Queen of Air and Darkness

by Cassandra Clare

  “I don’t see what’s so important about me,” Kit said.

  “You’re more important than you think,” Emma said. Her eyes went suddenly wide. “Oh no.”

  “What?” Kit looked around wildly. At first he saw nothing unusual—or at least, nothing unusual for a huge ongoing brawl between faeries and Shadowhunters.

  Then a shadow fell over them, and he realized.

  The last time he had seen the Riders of Mannan had been in London. There were six of them now, gleaming in bronze and gold; their horses were shod with gold and silver, their eyes inky black. The Riders wore armor without joints or rivets to hold it together—a smooth, liquidy bronze that covered them from neck to foot like the gleaming carapaces of insects.

  “Get behind me, Kit.” Emma had gone pale. She stepped in front of Kit, lifting Cortana. “Stay down. They’re probably coming for me, not you.”

  The Riders hurtled toward them, like a shower of falling stars. They were beautiful and awful. Kit had taken only the Herondale dagger Jace had given him. He realized now how unprepared he had been. How foolish.

  One of the Riders jerked and yelled, clasping at his arm. Ty’s slingshot, Kit realized, and felt a rush of reluctant warmth and a sudden stab of fear—what if he never saw Ty again?

  The struck Rider spat a curse; they were almost overhead, and Kit saw their faces—their bronze hair, their sharp cold features.

  “Six of you against one?” Emma shouted, the wind whipping her hair. “Are you that dishonorable? Come down one by one and fight me! I dare you!”

  “It seems you cannot count, little Shadowhunting murderer,” said Ethna, the only woman among the Riders. “There are two of you.”

  “Kit is a child,” said Emma, which annoyed Kit even as he realized she was probably right to say it. Kieran’s voice was in his head: The children of Mannan have never been defeated.

  Across the field, Julian was running toward them. Helen ran alongside him, and Aline. But they would never reach Emma and Kit in time.

  “Kit is the child,” said Etarlam with a smirk. “The descendant of the First Heir.”

  “Give him to us,” said Karn. “Give him to us and we might spare you.”

  Kit’s throat had gone dry. “That’s not right,” he said. “I have no faerie blood. I’m a Shadowhunter.”

  “One can be both,” said Ethna. “We guessed it when we saw you in that dirty city.”

  She meant London, Kit thought dizzily. He remembered Eochaid looking at him, saying: I know you. I know your face.

  “You look just like her,” said Eochaid now with a smirk. “Just like Auraline. And just like your mother.”

  “We slew her,” said Ethna. “And now we will slay you, too, and wipe out any trace of your tainted bloodline from this world and ours.”

  “What?” Kit forgot his fear, forgot Emma’s exhortation that he stay behind her. Forgot that anyone was coming to help them. Forgot everything except Ethna’s words. “You killed my mother? My mother?”

  “What did you think happened to her, child?” Ethna said. “Yes, we spilled her blood at the King’s orders. She died screaming for you, though even when we tortured her, she never spoke your name or revealed your whereabouts. Perhaps that will be a comfort for you, in these last moments!” She burst out laughing, and in a moment, the Riders were all laughing, their horses rearing back against the sky.

  Cold fire spread through Kit’s veins; he moved toward the Riders, as if he could reach up and pull them from the sky.

  He felt the Talent rune Ty had given him begin to burn on his upper arm.

  Emma swore, trying to grab at Kit and draw him behind her. “You can’t,” she was saying. “You can’t, they’re unbeatable, Kit—”

  The Riders drew their swords. Metal flashed in the sky. They blocked out the sun as they hurtled down toward Emma and Kit. Emma raised her sword as Ethna, blaze-eyed astride her stallion, smashed into her, blade against blade. Emma was lifted off her feet and hurled backward. She hit the turf with an impact Kit could hear. She scrambled to her feet as Ethna wheeled her steed around, laughing, and started to race to Kit, but the others were coming—they were driving their horses toward Kit with such force that the grass below them flattened—he raised his hands as if he could ward them off with a gesture, and heard Eochaid laugh—

  Something inside him cracked apart, flooding his body with power. It surged through him, electric, exploding from the palms of his hands with enough force to press him to his knees.

  Emma looked at him incredulously as white light shot from his hands and surrounded the Riders like a net. Kit could hear them screaming in horror and surprise; they urged their horses higher, into the sky—

  He closed his hands into fists, and the horses vanished. Winked out of existence between one breath and the next. The Riders, who had already plunged high into the sky to get away, fell screaming through the air to the ground; they crashed down among the surge of battle and disappeared from view.

  Kit rolled onto his back on the grass. He was gasping for breath. Dying, he thought. I’m dying. And I cannot be who they said I am. It’s impossible.

  “Kit!” Emma was crouching over him, pulling the collar of his shirt aside to place an iratze there. “Kit, by the Angel, what did you do?”

  “I don’t—know.” He felt like there was no breath in his body. His fingers scrabbled weakly against the dirt. Help me, Emma. Help me.

  Tell Ty—

  “It’s all right.” There was someone else bending over him, someone with a familiar face and calming voice. “Christopher. Christopher, breathe.”

  It was Jem. Closing his eyes, Kit let Jem’s gentle arms lift him from the ground, and darkness came down like the curtain at the end of a play.

  * * *

  “Emma!”

  Dazed, Emma stumbled a little as she straightened up. She had been bending over Kit, and then Jem had come—and Kit was gone. She was still dizzy from the shock of the Riders’ attack and the strangeness that had followed.

  Kit had made the Riders’ steeds disappear and they’d fallen into the crowd of battle, wreaking havoc. And now Julian was here, looking at her with worry and concern.

  “Emma,” Julian said again, putting his hands on her shoulders and turning her to look at him. “Are you all right?”

  “Aline and Helen,” she said breathlessly. “They were with you—”

  “They went back to help the others,” he said. “The Riders are causing chaos on the field—”

  “I’m sorry,” Emma said, “I didn’t know that Kit—”

  “I’m not sorry,” Julian said, and there was a savagery in his tone that made her look up, her head clearing. Julian’s face was smudged with blood and dirt. His gear was ripped at the shoulder, his boots thick with churned mud and blood. He was beautiful. “Whatever happened, whatever Kit did, he saved your life. The Riders would have killed you.”

  She was breathless with fear, not for herself but for Julian. The Riders hated them both. Gwyn and Diana were circling over the Fields, calling out that Oban was dead, that Kieran was King. Perhaps Kieran could order the Riders around—perhaps not. At the moment, they had not sworn allegiance to him. They were masterless, here for blood and vengeance, and very dangerous.

  “Do you need an iratze?” Julian was still holding her shoulders. She wanted to hug him, wanted to touch his face and make sure he was whole and unharmed. She knew she couldn’t.

  “No,” Emma said. Runes between them were too dangerous. “I’m fine.”

  Slowly he bent his head and touched his forehead to hers. They stood for a moment, motionless. Emma could feel the parabatai energy in them both, vibrating beneath their skin like an electric current. There was no one around them; they were at the very edge of the battle, almost in the woods.

  She felt herself smile a little. “Ty’s up a tree with a slingshot,” she said, almost in a whisper.

  Julian drew back, a look of amusement ghosting across his face. “I kn
ow. Safest place for him, I guess, though when I find out how he got out of Magnus’s enchantment, I’m not sure which of them I’m going to kill.” There was a sudden commotion; Emma looked over at the field and saw flashes of bronze. The Riders had regrouped; they were laying about themselves with their blades, cutting a path through the Shadowhunters. Several bodies lay crumpled on the ground: with a pang, she recognized Vivianne Penhallow’s strawberry-blond hair, now flecked with blood.

  Emma grabbed Cortana. “Julian—where’s the Mortal Sword?”

  “Gave it to Jace,” he said as they both hurried across the trampled grass. “I hated carrying that thing around. He’ll enjoy it.”

  “Probably,” Emma admitted. She looked around: The skies overhead roiled blue-black. The bodies of Downworlders and Shadowhunters were scattered across the field; as they pressed on, Emma nearly stepped on a corpse in a Centurion uniform, eyes rolled to the sky. It was Timothy Rockford. She fought down a wave of nausea and turned away. A redcap surged up behind her.

  She raised Cortana, the blade slicing the air.

  “Emma!” Julian caught at her shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said as the redcap turned and vanished back into the crowd. “The Unseelie soldiers don’t know what to do. Some are still following Oban. Some are retreating at Kieran’s orders. It’s chaos.”

  “So it could be ending?” she said, breathless. “We could be winning?”

  He drew the back of his hand across his face, smudging more dirt on his cheekbones. His eyes were brilliant blue-green in the odd light of the clouds; his gaze ran up and down her, and she recognized his look as the embrace he couldn’t give, the words he couldn’t say.

  “The Cohort won’t give up,” he said instead. “They’re still fighting. We’re trying not to harm them, but they’re not making it easy.”

  “Where’s Horace?” Emma demanded, craning her head to see what was happening across the field.

  “He’s kept himself surrounded by his followers,” Julian said, leaping over the body of a dead troll. “Jace and the others are trying to get to him, but the Cohort are willing to die for him and we don’t want to kill them. Like I said, they’re not making it easy.”

  “We should get back and help.” She started to head across the field, Julian beside her. Downworlders flashed past them, hurling themselves at Unseelie faeries and Cohort Nephilim. Jessica Beausejours was struggling to fend off a black-haired vampire with a seraph blade, while nearby a werewolf rolled on the ground with a massive troll, two sets of fangs snapping.

  Emma heard someone yell. It was Mark—she could see Cristina, too, not far away, sword to sword with Vanessa Ashdown. Cristina was fighting carefully, trying not to hurt Vanessa; Vanessa was showing no such care—she held a swordstaff in her hand and was pushing Cristina back with slamming blows.

  Mark, though—Mark was facing Eochaid. A Rider had found him.

  Emma and Julian took off instantly, racing toward Mark. He was backing away, bow in hand, taking careful aim, but each arrow that hit Eochaid seemed only to slow him down, not to stop him.

  No one’s killed one of Mannan’s Riders in all the history I know.

  Emma had killed one of the Riders. But Emma had Cortana. Mark had only an ordinary bow, and Cristina and Kieran were both caught up in the vast crowd. They could never make it to Mark in time.

  Emma heard Julian whisper his brother’s name. Mark. They were racing flat-out over the uneven ground—Emma could feel the parabatai energy driving them forward—when something reared up and struck her. She went flying, hit the ground, rolled to her feet.

  Standing in front of her was Zara.

  She was cut and filthy, her long hair matted in clumps of blood and dirt. Her colorful Centurion gear had been cut to ribbons. There were tracks of dirty tears on her face, but her hands, gripping a longsword, were steady. As was her gaze, fixed on Cortana.

  “Give me back my sword, you bitch,” she snarled.

  * * *

  Arrested by Emma’s fall, Julian spun around and saw his parabatai facing Zara Dearborn. Zara was whipping her sword back and forth while Emma watched her with a puzzled look: Zara wasn’t a very good fighter, but she wasn’t this bad.

  Emma met Julian’s eyes as she raised Cortana: Go, go to Mark, her expression said. Julian hesitated a moment—but Emma could more than handle Zara. He whirled around and ran for his brother.

  Mark was still fighting, though he was pale, bleeding from a cut across his chest. Eochaid seemed to be playing with him, as a cat might play with a mouse, thrusting his sword and then turning it aside to slash rather than stab. It would mean a slow death of cuts and bloodletting. Julian felt the sourness of rage in the back of his throat. He saw Cristina slam the hilt of her sword against Vanessa’s head; Cameron’s cousin went down hard and Cristina turned, sprinting toward Mark.

  Another Rider cut her off. Julian’s heart sank; he was nearly there, but he recognized Ethna, with her long bronze braid and vicious scowl. She carried a sword in one hand, a staff in the other, and swung out at Cristina, knocking her hard to the ground.

  “Stop!”

  The word was a gravel-toned bellow. Cristina and Mark were both on the ground; their opponents turned, staring. Kieran stood before them, his shoulder knotted with white bandages. It was Winter who had spoken: The redcap stood upright, swordstaff in hand. He pointed the sharp end of it at Eochaid.

  “Stop,” he said again. “The King commands that you stand down.”

  Eochaid and Ethna exchanged a look. Their metallic eyes simmered with rage. They would not soon forget being cast down from the sky and humiliated.

  “We will not,” said Eochaid. “Our King was Arawn the Elder. He commanded us to slay the Blackthorns and their allies. We shall enact that command and no word from you shall change it.”

  “We have not yet sworn allegiance to you,” said Ethna. “You are not our King.”

  Julian wondered if Kieran would flinch. He didn’t. “I am your King,” he said. “Leave them be and return to Unseelie or be considered traitors.”

  “Then we will be traitors,” said Ethna, and brought her longsword down.

  It never struck its target. The air seemed to ripple, and suddenly Windspear was diving toward Ethna, rearing back: He struck Ethna full in the chest with his front hooves. There was a clang as she was flung backward. A moment later, Cristina was on her feet, her wrist bleeding but her grip on her sword steady.

  “Go to Mark!” she shouted, and Kieran leaped onto Windspear’s back and plunged toward Eochaid; the Rider was like a fall of sparks, graceful and inevitable. He flew into the air, whipping around with his sword in hand, the blade clashing against Kieran’s.

  Mark leaped into the air—a spinning, graceful leap—and caught hold of Eochaid, wrapping his arms around the Rider’s throat from behind. They tumbled to the ground together; Eochaid leaped to his feet. Julian raced toward Mark, hurling himself between his brother and the Rider, bringing up his sword to parry a slashing blow.

  Eochaid laughed. Julian barely had time to help Mark to his feet when something struck him from behind—it was Karn the Rider, a roaring tower of bronze. Julian whirled and hit back with all his force. Karn staggered back, looking surprised.

  “Nice hit,” Mark said.

  It’s because of Emma. I can feel the parabatai bond burning inside me.

  “Thanks,” he said, raising his blade to fend off another blow from Karn. Kieran and Cristina were harrying Eochaid; Ethna was battling Winter to his knees. Even the parabatai strength wasn’t enough, Julian knew. The Riders were too strong. It was a matter of time.

  There was another flash of bronze. Mark muttered a curse: It was Delan, the one-handed Rider, drawn to his siblings. Now there were four of them: only Etarlam and Airmed were still missing, somewhere in the battle.

  Delan wore a bronze half mask and swung a golden spiked flail; he was running toward Kieran, the flail swinging—

  An ax crashed into him from behind, send
ing him sprawling. It was Eochaid’s turn to swear. Ethna yelled, even as Delan staggered to his feet and spun to face his attacker.

  It was Diego Rosales. He winked at Kieran just as the flail swung toward his head; he fended it off with the flat of his ax. Kieran, who had looked both astonished and pleased at Diego’s appearance, leaped from Windspear’s back and raced toward Delan. Winter darted after him as Cristina swung at Ethna—

  There was a shattering crack as Cristina’s sword broke. She gasped, leaped backward—Mark and Kieran turned, stricken—Ethna raised her blade—

  And was blown off her feet. Lines of golden energy laced across the field, lifting each of the Riders into the air and sending them tumbling across the grass like scattered toys. Julian turned in astonishment to see Hypatia Vex standing nearby with her hands raised, light cascading from her fingertips.

  “Magnus sent me over,” she said as the battling Nephilim stared at her. Even Winter was staring, looking as if he might have fallen in love. Julian suspected his chances with Hypatia weren’t good. “This’ll buy us some time, but they’ll be back. The Riders of Mannan . . .” She sighed dramatically. “Shadowhunters. Why do I always end up mixed up in their business?”

  * * *

  Zara was fighting like a wild thing. Emma had remembered Zara as a mediocre warrior, and she was, but from the moment their two blades had touched, Zara had been electrified. She swung her blade as if she meant to hack down a tree with it; she flung herself at Emma over and over, sloppily leaving her defenses completely open. As if she didn’t care if she lived or if she died.

  And perversely, it was making Emma hold back. She knew she had every right and reason to strike Zara down. But Zara seemed wild with what Emma could only identify as grief—she had lost friends, Emma knew, dead on the field like Timothy. But Emma suspected her grief was more for the bitterness of losing and the sting of shame. Whatever happened, the Cohort would never regain their glory. The lies they had told would never be forgotten.

  Julian had seen to that.

  “You couldn’t just leave well enough alone,” Zara hissed, lunging at Emma with her wrist held stiffly. Emma evaded the blow easily without needing to parry. “You had to be the moral busybodies. You had to stick your nose in everywhere.”