Queen of Air and Darkness (The Dark Artifices #3)

by Cassandra Clare

  “You need an iratze,” she said, letting go of one of his wrists and reaching to her belt for a stele. “Let me—”

  “No.” He drew his other wrist free of her hold. His expression was colder than glacial ice. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

  He walked away as Emma struggled to breathe. Ty and Mark had returned to where the Blackthorns were standing: Ty was near Kit, as he almost always was, like a magnet clicking into place.

  She saw Mark reach out to take Cristina’s hand and hold it and thought: I should be holding Julian’s hands, I should be there for him, reminding him there are still things in the world worth living for.

  But Julian’s hands were bloody and wounded and he didn’t want her to touch them. As his soul was torn and bloody and maybe he didn’t want anyone near that, either, but she was different, she was his parabatai, wasn’t she?

  It is time. The silent voice of one of the Brothers rippled across the Fields: They all heard it—except Magnus and Max, who looked around in confusion. Emma barely had time to brace herself before the Silent Brothers touched their torches to the kindling wood at the foot of each pyre. Fire blasted upward, rippling in shades of gold and red, and for a moment it was almost beautiful.

  Then the roar of the flames hit her, like the sound of a crashing wave, and the heat rolled across the grass, and Livvy’s body vanished behind a sheet of smoke.

  * * *

  Kit could barely hear the soft chant of the Nephilim over the greedy crackle of the flames: “Vale, vale, vale. Farewell, farewell, farewell.”

  The smoke was thick. His eyes stung and burned, and he couldn’t stop thinking of the fact that his own father had had no funeral, that there had been little of him left to bury, his flesh turned to ash by Mantid venom, his remains disposed of by the Silent Brothers.

  Kit couldn’t bear to look at the Blackthorns, so he stared at the Lightwoods. He had overheard all their names by now: he knew Alec’s sister was Isabelle, the girl with the black hair who stood with her arms around Alec and her mother, Maryse. Rafe and Max held each other’s hands; Simon and Magnus stood close to the others, like small moons of comfort orbiting a planet of grief. He remembered someone saying that funerals were for the living, not the dead, so that they could say good-bye. He wondered about the burning: Was it so that the Nephilim could bid good-bye in fire that reminded them of angels?

  He saw a man come toward the Lightwoods and blinked his watering eyes. He was a young man, handsome, with curling brown hair and a square jaw. He wasn’t wearing white, like the others, but plain black gear. As he passed Maryse he stopped and laid a hand on her shoulder.

  She didn’t turn or seem to notice. Neither did anyone else. Magnus glanced over quickly, frowning, but looked away again; Kit realized with a coldness in his chest that he was the only one who actually could see the young man—and that the smoke seemed to flow through the stranger, as if he were made of air.

  A ghost, he thought. Like Jessamine. He looked around wildly: Surely there would be more ghosts here, in the Imperishable Fields, their dead feet leaving no traces on the grass?

  But he saw only the Blackthorns, clinging together, Emma and Cristina side by side, and Julian with Tavvy, as the smoke rose up and around them. Half-reluctantly he glanced back: The young man with the dark hair had moved to kneel beside Robert Lightwood’s pyre. He was closer to the flames than any human could have gotten, and they seemed to eddy within the outline of his body, lighting eyes with fiery tears.

  Parabatai, Kit thought suddenly. In the slump of the young man’s shoulders, in his outstretched hands, in the longing stamped on his face, he saw Emma and Julian, he saw Alec as he spoke about Jace; he knew he was looking at the ghost of Robert Lightwood’s parabatai. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did.

  A cruel sort of bond, he thought, that made one person out of two people, and left such devastation when half was gone.

  He glanced away from the ghost, realizing that smoke and fire had made a wall now, and the pyres were no longer visible. Livvy had disappeared behind the boiling darkness. The last thing he saw before tears blinded him was Ty beside him, lifting his face and closing his eyes, a dark silhouette outlined by the brilliance of the fire as if he was haloed in gold.

  4

  NOTHING THAT IS OURS

  The pyres were still burning as the procession turned and headed back toward the city. It was customary for the smoke to rise all night, and for families to gather in Angel Square to mourn among others.

  Not that Emma thought it was likely the Blackthorns would do that. They would remain in their house, sequestered with each other: They had been too much apart all their lives to want comfort from other Shadowhunters who they barely knew.

  She had trailed away from the rest of the group, too raw to want to try to talk to Julian again in front of his family.

  “Emma,” said a voice beside her. She turned and saw Jem Carstairs.

  Jem. She was too surprised to speak. Jem had been a Silent Brother once, and though he was a Carstairs, he was a very distant relative, due to being more than a century old. He looked only about twenty-five, though, and was dressed in jeans and scuffed shoes. He wore a white sweater, which she guessed was his concession to Shadowhunter funeral whites. Jem was no longer a Shadowhunter, though he had been one for many years.

  “Jem,” she whispered, not wanting to disturb anyone else in the procession. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I wished you to know how sorry I am,” he said. He looked pale and drawn. “I know you loved Livia like a sister.”

  “I had to watch her die,” said Emma. “Have you ever watched someone you loved die?”

  “Yes,” said Jem.

  This was the thing about nearly immortal people, Emma thought. It was rare that you had a life experience that they hadn’t.

  “Can we talk?” she said abruptly. “Just us?”

  “Yes. I wished to speak alone with you myself.” He indicated a low rise some distance away, partially hidden by a stand of trees. After whispering to Cristina that she was going to talk to Jem—“The Jem? The really old one? Who’s married to a warlock? Really?”—she followed Jem to where he was sitting on the grass, among a tumble of old stones.

  They sat for a moment in silence, both of them looking out over the Imperishable Fields. “When you were a Silent Brother,” Emma said abruptly, “did you burn people?”

  Jem looked over at her. His eyes were very dark. “I helped light the pyres,” he said. “A clever man I knew once said that we cannot understand life, and therefore we cannot hope to understand death. I have lost many I loved to death, and it does not get easier, nor does watching the pyres burn.”

  “We are dust and shadows,” Emma said. “I guess we’re all ashes, too.”

  “It was meant to make us all equal,” said Jem. “We are all burned. Our ashes all go to build the City of Bones.”

  “Except for criminals,” said Emma.

  Jem’s brow furrowed. “Livia was hardly that,” he said. “Nor you, unless you are thinking of committing a crime?”

  I already have. I’m criminally in love with my parabatai. The desire to say the words, to confess to someone—to Jem, specifically—was like a pressure behind Emma’s eyes. She said hastily, “Did your parabatai ever pull away from you? When you, you know, wanted to talk?”

  “People do strange things when they’re grieving,” said Jem gently. “I was watching from a distance, earlier. I saw Julian climb to the top of the pyre for his brother. I know how much he has always loved those children. Nothing he says or does now, in these first and worst days, is who he is. Besides,” he added, with a slight smile, “being parabatai is complicated. I hit my parabatai in the face once.”

  “You did what?”

  “As I said.” Jem seemed to enjoy her astonishment. “I struck my parabatai—I loved him more than anyone else in the world I’ve ever loved save Tessa, and I struck him in the face because my heart was breakin
g. I can hardly judge anyone else.”

  “Tessa!” Emma exclaimed. “Where is she?”

  Jem’s hand made a fist in the grass. “You know of the warlock illness?”

  Emma recalled hearing of Magnus’s weakness, the swiftness with which his magic was depleted. That it wasn’t just him, it was other warlocks too.

  “Is Tessa sick?” she said.

  “No,” Jem said. “She was ill, but recovered.”

  “Then the warlocks can get better?”

  “Tessa is the only one who has conquered the sickness. She believes she is protected by her Shadowhunter blood. But more and more warlocks are falling ill now—and those who are older, who have used more magic and more powerful magic, are sickening first.”

  “Like Magnus,” Emma whispered. “How much does Tessa know about it? What have they figured out?”

  “Tessa thinks it might be connected to the spells Malcolm Fade used to raise Annabel,” said Jem. “He used the ley lines to power his necromantic magic—if they’re poisoned with that darkness, it might be communicating that poison to any warlock who uses them.”

  “Can’t warlocks just not use them?”

  “There are only a few sources of power,” said Jem. “Ley lines are the easiest. Many of the warlocks have stopped using them, but it means they’re exhausting their powers very quickly, which is also unhealthy.” He gave her an unconvincing smile. “Tessa will solve it,” he said. “She found Kit—she’ll discover the answer to this as well.”

  Jem bent his head. He kept his hair short, and Emma could see the marks of his Silent Brother scars, where runes of silence had once been placed, along his cheek.

  “I wanted to talk to you about Kit, actually,” he said. “It’s partly why I came.”

  “Really? Because of Kit? He’s all right, as far as I know. Sad, like the rest of us.”

  “Kit is more than just a Herondale,” he said. “The Herondales are important to me, but so are the Carstairs and Blackthorns. But Tessa and I knew Kit was in danger from the first time we found out what his heritage was. We rushed to find him, but Johnny Rook had hidden him well.”

  “His heritage? Johnny Rook was a con man and Kit says his mother was a showgirl in Vegas.”

  “Johnny was a con man, but he also had some Shadowhunter blood in his family—from a long time back, probably hundreds of years. That’s not what’s significant about Kit, though. What’s significant is what he inherited from his mother.” He hesitated. “Kit’s mother’s family has been hunted by faeries for many generations. The Unseelie King has been bent on their destruction, and Kit is the last of their line.”

  Emma fell sideways onto the grass. “Not more faeries,” she groaned.

  Jem smiled, but his eyes were troubled. “Kit’s mother was murdered by a Rider,” he said. “Fal. I believe you knew him.”

  “I believe I killed him,” said Emma. She pushed herself back up to sit beside Jem. “And now I’m glad. He murdered Kit’s mom? That’s awful.”

  “I cannot tell you as much as I wish I could,” said Jem. “Not quite yet. But I can tell you there is faerie blood in Kit’s family. Kit’s mother was hunted, and so was her father, on through the generations. Kit is alive because his mother went to great lengths to conceal the fact that he was born. She covered every link between them, and when she died, the King thought the line died with her.”

  “And that’s changed?” said Emma.

  “We fear it might have,” said Jem. “Tessa and I left Kit with you at the Institute because the warlock sickness was already beginning. We did not know then whether it was something that could spread to humans. We also needed to be in the Spiral Labyrinth and they would not let us bring Kit. We always intended to return for him—we had no idea the Riders would be dispatched to find you. We cannot know whether or not they recognized him. He looks a great deal like his mother.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Emma. Kit looked just like Jace, in her opinion.

  “So are you going to take Kit with you now?” said Emma. “We don’t want to lose him, but if you have to—”

  “The warlock sickness has only worsened. Tessa and I are working day and night in the Spiral Labyrinth to find a cure. And there is something else.” He hesitated. “Tessa is pregnant.”

  “Oh! Congratulations!” It was the first good news Emma had gotten in what felt like forever.

  Jem smiled the sort of smile that made it look as if a light had turned on inside him. He had been alone so long, Emma knew, imagining that he would never have a family. To have a wife now and a baby on the way—the very ordinary sort of miracles that made up an ordinary life—must be extraordinary for him.

  “It is wonderful,” he said. He laid a hand on hers. “I trust you, Emma. I wish only to ask you to look out for Kit, and if you see something suspicious—if you see any signs of a search—please tell me. I will come at once.”

  “Should I send a fire-message?” Emma said, her happiness over the baby fading.

  “Sometimes it is not possible to send a fire-message. There are easier ways.” He pressed something into her hand. A simple silver ring with a clear stone set into it. “It’s glass,” he said. “Smash the ring and Tessa will know; she has the matching one.”

  Emma slid the ring onto her finger. She thought of Kit, standing faithfully beside Ty at the funeral. She thought of his pale curls and blue eyes and gamine face; should she have guessed he had faerie blood somewhere? No. He didn’t look like Mark. He looked like a Herondale. Like that was all he was. “You can trust me,” she said. “I’ll look out for Kit. Is there anything I can do about the ley lines?”

  “It would be useful to have a Shadowhunter in Los Angeles checking out the locus point of Malcolm’s magic,” said Jem. “When you get home, contact Catarina Loss. She may want your help.”

  “I will,” Emma said. “It’s good for me to have a purpose, I think. Livvy’s dead—Jace and Clary are on a mission and can’t be reached—and Horace Dearborn is the Inquisitor. It’s like there’s no hope for anything now.”

  “There is always hope,” said Jem. “When I was very young, it was still permitted to take spoils—the property of Downworlders could be confiscated by any Shadowhunter. I knew a man who kept the heads of slaughtered faeries in the Institute he ran.”

  Emma made a nauseated noise.

  “There has ever been this strain of poison running through the dark heart of the Clave. But there are many more who know Downworlders are our brothers. We are all children under the Angel.” He sighed. “And though I cannot remain with you, simply smash this ring and I will come, no matter how distant I may be.” He put an arm around her and hugged her close for a moment. “Take care, mèi mei.”

  “What does that mean?” Emma asked. But he was already gone, vanishing into the trees as swiftly as he’d come.

  * * *

  Kit stood and watched the smoke rising in the distance through the window of the room he shared with Ty.

  At least, he assumed he shared the room with Ty. His bag was here, tossed into a corner, and nobody had ever bothered to tell him whether he was supposed to be in a different room. He’d gotten dressed in the bathroom that morning and emerged to find Ty pulling his T-shirt on over his head. His Marks seemed unusually black, probably because his skin was so pale. He looked so delicate—Kit had to glance away from the shape of his shoulder blades, the fragility of his spine. How could he look like that and be strong enough to fight demons?

  Now Ty was downstairs, with the rest of his family. People tended to cook when someone died and Shadowhunters were no exception. Someone was probably making a casserole. A demon casserole. Kit leaned his head against the cold glass of the window.

  There was a time he could have run, Kit thought. He could have run and left the Shadowhunters behind, lost himself in the underground world of Shadow Markets. Been like his father, not part of any world, existing between them.

  In the reflection of the window glass, Kit saw the bedr
oom door open and Ty come in. He was still wearing his mourning clothes, though he’d taken off the jacket and was just in a long-sleeved T-shirt. And Kit knew it was too late to run, that he cared about these people now, and specifically Ty.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” Ty sat down on the bed and started unlacing his boots. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  The door was still slightly open and Kit could hear voices coming from the kitchen downstairs. Helen’s, Dru’s, Emma’s, Julian’s. Diana had gone back to her own house. Apparently she lived in a weapons store or something like that. She’d gone back to get some kind of tool she thought could fish the splinters out of Julian’s bleeding hands.

  Ty’s hands were fine, but he’d been wearing gloves. Kit had seen Julian’s when he’d gone to rinse them at the sink, and they’d looked like shrapnel had blown into his palms. Emma had stood nearby looking worried, but Julian had said he didn’t want an iratze, that it would just heal the skin closed over the bits of wood. His voice had sounded so flat, Kit had barely recognized it.

  “I know how this is going to sound,” Kit said, turning so his back was against the cold glass. Ty was hunched over, and Kit caught the gleam of gold at his neck. “But you’re not acting the way I expected.”

  Ty kicked his boots off. “Because I climbed up the pyre?”

  “No, that was kind of actually the most expected thing you did,” said Kit. “I just . . .”

  “I did it to get this,” Ty said, and put his hand to his throat. Kit recognized the gold chain and the slim disk of metal attached to it: Livvy’s locket, the one he’d helped her with in London. It had a circlet of the family thorns on the front, and she had told him Julian had added an etching to the back: a pair of crossed sabers, Livvy’s weapon.

  Kit vividly remembered her holding her hair aside as he fastened the clasp, and the smell of her perfume. His stomach lurched with sadness.

  “Livvy’s necklace,” he said. “I mean, I guess that makes sense. I just thought you would . . .”

  “Cry?” Ty didn’t look angry, but the intensity in his gray eyes had deepened. He was still holding the pendant. “Everybody is supposed to be sad. But that’s because they accept that Livvy is dead. But I don’t. I don’t accept it.”