them murmuring and staring. The corridors gave way soon to danker and danker hallways angling more steeply down. As the light dimmed, Emma caught a brief look at the expression of frustration and bitterness on Julian’s face before the shadows clustered and she could see only moving shapes in the occasional weak illumination of green bough torches hanging on the walls.
“It seems almost a pity,” said Eochaid, breaking the silence as they reached a long, serpentine hall that led to a dark hole in a distant wall. Emma could see the glimmer of guard uniforms even in the dark. “To kill these two before they can witness the destruction of the Nephilim.”
“Nonsense,” said Ethna curtly. “Blood for blood. They murdered our brother. Perhaps the King will let us swing the scythe that ends them.”
They had reached the hole in the far wall. It was a doorway without a door, cut into a thick wall of stone. The guards on either side seemed intrigued. “More prisoners?” said the one on the left, who was lounging atop a massive wooden chest.
“Captives of the King,” said Ethna in a clipped voice.
“Practically a party,” said the guard, and chuckled. “Not that they stay long, mind.”
Ethna rolled her eyes and hustled Emma forward with the prick of the sword between her shoulder blades. She and Julian were ushered into a wide, square room with rough-hewn stone walls. Vines grew from the ceiling, ribboning down to plunge into the hard-packed dirt floor. They wove closely together into the shape of boxes—cells, Emma realized: cells whose walls were made out of thorny vines, hard as flexible iron.
She remembered those thorns stabbing into her, and shuddered.
Ethna laughed unpleasantly. “Shiver all you want,” she said. “There is no escape here, and no pity.” She took Emma’s weapons belt from her waist and forced her to remove the Clave’s gold medallion from her throat. Emma cast Julian a panicked look—nothing would prevent them from suffering the time slippage in Faerie now.
Furious, Emma was shoved into a cell through a gap in the vines. To her relief, Julian followed a moment later. She had been afraid they would be separated and that she would go out of her mind alone. He was also weaponless. He turned to glare at the Riders as Ethna tapped the end of her sword against the cage; the vines that had parted quickly slithered and twisted together, closing up any possibility of an exit.
Ethna was grinning. The look of triumph on her face made Emma’s stomach twist acidly. “Little Shadowhunters,” she crooned. “What does all your angel blood avail you now?”
“Come, sister,” said Eochaid, though he was smiling indulgently. “The King awaits.”
Ethna spat on the ground before turning to follow her brother. Their footsteps faded away, and there was darkness and silence—cold, pressuring silence. Only a little dim illumination came from smoky torches high up on the walls.
The strength left Emma’s limbs like water pouring out of a broken dam. She sank to the ground in the center of the cage, cringing away from the thorns all around her.
“Julian,” she whispered. “What are we going to do?”
He dropped to his knees. She could see where goose bumps had risen all over his skin. The bloody bandage around his wrist seemed to glow like a phantom in the dark.
“I got us in here,” he said. “I’ll get us out.”
Emma opened her mouth to protest, but no words came; it was close enough to the truth. The old Julian, her Julian, would have listened when she’d said she sensed the situation outside Ash’s room wasn’t right. He would have trusted her instinct. For the first time she felt something close to true mourning for that Julian, as if this Julian wasn’t just temporary—as if her Julian might never come back.
“Do you care?” she said.
“You think I want to die in here?” he said. “I still have a self-preservation instinct, Emma, and that means preserving you, too. And I know—I know I’m a better Shadowhunter than I just was.”
“Being a Shadowhunter isn’t just in fast reflexes or strong muscles.” She pressed her hand against his heart, the linen of his shirt soft against her fingers. “It’s here.” Here where you’re broken.
His blue-green eyes seemed the only color in the prison; even the vines of their cell were metallic gray. “Emma—”
“It is them!” said a voice, and Emma jumped as light flared all around them. And not just any light. White-silver light, radiating from the cell opposite theirs; she could see it now, in the new illumination. Two figures stood inside, staring at them through the vines, and one of them held a glowing rune-stone in her hand.
“Witchlight,” breathed Julian, rising to his feet.
“Julian? Emma?” called the same voice—familiar, and full of surprise and relief. The witchlight grew, and Emma could see the figures in the opposite cell clearly now. She bolted upright with astonishment. “It’s us—it’s Jace and Clary.”
16
A THOUSAND THRONES
Oban and his guards had led Mark and Kieran blindfolded through the tower, so if there were more reactions to Kieran’s presence, Mark had been unable to note them. He had, however, heard Manuel and Oban laughing about what the King was likely to do to Kieran, and to Mark as well, and he had struggled against his manacles in rage. How dare they speak that way when Kieran could hear them? Why would anyone take pleasure in such torture?
They had been led finally to a windowless stone room and left there, their hands still manacled. Oban had torn their blindfolds from them as he walked out of the room, laughing. “Look one last time upon each other before you die.”
And Mark did look at Kieran now, in the dim room. Though there were no windows, light filtered down from a grating far above. The room was close, oppressive as the bottom of an elevator shaft.
“It is meant to be horrible,” Kieran said, answering the question Mark had not asked. “This is where the King keeps prisoners prior to bringing them before the throne. It is meant to terrify.”
“Kieran.” Mark moved closer to the other boy. “It will be all right.”
Kieran smiled painfully. “That is what I love about mortals,” he said. “That you can say such things, for comfort, whether they be true or not.”
“What did that girl give you?” Mark said. Kieran’s hair was blue-black in the shadows. “The little girl, on the steps.”
“A flower.” Kieran’s hands were bound in front of him; he opened one and showed Mark the crushed white bloom. “A white daffodil.”
“Forgiveness,” Mark said. Kieran looked at him in puzzlement; his education had not been flower-focused. “Flowers have their own meanings. A white daffodil means forgiveness.”
Kieran let the flower fall from his hand. “I heard the words those people said as I went through the courtyard,” he said. “And I do not remember.”
“Do you think your father made you forget?” Mark’s hands had begun to ache.
“No. I think it did not matter to me. I think I was kind because I was a prince and arrogant and careless and it suited me to be kind, but I could just as easily have been cruel. I do not remember saving a farm or a child. I was drunk on an easy life in those days. I should not be thanked or forgiven.”
“Kieran—”
“And during the Hunt, I thought only of myself.” White threads shot through Kieran’s dark hair. He let his head fall back against the stone wall.
“No,” said Mark. “You thought of me. You were kind to me.”
“I wanted you,” Kieran said, a hard twist to his mouth. “I was kind to you because it benefited me in the end.”
Mark shook his head. “When mortals say that things will be all right, it is not only for comfort,” he said. “In part it is because we do not, as faeries do, believe in an absolute truth. We bring our own truth to the world. Because I believe things will be all right, I will be less unhappy and afraid. And because you are angry at yourself, you believe that everything you have done, you have done out of selfishness.”
“I have been selfish,” Kieran protested. “I—”
“We are all selfish sometimes,” said Mark. “And I am not saying you have nothing to atone for. Perhaps you were a selfish prince, but you were not a cruel one. You had power and you chose to use it to be kind. You could have chosen the opposite. Do not dismiss the choices you made. They were not meaningless.”
“Why do you try to comfort and cheer me?” Kieran said in a dry voice, as if his throat ached. “I was angry with you when you agreed to return to your family from the Hunt—I told you none of it was real—”
“As if I did not know why you said that,” said Mark. “I heard you, in the Hunt. When they whipped you, when you were tormented, you would whisper to yourself that none of it was real. As if to say the pain was all a dream. It was a gift you meant to give me—the gift of escaping agony, of retreating into a place in your mind where you were safe.”
“I thought the Shadowhunters were cruel. I thought they would hurt you,” said Kieran. “With you, with your family, I have learned differently. I thought I loved you in the Hunt, Mark, but that was a shadow of what I feel for you now, knowing what loving-kindness you are capable of.”
The elf-bolt at his throat shone as it rose and fell with his quick breathing.
“In the Hunt, you needed me,” said Kieran. “You needed me so much I never knew if you would want me, if you did not need me. Do you?”
Mark stumbled a little, moving closer to Kieran. His wrists were burning fire, but he didn’t care. He pressed close to Kieran, and Kieran’s bound hands caught at Mark’s waist, fumbling to pull Mark closer to him. His heels lifted off the ground as he leaned into Kieran, the two of them trying to get as close as possible, to comfort each other despite their bound hands.
Mark buried his face in the crook of Kieran’s neck, breathing in his familiar scent: grass and sky. Perhaps this was the last grass and sky he would ever know.
The door to the cell swung open and a burst of light cut at Mark’s eyes. He felt Kieran go tense against him.
Winter, the redcap general, stood in the doorway, his shirt and cap the color of rusty old blood, his iron-soled boots clanging on the stone floor. In his hand was a long, steel-tipped pike.
“Move apart, the both of you,” he said, voice clipped. “The King will see you now.”
* * *
Emma flew to the front of the cell—and remembered the thorns just in time, leaping back from touching them. Julian followed with a greater hesitation.
“Oh, thank the Angel you’re here,”
said Emma. “I mean, not that you’re here, in prison, that’s bad, but—” She threw up her hands. “I’m glad to see you.”
Clary chuckled wanly. “We know what you mean. I’m glad to see you, too.” Her face was smudged and dirty, her red hair tied up in a knot at the back of her head. In the light of the rune-stone, Emma could see that she looked a little thin; her dirt-stained jean jacket hung loose around her shoulders. Jace, behind her, was tall and golden as ever, his eyes bright-burning in the dimness, his chin shadowed with rough beard.
“What are you doing here?” he said, dispensing with pleasantries. “Were you in Faerie? Why?”
“We were on a mission,” said Julian.
Clary ducked her face down. “Please don’t tell me it was to find us.”
“It was to find the Black Volume of the Dead. The Inquisitor sent us.”
Jace looked incredulous. “Robert sent you here?”
Emma and Julian glanced at each other. There was an awful silence.
Jace moved closer to the thorned bars of the cage that held him and Clary. “Whatever you’re not telling us, don’t hold it back,” he said. “If something happened, you need to let us know.”
Perhaps not surprisingly, it was Julian who spoke. “Robert Lightwood is dead.”
The witchlight blinked out.
In the darkness, with her Night Vision rune useless, Emma could see nothing. She heard Jace make a muffled noise, and Clary whispering. Words of comfort, words of soothing—Emma was sure of it. She recognized herself, murmuring to Julian in the quiet of night.
The whispering stopped, and the witchlight flickered back on. Jace was holding it in one hand, his other wrapped tightly around one of the vines. Blood ran from between his fingers, down his arm. Emma imagined the thorns stabbing into his palm and winced.
“What about everyone else?” he said in a voice so tight it was barely human. “What about Alec?”
Emma moved closer to the front of the cell. “He’s fine,” she said, and filled them in as quickly as she could on what had happened, from Annabel’s murder of Robert and Livvy to Horace’s ascension as Inquisitor.
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