“Face them?” Horace said, his mouth working in disgust. “And how do you suggest I do that when I have not yet arranged for justice? Would you simply forget those brave Shadowhunters, the ones who you claim as friends, who have died at the hands of Downworlders? I will not abandon them! I will speak for them—”
“Or you could let them speak for themselves,” Alec said mildly. “Since, you know, here they are.”
“Oh, look, and there’s Manuel,” said Emma. “We were awfully sorry to miss him, but I see he was . . .”
“Don’t say it,” warned Julian.
“. . . tied up.” Emma grinned. “Sorry. Can’t resist a bad pun.”
And tied up he was: Manuel, along with a group of fifty or more Cohort members, was being marched firmly across the Fields from the edge of Brocelind Forest. Their hands were tied behind their backs. They were being propelled forward by a crowd of Shadowhunters—Aline and Helen, Isabelle and Diana and Simon.
Walking alongside them, as casually as if they were out for a morning stroll, were Jace and Clary. Above them fluttered the banner of Livia’s Watch, Clary holding the stanchion from which the banner flew. Emma’s eyes stung—Livvy’s locket and saber, flying high above the Imperishable Fields.
And behind them—behind them came a wave of all the Downworlders who had waited in the woods through the night: warlocks and werewolves and fey of all sorts, leaping and striding and stalking out from between the trees. Brocelind Forest was full of Downworlders once more.
Horace had gone still. Zara shrank in against his bulk, glaring through her tangled hair.
“What is happening?” said Zara in a dazed voice. Emma almost felt sorry for her.
Julian reached up and unbuckled the clasp holding on his cloak. It slid from his shoulders, revealing the hilt of the Mortal Sword, blackly burnished silver with angel wings outspread.
Horace stared at him, wheezing slightly. Emma couldn’t tell if he recognized the Mortal Sword or not yet; he seemed beyond that.
“What have you done, you stupid boy?” he hissed. “You have no idea—the careful planning—all we have done in the name of Nephilim—”
“Well, hello there, Dearborn.” Horace jerked back, as if the sight of Jace and Clary so close burned him. Jace held Manuel in front of them by the back of his uniform, the Centurion’s expression sulky and annoyed. “It seems the rumors of our death have been greatly exaggerated. By you.”
Clary thrust the stanchion she was holding into the earth, so the banner fluttered upright. “You’ve always wanted to say that, haven’t you?” she asked Jace.
Alec looked at them both and shook his head. The rest of the Shadowhunters and Downworlders had spread themselves out across the field between the parley area and the walls of Alicante. Familiar faces were mixed into the crowd: Simon and Isabelle stood close by, and near them Emma recognized Catarina, Diana, Maia, and Bat; she looked for Magnus and finally found him standing near the edge of Brocelind Forest. What was he doing so far away?
“Dearborn,” Alec said. “This is your last chance. Call off this meeting and return with us to the Council Hall.”
“No,” Horace said. Some of the color had come back into his face.
“But everyone can see you lied,” Emma said. “You lied to every Shadowhunter—tried to frighten us all into obedience—”
“That’s not Jace and Clary.” Horace pointed at them with shaking fingers. “These are some—some imposters—some warlock magic meant to trick and deceive—”
“The Iron Sisters predicted you would say that,” Julian said. “That’s why they gave me this.” He reached behind him and drew the Mortal Sword from its scabbard. The metal seemed to sing as the blade arced across the sky, scattering sparks. An audible gasp went up from the Cohort and the Unseelie faeries; Emma could only imagine the commotion occurring in the city. “The Mortal Sword, reforged.”
Silently, Julian thanked Sister Emilia and her willingness to deceive the Cohort.
Horace’s mouth worked. “A fake—a falsity—”
“Then you won’t mind if Manuel holds it,” said Julian. “Order him to take it.”
Horace froze. His eyes darted from the Sword to Manuel and back again; it was, startlingly, Oban who broke the silence.
“Well, if it is a falsity, let the boy take it,” he said. “Let us suffer this farce only briefly.” His silvery eyes flicked to Manuel. “Take the Sword, Centurion.”
Tight-lipped, Manuel reached out his hands, and Julian placed the Mortal Sword in them, the blade across his palms. Emma saw Manuel jerk as if in pain, and felt a cold relief. So the Sword’s power was working. It was painful to be forced to tell the truth. The Sword’s power hurt, and not just those who lied but any who wished to protect their secrets.
Julian crossed his arms and looked at Manuel. It was a hard, cold look, a look that went back generations of Blackthorns, to those who had been Inquisitors themselves. “Did you and the Cohort try to kill Clary and Jace just now?”
Manuel’s face was blotched white and red, his careful hair disarranged. “Yes,” he hissed. “Yes. I did.” He shot Horace a venomous look. “It was on the Inquisitor’s orders. When he found out they were still alive and would be in Brocelind Forest last night, he ordered us to slay them at dawn.”
“But that didn’t happen,” Julian said.
“No. They must have been warned. They were waiting for us, and the woods were full of Downworlders. They attacked. We had no chance.”
“So you were willing to kill fellow Nephilim and pin the blame on Downworlders,” said Julian. “Why? Why foment war?”
“I did what Horace ordered me to do.”
“And in Faerie,” said Julian. “When you helped Oban become King. When you brokered an alliance between the Cohort and the Unseelie Court. Was that because Horace asked you to do it?”
Manuel was biting his lip so hard blood was running down his chin. But the Sword was stronger than his will. “It was my idea,” he gasped. “But Horace embraced it—he loved the idea of pulling off a trick under the Clave’s noses—we put Oban on the throne because Oban was a fool who would do what we wanted—he would stage this parley with us, and we would pretend to reach a deal, a deal where both parties would get what they wanted. The Unseelie Court would get the Shadowhunters on their side against Seelie and other Downworlders—and the Cohort would be able to say that they had forced the Unseelie Court into a peace agreement, that they had agreed never to enter Idris again. Both sides would look strong to their people. . . .”
“Enough!” Oban shouted. He reached to seize the Mortal Sword from Manuel, but Mark moved in front of him, blocking his way. “Silence this brat!”
“Fine,” Julian said unexpectedly, and plucked the Sword from Manuel’s grasp. “Enough with the junior leagues. Dearborn, take the Sword.”
He walked toward Horace, holding the Sword. All around Horace drooped the members of the Cohort, looking alternately shocked and furious. It wasn’t too difficult to tell who had been surprised by Manuel’s revelations, and who hadn’t.
“It’s time you spoke to your people, Dearborn,” Julian said. “They can see you. They can hear you. You owe them an explanation.” He held the Sword out to him, level and ready. “Let yourself be tested.”
“We will be tested in battle!” Horace screamed. “I will prove myself! I am their leader! Their rightful Consul!”
“Consuls don’t lie to their Council members,” said Julian. He lowered the Mortal Sword so that the flat of the blade lay across his left palm, wincing slightly as the truth-telling compulsion took hold. “You blamed Dane Larkspear’s death on faeries. I killed Dane Larkspear.”
Emma felt her eyes widen. She hadn’t expected Julian to say that.
“Maybe a little too much radical honesty,” Simon muttered.
“I killed him because you sent him into Faerie to murder me and to murder my parabatai,” said Julian. “I’m holding the Mortal Sword. I’m not lying. You can see th
at.” He spoke as if he were addressing only Horace, but Emma knew he was addressing every Shadowhunter and Downworlder who could hear him. “Samantha Larkspear was hurt when she tried to torture Kieran Kingson at the Scholomance. Possibly also on your orders.” He gave a little gasp; the Sword was clearly hurting him. “You’ve set Shadowhunters against Shadowhunters and against innocent Downworlders, all in service of tricking the Council into adopting your bigoted reforms—all in service of fear—”
“Yes, I did!” Horace screamed. Zara flew to her father’s side and yanked on his empty sleeve; he seemed barely to notice her. “Because the Nephilim are fools! Because of people like you, telling them Downworlders are our friends, that we can live in peace beside them! You would have us stretch out our necks willingly to the slaughtering blade! You would have us die lying down, not fighting!” He flung his right arm toward Oban. “I wouldn’t have had to accept an alliance with this drunken fool if the Clave had not been so stupid and so stubborn! I needed to show them—show them how to protect ourselves honorably from Downworlders—”
“ ‘Honorably’?” Julian echoed, raising the Mortal Sword so it no longer touched his palm. It was a weapon again now, not a test of the bearer’s veracity. “You drove the Downworlders out of Brocelind. You knew the Unseelie Court was spreading the blight that was killing warlocks and you did nothing. How is that honorable?”
“As if all he did was nothing,” Mark spat. “He encouraged the King to spread his poisoned earth here—to slay the Children of Lilith—”
“I think we’re done here.” Alec spoke coldly, in a ringing voice. “It is time for the Unseelie Court to go, Horace. Your loyalty is in question and you are no longer able to negotiate on the behalf of either Downworlders or Nephilim.”
“You have no power to send us away, boy!” snapped Oban. “You are not the Consul, and our arrangement is with Horace Dearborn alone.”
“I don’t know what Horace promised you,” said Jace, cool satisfaction in his tone. “But he can’t help you, Prince.”
“I am the King.” Oban raised his bow.
From the knot of Downworlders, a faerie woman stepped forward. It was Nene, Mark and Helen’s aunt. She faced Oban proudly. “You are not our King,” she said.
“Because you are Seelie folk,” sneered Oban.
“Some of us are Seelie, some Unseelie, and some of the wild peoples,” said Nene. “We do not acknowledge you as the King of the Unseelie Lands. We acknowledge Kieran Kingson, who slew Arawn the Elder-King with his own hands. He has the right of the throne by blood in his veins and by blood spilt.”
She stepped aside, and Kieran emerged from the circle of the fey. He had dressed himself in his clothes from Faerie: unbleached linen tunic, soft deerskin breeches and boots. He carried himself upright, his back straight, his gaze level.
“Greetings, brother Oban,” he said.
Oban’s face twisted into a snarl. “The last time I saw you, brother Kieran, you were being dragged in chains behind my horses.”
“That is true,” said Kieran. “But it speaks more ill of you than it does of me.” He looked out over the ranged masses of silent Unseelie warriors. “I have come to challenge my brother for the throne of Unseelie,” he said. “The usual method is a duel to the death. The survivor shall take the throne.”
Oban laughed in disbelief. “What? A duel now?”
“And why not now?” said Nene. Mark and Cristina were looking at each other in horror; it was clear neither of them had known this part of the plan. Emma doubted anyone had but Kieran himself and a few other faeries. “Or are you afraid, my lord Oban?”
In a smooth, sudden move, Oban raised his bow and shot at Kieran. The arrow flew free; Kieran jerked aside, the arrow just missing his arm. It flew across the field and slammed into Julie Beauvale; she went down like a struck sapling, her whip flying from her hand.
Emma gasped. Beatriz Mendoza cried out and fell to her knees at Julie’s side; Alec whirled and shot a flurry of arrows at Oban, but the redcaps had already closed in around the King. Several went down with Alec’s arrows in them as he nocked arrow after arrow to his bow and flew toward the Unseelie warriors.
“After him! Follow Alec!” shouted Maia. Werewolves dropped to the ground on all fours, sprouting fur and fangs. With a shout, the Cohort surrounding Horace seized up their weapons and charged; Julian parried a blow from Timothy with the Mortal Sword, while Jessica Beausejours threw herself at Emma, her sword whipping around her head.
Nene dashed forward to arm Kieran with a silver sword; it flashed like lightning as he laid about him. Oban’s Unseelie faeries, loyal to their King, surged to protect him, a tide of bristling spears and swords. Mark and Cristina hurtled toward Kieran, Cristina armed with a two-edged longsword, elf-shot flying from Mark’s bow. Redcaps crumpled at their feet. Simon, Jace, and Clary had already drawn their swords and leaped into the fray.
Timothy yelled as his sword snapped in half against the blade of Maellartach. With a whimper, he vanished behind Horace, who was screaming wildly for everyone to stop, for the battle to stop, but no one was listening. The noise of the battle was incredible: swords slamming against swords, werewolves howling, screams of agony. The smell of blood and metal. Emma disarmed Jessica and kicked her legs out from under her; Jessica went down with a scream of pain and Emma whirled to find two goblin warriors with their broken-glass teeth and leathery faces approaching. She raised Cortana as one rushed at her. The other went down suddenly, its legs caught in a snare of electrum.
Emma dispatched the first goblin with a blade to the heart and turned to see Isabelle, her golden whip snared around the legs of the second.
The trapped goblin yelled and Simon took care of it with the stroke of a longsword, his expression grim. Julian called out and Emma turned to see a faerie knight rise up behind her; before she could even lift Cortana, he staggered back with one of Julian’s throwing knives sunk deep in his throat.
Emma whirled; Julian was behind her, the gleaming Mortal Sword in his hand. There was blood on him, and a bruise on his cheek, but with Maellartach in his hand he looked like an avenging angel.
Emma’s heart beat in great, powerful strokes; it was so good to have Cortana in her hand again, so good to fight with Julian by her side. She could feel the parabatai warrior magic working between them, could see it like a shimmering cord that tied them together, moving when they moved, binding but never ensnaring them.
He gestured to her to follow him, and together they plunged into the heart of the battle.
* * *
The Projection in the sky burst apart like fireworks, the images tumbling toward the city in shining shards. But Dru had seen enough. They all had.
She swung around to see Maryse behind her, staring at the sky as if blinded by an eclipse. “Poor Julie—did you see—?”
Dru looked at Max and Rafe, who were clinging together, clearly terrified. “You have to get the kids into the house. Please. Take Tavvy.”
“No!” Tavvy wailed as Dru pushed him toward Maryse and the red front door of the Graymark house. “No, ’Silla, I want to go with you! NO! ” he shrieked, the word tearing her heart as she let go of him and backed away.
Maryse was staring at her, still looking stunned. “Drusilla—stay in the house—”
Behind Maryse the streets were full of people. They’d caught up weapons, dressed themselves in gear. A battle had begun, and Alicante would not wait.
“I’m sorry,” Dru whispered. “I can’t.”
She took off running, hearing Tavvy screaming for her long after she was likely out of earshot. She wove in and out of crowds of Shadowhunters in gear, bows and swords slung over their shoulders, their skin gleaming with fresh runes. It was the Dark War all over again, when they had flown hectically through the cobblestoned streets, chaos all around them. She caught her breath as she cut through Cistern Square, darted through a narrow alley, and came out in Hausos Square, opposite the Western Gate.
The grea
t doors of the gate were closed. Dru had expected that. Lines of Cohort warriors blocked the crowds of Shadowhunters—many of whom Dru recognized from the war council meeting—from accessing them. The square was quickly filling with Nephilim, their angry voices raised.
“You cannot hold us in here!” shouted Kadir Safar, from the New York Conclave.
Lazlo Balogh scowled at him. “The Inquisitor has decreed that no Shadowhunters leave the city!” he called back. “For your own protection!”
Someone grabbed at Dru’s sleeve. She jumped a foot and nearly screamed; it was Tavvy, grubby and disheveled. “The Silent Brothers—why don’t they do something?” he demanded, distress printed all over his small face.
The Silent Brothers were still standing at the watch points they’d been assigned, motionless as statues. Dru had passed many of them the night before, though none had tried to stop her or asked her business. She couldn’t think about the Silent Brothers now, though. She seized Tavvy and almost shook him.
“What are you doing here? It’s dangerous, Tavvy!”
He stuck out his jaw. “I want to be with you! I won’t be left behind anymore!”
The crowd burst into a fresh spate of shouting. The Cohort guarding the gate was starting to look rattled, but none of them had moved.
There was no time to send Tavvy back. This could turn into a bloodbath at any moment, and even more than that, Dru’s family and friends were on the Imperishable Fields. They needed help.
She grabbed Tavvy’s hand. “Then keep up,” she snapped, and they started to run, shoving and pushing their way through the crowd to the other side of the square. They ran down Princewater Canal and over the bridge, reaching Flintlock Street in a matter of minutes. It was deserted—some houses had been abandoned so quickly that their doors still swung open.
Halfway down the street was the shop with its small sign. DIANA’S ARROW. Dru flew to the door and rapped on it hard—three fast knocks, then three slow. Open up, she prayed. Open, open, open—
The door flew wide. Jaime Rocio Rosales stood on the other side, dressed in black battle gear. He carried a gleaming silver crossbow, pointed directly at her.
Queen of Air and Darkness Page 69