Queen of Air and Darkness

by Cassandra Clare

  “Other worlds,” he mused. “Why should I care about some other world when I rule this one? What should some other world mean to me?”

  “Do you want to know how you died there?” Emma said. The pain of her broken bone seared through her. She could hear battle all around her, hear Julian and Jace fighting. She fought to keep from fainting. The longer she distracted Sebastian, the better.

  “You want to live forever in this world,” she said. “Don’t you want to know how you died in our world? Maybe it could happen here, too. Ash wouldn’t know about it. Neither would Annabel. But I do.”

  He lowered Phaesphoros and let the tip of it nick her collarbone. Emma almost screamed from the pain. “Tell me.”

  “Clary killed you,” Emma said, and saw his eyes fly wide open. “With heavenly fire. It burned out everything that was evil in you, and there wasn’t enough left to live for long. But you died in your mother’s arms, and your sister cried over you. In the club yesterday you talked about the weight on you, crushing you. In our world, your last words were ‘I’ve never felt so light.’  ”

  His face twisted. For a moment there was fear there, in his eyes, and more than fear—regret, perhaps, even pain.

  “You lie,” he hissed, sliding the tip of his sword down to her sternum, where a stabbing blow would sever her abdominal aorta. She would bleed out in agony. “Tell me it isn’t the truth. Tell me!”

  His hand tightened on the blade.

  There was a blur behind him, a flurry of wings, and something struck him hard, a blow to the shoulder that made him stagger sideways. Emma saw Sebastian whirl around, a look of fury on his face. “Ash! What are you doing?”

  Emma’s mouth dropped open in surprise. It was Ash—and from his back extended a pair of wings. For Emma, who had been raised all her life on images of Raziel, it was like a blow: She pushed herself up on her elbows, staring.

  They were angel’s wings, and yet they weren’t. They were black, tipped with silver; they shimmered like the night sky. She guessed they were wider than the span of his outstretched arms.

  They were beautiful, the most beautiful thing she had seen in Thule.

  “No,” Ash said calmly, looking at his father, and plucked the sword from Sebastian’s hand. He stepped back, and Emma rolled to her feet, her collarbone screaming in pain, and thrust the Mortal Sword into Sebastian’s chest.

  She yanked it free, feeling the blade scrape against the bone of his rib cage, prepared to thrust again, to cut him to pieces—

  As she drew the sword back, he shuddered. He hadn’t made a sound when she stabbed him; now his mouth opened, and black blood cascaded over his lower lip and chin as his eyes rolled back. Emma could hear the Endarkened screaming. His skin began to split and burn.

  He threw his head back in a silent scream and burst apart into ashes, the way demons vanished in Emma’s world.

  The screaming of Thule Emma cut off abruptly. She sprawled lifeless over her Julian’s body. One by one, the other Endarkened began to fall, crumpling at the feet of the rebels they were fighting.

  Jace gave a cry and fell to his knees. Behind him Emma could see the illumination of the Portal, open now and blazing with blue light.

  “Jace,” she whispered, and moved to go toward him.

  Ash stepped in front of her.

  “I wouldn’t,” he said. He spoke in that same eerily calm voice in which he had said to his father, No. “He’s been under Sebastian’s control too long. He isn’t what you think. He can’t go back.”

  She swung her sword up to point at Ash, close to nausea from the pain of her broken collarbone. Ash looked back at her, unflinching.

  “Why did you do that?” she demanded. “Betray Sebastian. Why?”

  “He was going to kill me,” Ash said. He had a low voice, slightly husky, not the boy’s voice he’d had in the Unseelie Court. “Besides, I liked your speech about Clary. It was interesting.”

  Julian had turned away from Jace, who still knelt on the ground, staring down at the sword in his hands. Julian moved toward Emma as Livvy stared; she was slashed with wounds but still standing, and her rebels were approaching to circle around her. They wore expressions of shock and disbelief.

  A scream cut through the eerie silence of dead Endarkened and stunned warriors. A scream that Emma knew well.

  “Don’t hurt him!” Annabel cried. She raced toward Ash, her hands outstretched. She wore her red gown, and her feet were bare as she ran.

  She seized hold of Ash’s arm and began to drag him toward the Portal.

  Emma broke from her frozen state and began to run toward Julian as he moved to stand in front of the Portal. His sword flashed out as he raised it, just as Ash pulled hard against Annabel’s grip. He was shouting at her that he didn’t want to go, not without Jace.

  Annabel was strong; Emma knew how strong. But it appeared that Ash was stronger. He yanked free of her grip and began to run toward Jace.

  The light of the Portal had begun to dim. Was Annabel closing it, or was it dying on its own, naturally? Either way, Emma’s heart kicked into high gear, slamming against her rib cage. She leaped over the body of an Endarkened and came down on the other side just as Annabel whirled on her.

  “Stay back!” Annabel shouted. “Neither of you can enter the Portal! Not without Ash!”

  Ash turned to look at the sound of his name; he was kneeling beside Jace, his hand on Jace’s shoulder. Ash’s face was twisted with what looked like grief.

  Annabel began to advance on Emma. Her face was frighteningly blank, the way it had been that day on the dais. The day she’d thrust the Mortal Sword into Livvy’s heart and stopped it forever.

  Behind Annabel, Julian lifted his free hand. Emma knew immediately what he meant, what he wanted.

  She raised the Mortal Sword, gritting her teeth in pain, and threw it.

  It flashed past Annabel; Julian cast his own sword aside and caught it out of the air. He swung its still-bloodied blade in a curving arc, slicing through Annabel’s spine.

  Annabel gave a terrible, inhuman shriek, like the shriek of a fisher cat. She spun like a malfunctioning top, and Julian rammed the Mortal Sword into her chest, just as she’d done to Livvy.

  He pulled the blade free, her blood dripping over his clenched fist, spattering his skin. He stood like a statue, gripping the Mortal Sword as Annabel collapsed to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut.

  She lay on her back, her face upturned, a pool of scarlet beginning to spread around her, mixing with the torn frills of her red dress. Her hands, knotted into claws at her sides, relaxed in death; her bare feet were dark scarlet, as if she were wearing slippers made of blood.

  Julian looked down at her body. Her eyes—still Blackthorn blue—were already beginning to film over.

  “Queen of Air and Darkness,” he said in a low voice. “I will never be like Malcolm.”

  Emma took a long, ragged breath as Julian handed her back the Mortal Sword. Then he tore the bloodied rag from his wrist and cast it down beside Annabel’s body.

  Her blood began to soak into it, mixing with Livvy’s.

  Before Emma could speak, she heard Ash cry out. Whether it was a cry of pain or triumph, she couldn’t tell. He was still kneeling beside Jace.

  Julian held out his hand. “Ash!” he cried. “Come with us! I swear we’ll take care of you!”

  Ash looked at him for a long moment with steady, unreadable green eyes. Then he shook his head. His wings beat darkly against the air; catching hold of Jace, he sailed upward, both of them vanishing into the cloudy sky.

  Julian lowered his hand, his face troubled, but Livvy was already running toward him, her face white with distress. “Jules! Emma! The Portal!”

  Emma swung around; the Portal had dimmed even further, its light wavering. Livvy reached Julian and he slung an arm around her, hugging her tight against his side.

  “We have to go,” he said. “The Portal’s fading—it’ll only hang on for a few minut
es now Annabel’s gone.”

  Livvy pressed her face into Julian’s shoulder and, for a moment, hugged him incredibly tightly. When she let go, her face was shining with tears. “Go,” she whispered.

  “Come with us,” Julian said.

  “No, Julian. You know I can’t,” Livvy said. “My people finally have a chance. You gave us a chance. I’m grateful, but I can’t have Cameron die for the safety of a world that I’m willing to run away from.”

  Emma was afraid Julian would protest. He didn’t. Maybe he’d been more prepared for this than she’d thought. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the Cup; it gleamed dull gold in the Portal light—the blue light of a sky with a real sun. “Take this.” He pressed it into Livvy’s hands. “With it, perhaps the Nephilim can be reborn here.”

  Livvy cradled it in her fingers. “I may never be able to use this.”

  “But you might,” Emma said. “Take it.”

  “And let me give you one last thing,” Julian said. He bent and whispered in Livvy’s ear. Her eyes went wide.

  “Go!” someone shouted; it was Raphael, who along with Diana, Bat, and Maia, was watching them. “You stupid humans, go before it is too late!”

  Julian and Livvy looked at each other one last time. When he turned away, Emma thought she could hear the sound of his heart tearing itself apart: One piece would always be here, in Thule, with Livvy.

  “Go!” Raphael shouted again; the Portal had narrowed to a gap smaller than a doorway. “And tell Magnus and Alec to rename their child!”

  Emma slid her hand into Julian’s. Her other hand gripped the Mortal Sword. Julian looked down at her; in the sunlight of the Portal, his eyes were sea-blue.

  “See you on the other side,” he whispered, and together they stepped through.

  22

  THE WORST AND THE BEST

  The Silent City was empty, full of the echoes of past dreams and whispers. The torches in the walls were lit, casting a golden glow over the spires of bone and mausoleums of rhodolite and white agate.

  Emma walked unhurried among the bones of the dead. She knew she should be anxious, perhaps hurrying, but she couldn’t remember why, or what she was seeking. She knew she was wearing gear—battle gear, black and silver as a starry sky. Her boots echoing on the marble were the only sound in the City.

  She passed through a familiar room with a high, domed ceiling. Marble of all colors flowed together in patterns too intricate for the eye to follow. On the floor were two interlocking circles: This was where she and Julian had become parabatai.

  Beyond that room was the Star Chamber. The parabolic stars glimmered on the floor; the Mortal Sword hung point-down behind the basalt Judges’ Bar, as if waiting for her. She took hold of it and found it featherlight. Crossing the room, she stepped into the square of the Speaking Stars.

  “Emma! Emma, it’s me, Cristina.” A cool hand was holding hers. She was tossing and turning; there was a searing pain at her throat.

  “Cristina,” she whispered, her lips dry and cracked. “Hide the Sword. Please, please, hide it.”

  There was a click. The floor beneath her opened along an invisible seam, two slabs of marble rolling smoothly apart. Revealed beneath them was a square compartment containing a stone tablet, on which was painted a crude parabatai rune. It was neither fine work nor beautiful, but it radiated power.

  Gripping the hilt of Maellartach, Emma brought it down, point first. The blade split the tablet apart and Emma staggered back in a cloud of dust and power.

  It is severed, she thought. The bond is severed.

  She felt no joy and no relief. Only fear as a whispering voice called her name: “Emma, Emma, how could you?”

  She turned to see Jem in his Silent Brother robes. A red stain was spreading slowly across his chest. She cried out as he fell. . . .

  “Emma, talk to me. You’re going to be all right. Julian’s going to be all right.” Cristina sounded on the verge of tears.

  Emma knew she was in a bed, but it felt as if huge manacles had chained down her arms and legs. They were so heavy. Voices rose and fell around her: She recognized Mark’s voice, and Helen’s.

  “What happened to them?” Helen said. “They appeared just a few moments after you, but in totally different clothing. I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I.” Mark sounded wretched. Emma felt his hand brush her hair. “Emma, where have you been?”

  Emma stood before the silver mirror. She saw herself reflected back: pale hair, runed skin, all familiar, but her eyes were the dull red of the moon in Thule.

  Then she was falling, falling through the water. She saw the great monsters of the deep, shark-finned and serpentine-toothed, and then she saw Ash rise up through the water with his black wings gleaming silver and gold, and the monsters fell back from him in fear. . . .

  She woke with a hoarse cry, struggling against the seaweed that dragged her down, into deeper water—she realized she was struggling against sheets that were wound around her, and sagged back, gasping for breath. Hands were on her shoulders, then brushing back her hair; a soft voice was saying her name.

  “Emma,” Cristina said. “Emma, it’s all right. You’ve been dreaming.”

  Emma opened her eyes. She was in her room in the Institute; blue paint, familiar mural on the wall of swallows in flight over castle towers, sunlight spilling through an open window. She could hear the sounds of the sea, of music playing in another room.

  “Cristina,” Emma whispered. “I’m so glad it’s you.”

  Cristina made a hiccuping noise and threw her arms around Emma, hugging her tightly. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry we left Faerie without you, it’s all I’ve been able to think about. I should never, never have left you—”

  As if from a great distance, Emma remembered the Unseelie Court. How the flames had cut them off from Cristina and the others, how she had nodded at her, giving her permission to save herself, the others. “Tina!” she exclaimed, patting her friend on the back. Her voice was hoarse, her throat oddly sore. “It’s all right, I told you to go.”

  Cristina sat back, her nose and eyes pink. “But where did you go? And why did you keep calling me the Rose of Mexico?” She wrinkled up her forehead in puzzlement.

  Emma made a noise that was half laugh, half gasp. “I have a lot to tell you,” she said. “But first, I just have to know”—she caught Cristina’s hand—“is everyone alive? Julian, all the others—”

  “Of course!” Cristina looked horrified. “Everyone’s alive. Everyone.”

  Emma squeezed Cristina’s hand and let go. “What has the blight done to Magnus? Are we too late?”

  “It’s odd that you should ask. Alec and Magnus arrived here yesterday.” Cristina hesitated. “Magnus isn’t doing well at all. He’s very ill. We’ve been in contact with the Spiral Labyrinth—”

  “But they still think it’s the ley lines.” Emma started to swing her legs out of the bed. A wave of dizziness swamped her, and she braced herself against the pillows, breathing hard.

  “No, no, they don’t. I realized it was the blight in Faerie. Emma, don’t try to get up—”

  “What about Diana?” Emma demanded. “She was in Idris—”

  “She isn’t anymore.” Cristina looked grim. “That’s another long story. But she’s fine.”

  “Emma!” The door burst open and Helen flew in, all disarrayed fair hair and anxious eyes. She flew to hug Emma, and Emma felt another wave of dizziness go over her: She thought of Thule, and how Helen had been separated from her family forever there. She would never forgive the Clave for exiling Helen to Wrangel Island, but at least she was back. At least this was a world where it was possible to be lost and then return.

  Helen hugged Emma until she waved her arms to indicate that she needed oxygen. Cristina fussed as Emma once against tried to get up and succeeded in propping herself against the pillows just as Aline, Dru, Tavvy, Jace, and Clary crowded in.

  “Emma!” T
avvy exclaimed, having no time for sickroom protocols, and jumped up onto the bed. Emma hugged him gently and ruffled his hair while the others gathered around; she heard Jace ask Cristina if Emma had been talking and whether she seemed coherent.

  “You shaved,” she said, pointing at him. “It’s a big improvement.”

  There was a scrum of hugging and exclaiming; Clary came last and smiled down at Emma the same way she’d once smiled at her outside the Council Hall, the first time they’d ever met, when Clary had helped dispel the fears of a terrified child.

  “I knew you’d be all right,” Clary said, her voice pitched so low only Emma could hear her.

  There was a knock on the door, which barely opened into the crowded room. Emma felt a flare like a match tip against her left arm, and realized with a shock of joy what it was, just as Julian stepped into the room, leaning on Mark’s shoulder.

  Her parabatai rune. It felt like forever since it had sparked with life. Her eyes met Julian’s and for a moment she was unaware of anything else: just that Julian was there, that he was all right, that there were bandages on his left arm and visible under his T-shirt but it didn’t matter, he was alive.

  “He just woke up about an hour ago,” Mark said as the others beamed at Julian. “He’s been asking for you, Emma.”

  Aline clapped her hands together. “Okay, now that we’ve gotten the hugging and stuff out of the way, where were you two?” She indicated Emma and Julian with an accusatory wave of her hand. “Do you know how terrified we were when Mark and Cristina and the others suddenly appeared and you weren’t with them, and then you suddenly popped out of nowhere all beaten up and wearing strange clothes?” She gestured to Emma’s night table, where her Thule clothes lay neatly folded.

  “I . . . ,” Emma began, and broke off as Aline marched out of the room. “Is she mad?”

  “Worried,” Helen said diplomatically. “We all were. Emma, you had a broken collarbone, and Julian had broken ribs. They should be better now—it’s been three days.” The exhaustion and worry of those three days told in the dark circles beneath her eyes.