Queen of Air and Darkness

by Cassandra Clare

  Emma raised her head. Her hair flew around her like golden lightning. “RIDERS OF MANNAN!” she called, and her voice wasn’t a human voice at all. It was the sound of trumpets, of thunderclaps echoing through empty valleys. “RIDERS OF MANNAN! COME AND FACE US!”

  “They can talk,” Cristina whispered.

  Good. Maybe they can listen to reason.

  Maybe.

  “Emma!” Mark called. “Julian! We’re here! Listen to us, we’re here!”

  Emma didn’t seem to hear him. Julian glanced down, entirely without recognition. Like a mundane gazing at an anthill. Though there was nothing mundane about them.

  Mark wondered if this was what raising an angel had been like for Clary, for Simon.

  There was a stir in the crowd. The Riders, striding across the field. Their blaze of bronze shone around them, and Mark remembered Kieran whispering to him stories of the Riders who slept beneath a hill until the Unseelie King called them out to hunt.

  The crowd parted to let them by. The battle had ended, in any real sense: The field was full of onlookers now, staring in silence as the Riders stopped to look up at Emma and Julian.

  Ethna craned her head back, her bronze hair spilling over her shoulders. “We are the Riders of Mannan!” she cried. “We have slain the Firbolg! We have no fear of giants!”

  She launched herself into the air, and Delan followed. They sailed like bronze birds through the sky, their swords outstretched.

  Emma reached out almost lazily and plucked Ethna from the air. She tore her apart like tissue paper, shredding her bronze armor, snapping her sword. Julian caught Delan and hurled him back to earth with a force that tore a furrow into the dirt: Delan skidded across the ground and was still.

  The other Riders did not run. It wasn’t in them to run, Mark knew. They did not retreat. They were without the ability to do so. Each tried to fight, and each was caught up and crushed or torn, hurled back to the ground in pieces. The earth was slick with their blood.

  Julian turned away from them first. He put out a blazing hand toward the Malachi Configuration and scattered it, sending the bars of light flying.

  The screams of the Cohort pierced the air. Cristina tore herself away from Mark and ran toward Emma and Julian. “Don’t!” she cried. “Emma! Jules! They’re prisoners! They can’t hurt us!”

  Helen ran forward, her hands outstretched. “The battle is over!” she cried. “We’ve won—you can stop now! You killed the Riders! You can stop!”

  Neither Julian nor Emma seemed to hear. With a graceful hand, Emma lifted a Cohort member from the screaming throng and tossed him aside. He shrieked as he sailed through the air, his howls cut off suddenly when he hit the ground with a crushing thud.

  Mark had stopped worrying only whether Emma and Julian would survive this. He had begun to worry whether any of them would.

  * * *

  Dru stood just inside the gates and gazed out onto the Imperishable Fields.

  She’d never seen a battle like this before. She’d been in the Accords Hall during the Dark War and seen death and blood, but the scale of this fight—the chaos that was hard to follow, the blinding speed of the fighting—was almost impossible to look at. It didn’t help that she was too far away to make out details: She saw the bronze Riders come and felt terror; she saw them tumble into the fighting crowd, but not what had happened to them afterward. Occasionally she would see the blurry figure of a man or woman fall on the field and wonder: Was it Mark? Was it Emma? The sickness of fear had taken up residence in her stomach and wouldn’t budge.

  For the past hour, the wounded had been coming through the gates, sometimes walking, sometimes carried. Silent Brothers moved forward in swirls of bone-colored robes to carry Cohort members and ordinary Shadowhunters alike to the Basilias for healing. At one point, Jem Carstairs had come in through the gates, carrying Kit’s unconscious body.

  She had started to run to them, and paused when she saw Tessa Gray racing through the crowd of Silent Brothers, Catarina Loss with her. Both already had blood on their clothes and had clearly been treating the wounded.

  She wanted to go to Kit. He was her friend, and he mattered so much to Ty. But she hung back, afraid that adults like Jem and Tessa would want her to go back to Amatis’s house and she would be taken away from the gates, her only window to her family. She hung back in the shadows as Tessa helped Catarina load Kit onto a stretcher.

  Jem and Catarina took hold of the ends of the stretcher. Before they began to move up the hill toward the Basilias, Tessa bent and kissed Kit gently on the forehead. It eased the knot of tightness in Dru’s chest—though Kit had been hurt, at least he’d be taken care of by those who cared about him.

  More wounded came in then, the injuries worsening as the battle raged on. Beatriz Mendoza was carried through the gates, sobbing brokenly. She wasn’t visibly injured, but Dru knew that her parabatai, Julie, had been the first Shadowhunter slain in the battle. Dru wanted to turn Tavvy’s face away from all of it. It wasn’t the Shadowhunter way to shield children from the results of battle, but she couldn’t help thinking of his nightmares, the years of listening to him scream in the darkness.

  “Tavs,” she said finally. “Don’t look.”

  He took her hand, but he didn’t turn his face away. He was staring at the battlefield, his expression intent but not fearful.

  He was the one who saw the giants first, and pointed.

  Dru’s first instinct was to wonder if this was a plan of Julian’s. She saw white fire blaze up and then great shining figures striding across the field. They filled her with a feeling of amazement, a shock at their beauty, the way she’d felt when she was small, looking up at illustrations of Raziel.

  She scanned the field anxiously—the white light of the fire was piercing the sky. The clouds were breaking up and shattering. She could hear cries, and the dark figures of vampires began to flee across the field toward Brocelind’s shadows.

  Most of them made it. But as the clouds rolled back and the gray sunlight pierced down like a knife, Dru saw one vampire, slower than the rest, just at the border of the woods, stumble into a patch of sunlight. There was a cry and a conflagration.

  She pulled her gaze away from the flames. This can’t be Julian’s plan.

  Tavvy tugged on her hand. “We have to go,” he said. “We have to go to Emma and Jules.”

  She gripped him tightly. “It’s a battle—we can’t go out there.”

  “We have to.” There was urgency in his tone. “It’s Jules and Emma. They need us.”

  “Dru!” A cry made her look up. Two people were coming through the gates. One was Jaime. The sight of him made her heart leap: He was still alive. Dusty and scratched, his gear filthy, but alive and bright-eyed and flushed with effort. He was half-carrying Cameron Ashdown, who had an arm slung over his shoulder. Cameron appeared to be bleeding from a wound in his side.

  “Cameron!” Dru hurried toward them, pulling Tavvy with her. “Are you okay?”

  Cameron gave Dru a half wave. “Vanessa stabbed me. Some kind of demon stuff on the blade.” He winced.

  “Your cousin stabbed you?” Dru said. She’d known the Ashdowns were split politically, but family was family in her view.

  “Holiday dinners will be very awkward from now on,” said Jaime. He gave the other boy a pat on the back as a Silent Brother swooped down on Cameron and bore him away to the Basilias.

  Jaime wiped a dirty hand across his forehead. “You two should get farther away from the battle,” he said. “Has no one told you not to stand in the gates?”

  “If we don’t stand in the gates, we can’t see anything,” Dru pointed out. “Is that—on the field—is that really Jules and Emma?”

  Jaime nodded. Dru’s heart sank. Some part of her had been hoping it was a terrible illusion.

  “I don’t understand what’s happening?” Her voice rose. “Is this a plan of Julian’s? Do you know about it?”

  “I do not think it is a plan,�
� Jaime said. “They seem entirely out of control.”

  “Can they be stopped?”

  Jaime spoke reluctantly. “They killed the Riders of Mannan. Now soldiers are trying to form a wall of bodies to protect the city from them. All the children are here.” He indicated Alicante. Dru thought of Max and Rafe with Maryse. Her heart skipped a beat. “I don’t know what will happen.” Jaime looked from her to Tavvy. “Come with me,” he said abruptly. “I can get you into the woods.”

  Dru hesitated.

  “We can’t go away from them. We have to go to Jules and Emma,” Tavvy said firmly.

  “It’s dangerous—” Jaime began.

  “Tavvy’s right. We have to go.” Dru looked down at the incomplete rune that sprawled across her forearm. She remembered Julian putting it there yesterday; it felt forever ago. “You don’t have to help.”

  Jaime sighed and drew his crossbow from the holder on his back. “I’ll cover you.”

  Dru was about to follow Jaime out of the gates when Tavvy poked her in the side. She turned to see he was holding out her stele. “Don’t forget,” he said.

  She exhaled—she nearly had forgotten. Dru put the tip of the stele to her arm and began to complete the Familias rune.

  * * *

  Kieran was surrounded by the Unseelie army, thirty faeries deep. This was bad enough, because he could see neither Mark nor Cristina over the churning mass of his people, but he could barely control Windspear, who was rearing and whinnying beneath him. Windspear liked neither crowds nor giants, and at the moment both were far too close.

  Winter was at Kieran’s side. He had stuck to him like glue through the battle, which Kieran found both admirable and startling. He was not used to such loyalty.

  “The people have come to you, liege lord,” said Winter. “What are your orders for them?”

  Orders for them? Kieran thought frantically. He had no idea what they should do. This was why he had wanted Adaon to be King, but Adaon was prisoner in the Seelie Court. What would Adaon say about an army of faeries trapped on a field with rampaging part-angel giants?

  “Why aren’t they all running for the forest?” Kieran demanded. The forest was a place Fair Folk felt at home, full of natural things, water and trees. There had long been faeries in Brocelind Forest.

  “Sadly, the woods are full of vampires,” said Winter glumly.

  “The vampires are our allies!” shouted Kieran, grasping Windspear’s mane as the horse reared.

  “No one really believes that,” said Winter.

  By all the Gods of Dark and Light. Kieran wanted to yell and break something. Windspear reared again, and this time, Kieran caught sight of a familiar figure. Mark. He would know him anywhere—and Cristina beside him. He said a silent thanks. What would they tell me to do? He thought of Mark’s generosity, Cristina’s kindness. They would think of the Unseelie soldiers first.

  “We need to get our people off this field,” said Kieran. “They cannot battle angels. No one can. How did you all arrive here?”

  “Oban made a door,” said Winter. “You can do the same, liege. Open a door to Faerie. As King you can do it. Reach out to your Land and it will reach back to you.”

  If bloody drunk Oban did it, I can do it, Kieran thought. But that wasn’t all that helpful. He had to reach out to his Land, a place he had long cursed, and hope it would reach back to him.

  He slid from Windspear’s back as the horse stilled beneath him. He remembered Mark saying: I will not forget the beauty of Faerie and neither will you. But it will not come to that.

  And he thought of what he himself had said, had remembered, when he had thought Faerie was threatened.

  The way the water tumbles blue as ice over Branwen’s Falls. The taste of music and the sound of wine. The honey hair of mermaids in the streams, the glittering of will-o’-the-wisps in the shadows of the deep forests.

  Kieran took a deep breath. Let me through, he thought. Let me through, my Land, for I belong to you: I will give unto you as the Kings of Faerie long have, and you will flourish when I flourish. I will bring no blight to your shores, nor blood to wither your flowers in the fields, but only peace and a kind road that rises to green hills.

  “My liege,” said Winter.

  Kieran opened his eyes and saw that the low hillock before him had begun to split apart. Through the gap he could see the great tower of Unseelie rising in the distance and the peaceful fields before it.

  Several of the closer fey sent up a cheer. They began to run through the gap even as it widened. Kieran could see them emerging on the other side, some even falling on their knees with gratitude and relief.

  “Winter,” he said in an unsteady voice. “Winter, get everyone through the door. Get them to safety.”

  “All the fey?” said Winter.

  “Everyone,” said Kieran, looking at his first in command sternly. “Shadowhunters. Warlocks. Everyone who seeks sanctuary.”

  “And you, my liege?” said Winter.

  “I must go to Mark and Cristina.”

  For the first time, Winter looked mutinous. “You must leave your mortal friends, lord.”

  Winter was a redcap, sworn in blood to protect the King and the royal line. Kieran could not be angry with him, and yet he must make him understand. He searched for the right words. “You are my loyal guard, Winter. But as you guard me, so must you guard what I love best, and Mark Blackthorn and Cristina Rosales are what I love best in this world and all others.”

  “But your life,” said Winter.

  “Winter,” Kieran said flatly. “I know they cannot be my consorts. But I die without them.”

  More and more faeries were flooding through the door to the Undying Lands. There were others with them now—a few warlocks, even a band of lycanthropes.

  Winter set his jaw. “Then I will guard your back.”

  * * *

  Helen felt as if she were caught in the middle of a river going two ways at once.

  Faeries were running in one direction, toward a hilly rise at the eastern end of the field. Shadowhunters were racing in the other, toward the city of Alicante, presumably to hide behind its walls. Aline had darted off to investigate, promising to be back momentarily.

  Some still milled around the center of the field—the Cohort seemed to be shrieking and running in circles, willing to join neither the exodus of faeries nor fellow Shadowhunters. Helen had stayed near to where the others she knew had gathered—Kadir and Jia were helping wounded from the field, Simon and Isabelle were in conference with Hypatia Vex and Kwasi Bediako, and Jace and Clary had gone with a group of others, including Rayan and Divya, to put themselves between Emma and Julian and the Cohort prisoners.

  “Helen!” Aline was jogging toward her across the grass. “They’re not running away.”

  “What do you mean?” Helen said.

  “The Shadowhunters. They’re going to protect the city, in case the giants—in case Emma and Julian make a move toward it. It’s full of kids and old people. And besides,” she added, “Shadowhunters protect Alicante. It’s what we do.”

  Spoken like the daughter of the Consul. “But Emma and Julian would never—they wouldn’t—” Helen protested.

  “We don’t know what they’d do,” Aline said gently, just as Hypatia Vex and Kwasi Bediako rushed past them. They raced toward the trampled grass where Emma and Julian stood, and Kwasi flung out his hands as Hypatia placed her palms on his shoulders. A shimmering golden net burst into the air over Emma and Jules: It settled on them like a fine spiderweb, but Helen sensed it was made of something much stronger.

  Emma put up a great, shining hand to push against the net. It held fast. Kwasi was breathing fast, but Hypatia steadied him.

  A cry broke from Martin Gladstone. “Do it now! Round up the Blackthorns! Show those monsters what will happen to their families if they don’t stop!”

  The Cohort sent up a cheer. Helen could hear Zara screaming that they should do it, that they had a right to protect
themselves.

  Aline stepped in front of Helen. “That bastard!” She glowered.

  Julian hooked his fingers into the material of the shining net and tore it apart. It fell away, and Julian reached down to seize Gladstone.

  With a flick of his fingers, he snapped Gladstone’s neck.

  Julian and Emma moved toward the other Cohort members, who began to scatter. Emma reached for Zara—

  And Jace slid between them, between Emma’s shimmering hand and Zara’s fleeing figure. The Mortal Sword was sheathed on his back; he was weaponless. He tossed back his golden head and called out, “Stop! Emma and Julian! The battle is over! Stop!”

  Expressionless as a statue of an avenging angel, Emma reached down and swept Jace out of the way. He was thrown several yards and hit the ground with an ugly thud. Clary screamed and went flying across the grass, racing toward Jace with her red hair trailing behind her like fire.

  Get up, get up, Helen thought. Get up, Jace.

  But he didn’t.

  * * *

  Dru had never used the Familias rune before, and the experience was a strange one.

  She felt herself tugged toward her siblings in a way she couldn’t define. It felt like something was tied around the inside of her spine—which was gross but interesting—and was pulling her toward a destination. She’d heard the way Tracking runes felt described to her, and she suspected this wasn’t dissimilar.

  She let the tugging pull her, running along after it with her hand clasped firmly around Tavvy’s wrist. They kept to the edges of the battlefield, Jaime beside them with his crossbow trained on anyone who might approach.

  They left the shelter of the city walls and struck out for the edge of the forest, still following the pull of the rune. She tried not to look over at the field, at Emma and Julian. It was like looking at pillars of fire one moment, at terrible monsters the next.

  There was a rustling overhead, and Ty dropped down out of an oak tree. Dru gave a little gasp of surprise, and then another one as Ty walked straight toward her and hugged her tightly.

  He let her go and frowned. “Why are you on the field? You should be in the city. Tavvy, too.” He turned to Jaime. “It’s dangerous.”