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

by Cassandra Clare

  “No! No! Leave him alone!” Emma whirled; a woman’s scream lanced through the room like the sweep of a sharp blade. She felt herself tense further; Ethna and Eochaid had stalked into the room, marching Ash between them. He was without his gold crown and looked sulky and angry.

  Rushing along behind him was Annabel, crying out. “Stop! Haven’t you done enough? Stop, I tell you! Ash is my charge—”

  She saw Emma and froze. Her eyes darted toward Adaon, lighting on Julian, who stared back at her with blazing hatred. Jace was gripping his shoulder again.

  She seemed to shrink into her clothes—a gray linen dress and woolen jacket. Her left hand was a claw that clutched the true Black Volume.

  “No,” she moaned. “No, no, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to do it.”

  Emma heard a deep growl. A moment later she realized it was Mark, his chains rattling. Annabel gasped, recognizing him. She staggered back as one of the redcaps darted toward Mark, pike raised.

  Mark backed up—but he wasn’t retreating, Emma saw, only loosening the chains that bound his wrists. He spun, flinging the chains around the redcap’s neck; the pike crashed to the ground as he seized the length of chain and jerked, hard.

  The guard was flung backward, hurtling into his fellow redcaps. They all stumbled. Mark stood poised and breathing hard, his eyes fierce and hard as glass. Winter gazed at him and Kieran with a considering look.

  “Shall I kill him for you, liege?” said Winter.

  The King shook his head, clearly annoyed. “Have him beaten to his bones later. Redcaps, be more wary of the prisoners.” He sneered. “They bite.”

  Annabel was still moaning softly. She cast a terrified look at Emma, Julian, and Mark—which was ridiculous, Emma thought, as they were all obviously prisoners—and a longing one at Ash.

  Perfect loyalty, Emma thought. No wonder Annabel had attached herself so swiftly and tightly to Ash.

  The King snapped his fingers at Emma. “Return to Adaon, girl.”

  Emma bristled but said nothing. She sauntered back across the room to Adaon and the others, refusing to give the King the satisfaction of hurrying.

  Emma reached the rest of the group just as Annabel gave another whimpering scream. Emma pushed in next to Julian, taking his arm. His muscles jumped under her touch. She wrapped her hand around his forearm and Jace stepped away from them, giving them space.

  Emma could feel the shape of the bloody rag tied around Julian’s forearm under her fingers. Remember what Livvy would want, she thought. Don’t get yourself killed.

  The King turned to Eochaid. “Give Ash your sword, Rider.”

  Eochaid reeled back, clearly stunned. He turned toward Ethna, but she shook her head, her bronze hair spilling over her shoulders. Her message was clear: Do it.

  They watched as Eochaid handed over his gleaming bronze-gold sword. It was far too big for Ash, who took it with the grip of someone who was used to handling weapons, but not ones this big and heavy. He stared at the King with shocked eyes.

  “Cut Kieran’s throat, Ash Morgenstern,” said the King.

  He isn’t even pretending, Emma thought. He doesn’t care if we know exactly who Ash is or not.

  “No!” cried Mark. He lunged toward Ash and Kieran, but the redcaps cut him off. They were incredibly quick, and angry now—he had hurt one of their own.

  Clary gasped. Emma could hear Cristina whispering frantically beside her, though not the individual words. Kieran stayed where he was, gazing flatly into the distance as if the King hadn’t spoken.

  “Why?” said Ash. His voice shook. Emma wondered if it was real or faked for sympathy.

  “You must spill royal blood,” said the King, “and Kieran’s is the most expendable.”

  “You are a bastard!” Mark shouted, struggling against his manacles and the grip of the redcaps.

  “This is too much,” Annabel cried. “He’s just a child.”

  “Which is why this must be done now,” said the King. “The Dark Artifices would kill an older child.” He leaned forward to look Ash in the face, a parody of a concerned adult. “Kieran will die regardless,” he said, “whether your hand wields the blade or not. And if you do not do it, he will die slowly, in howling pain.”

  Kieran’s gaze tracked slowly across the room—but not toward Ash. He looked at Cristina, who was gazing helplessly at him, and then at Mark, struggling in the redcaps’ grip.

  He smiled.

  Ash took a step forward. The sword hung loose in his hand and he was biting his lip. At last Kieran glanced at him.

  “Do what you must, child,” he said, his voice kind and quiet. “I know what it is to be given no good choice by the King of the Unseelie Court.”

  “Ungrateful whelp!” barked the King, sneering at Kieran. “Ash—now!”

  Emma looked wildly toward Julian and the others. Adaon couldn’t help them; there were too many redcaps, and the Riders were impossible to fight—

  More redcaps spilled into the room. It took Emma a moment to realize they were running. Fleeing in terror from the storm that followed—a slender figure blazing in scarlet and gold, with red hair flowing around her like spilled blood.

  The Seelie Queen.

  An expression of surprise crossed the Unseelie King’s face, followed swiftly by rage. Ash dropped the sword he was holding with a clatter, backing away from Kieran as the Queen approached.

  Emma had never seen the Seelie Queen like this. Her eyes were brilliant, blazing with unfaerie-like emotion. She was like a tidal wave, rushing toward her son.

  “No!” Annabel’s screech was almost inhuman. Thrusting the Black Volume into her jacket, she bolted toward Ash, her arms held out.

  The Seelie Queen turned in one smooth motion and flung out her hand; Annabel sailed into the air and slammed into the rock wall of the chamber. She slid to the floor, gasping for breath.

  She had given the Riders time, though, to gather around Ash. The Queen strode toward them, her face radiant with power and rage.

  “You cannot touch him,” said Ethna, her voice shimmering with a metallic hum. “He belongs to the King.”

  “He is my son,” said the Queen with contempt. Her gaze flickered between the two Riders. “You are of the oldest magic, the magic of the elements. You deserve better than to lick the boots of the Unseelie King like dogs.”

  She tore her gaze from Ash and stalked up to the King, light flickering in her hair like tiny flames. “You,” she said. “Deceiver. Your words of an alliance were so many dried leaves blown on the empty air.”

  The King set the copy of the Black Volume on the arm of his throne and rose to his feet. Emma felt a bolt of wonder go down her spine. The King and Queen of Faerie, facing off before her. It was like a scene out of legend.

  Her fingers itched almost unbearably for a sword.

  “I do what I do because I must,” said the King. “No one else has the strength to do it! The Nephilim are our single greatest enemy. They always have been. Yet you would make treaties with them, seek peace with them, live alongside them.” He sneered. “Give your body to them.”

  Emma’s mouth dropped open. So rude, she mouthed at Cristina.

  The Queen straightened her back. She was still thin and wan, but the power of her Queenship seemed to radiate through her like light through a lamp. “You had your chance with our child, and because you did not believe a woman could be strong, you threw it away. I will not give you another of my children for your careless slaughter!”

  The First Heir, Emma thought. So it’s true.

  There was a murmur of shock in the room—not from the human prisoners, but from the Riders and redcaps. A dark flush of rage went over the King’s face. He flung out his arm, sheathed to the elbow in a golden gauntlet, toward the roiling Portal on the north wall.

  “Gaze upon this Portal, glorious Queen,” he said through his teeth, and the image in the Portal began to change. Where before the desert landscape had been deserted, it was possible now to see d
arting figures among the poison-colored whirls of sand. The sky above the landscape had turned to a scorched rust and gold.

  Emma heard Clary make a strange choking noise.

  “I have torn a hole through to another world,” said the King. “A world whose very substance is poisonous to Nephilim. Already our lands are protected by its earth, and already the poison begins to spread in Idris.”

  “It’s not the ley lines,” Cristina whispered. “It’s the blight.”

  They spun to stare at the Portal. The scene had changed again. It now showed the same desert in the aftermath of a battle. Blood stained the sand red. Bodies were strewn everywhere, twisted and blackened by the sun. Faint screams and wailing could be heard, dim as the memory of something horrible.

  Jace whirled on the King. “What is this? What is this world? What have you done?”

  Clary’s hand circled Emma’s wrist, gripping tightly. Her voice was a bare whisper. “That’s me.”

  Emma stared through the Portal. Wind blew the sand in harsh gusts, uncovering a body in black Shadowhunter gear, the chest torn open and white bone showing. A spill of red hair threaded through the sand, mixing with blood.

  “That was my dream,” Clary whispered. Her voice was choked with tears. Emma stood frozen, staring at Clary’s dead body. “That’s what I saw.”

  The sand blew again, and Clary’s body vanished from view just as Jace turned back around. “What world is this?” he demanded.

  “Pray you never have to find out,” said the King. “The land of Thule is death, and it will rain down death in your world. In Ash’s hands it will be the greatest weapon ever known.”

  “And what will be the cost to Ash?” demanded the Queen. “What will be the cost to him? Already you have placed spells upon him. Already you have bled him. You wear his blood around your throat! Deny it, if you can!”

  Emma stared at the vial around the King’s throat: She had thought it was a scarlet potion. It was not. She remembered the scar on Ash’s throat and felt sick.

  The King chuckled. “I have no wish to deny it. His blood is unique—Nephilim blood and demonic blood, mixed with the blood of the fey. I draw power from it, though only a fraction of the power Ash could have if you allow me to keep the Black Volume.”

  The Queen’s face twisted. “You are bound by your oath to return it to me, King—”

  The King tensed; Emma didn’t understand as much about faeries as Cristina did, but she knew that if the King had sworn he would return the book to the Queen at dawn, he would have no choice but to do it. “It will bring us both indescribable power. Just let me show you—”

  “No!” A streak of gray linen and dark hair shot across the room and caught hold of Ash, whirling him off his feet.

  Ash cried out as Annabel seized him. She flew with him across the room, Ash’s wrist gripped tightly in her hand. The Riders rushed after her, the redcaps circling from the door. Whirling like a trapped rabbit, she bared her teeth, Ash’s wrist still caught in hers.

  “I will speak your name!” she shrieked at the King, and he froze. “In front of all these people! Even if you kill me, they will all have heard the word! Now tell them to stand down! They must stand down!”

  The King made a choking sound. As the Queen stared in disbelief, he clenched his fists so tightly that his gauntlets bent and shattered. Their metal stabbed into his skin and blood bloomed around the jagged edges.

  “She knows your name?” the Queen demanded, her voice rising. “That Nephilim knows your name?”

  “Stand down, Riders,” the King said in a voice that sounded as if he were being strangled. “Stand down, all of you!”

  The Riders and redcaps froze. Realizing what was happening, the Queen shrieked and ran toward Annabel, raising her hands. But she was too late. Throwing her arms around Ash, Annabel hurled herself backward through the Portal.

  There was a sound as of thick fabric tearing. The Portal stretched apart and closed over Annabel and Ash. The Queen skidded to a stop, twisting her body to avoid crashing through the Portal.

  Julian sucked in his breath. The image in the Portal had changed—now they could see Annabel and Ash standing in the broken wasteland, sand swirling about them. The Queen screamed, holding out her hands as if she could touch Ash, could enfold him in her arms.

  For a moment Emma almost pitied her.

  The sand whirled again, and Ash and Annabel vanished from view. The King slumped down on his throne, his face in his hands.

  The Queen spun away from the Portal, striding toward the throne. Grief and rage were etched onto her features. “You have done the second of my children to his death, Lord of Shadows,” she said. “There shall never be another.”

  “Enough of your foolishness!” the King snapped. “I am the one who sacrificed for our child!” He indicated the ruin of his face, the glimmer of white bone where flesh should be. “Your children were and always have been nothing but ornaments to your vanity!”

  The Queen screamed something in a language Emma didn’t understand and flung herself at the King, drawing a jeweled dagger from her bodice.

  “Guards!” the King shouted. “Kill her!”

  But the redcaps had frozen, staring in shock at the Queen as she brought the dagger down. The King threw up an arm to defend himself. He roared in pain as the knife sank into his shoulder, and blood splattered the ground below the throne.

  It seemed to spur the redcaps into action. They raced forward to seize the Queen, who turned on them in fury. Even the Riders were staring.

  “Now,” Adaon said.

  He moved lightning fast, flinging the swords he held into the eager hands of the Shadowhunters who surrounded him. Emma caught one out of the air and raced toward Mark and Kieran, Julian and Cristina on either side of her.

  Her nerves caught fire as the redcaps, realizing what was going on, rushed at the advancing Nephilim. She had hated every moment of standing still; as one redcap lunged at her she leaped for the nearest boulder, caromed off it, and used the force of her rebound to sever another’s head as she landed. Blood sprayed, blackish red.

  The King’s face suffused with blood as he saw what his son was doing. “Adaon!” he bellowed, the sound like a roar, but Adaon was already racing toward Mark and Kieran, knocking redcaps aside with savage blows from his broadsword.

  That’s right, Emma thought with a savage pleasure, every one of your sons hates you, King.

  She spun to engage another redcap, her blade clashing against his iron pikestaff. Jace and Clary were battling more redcaps. Julian and Cristina were behind Adaon, pushing toward Kieran and Mark, who were surrounded by guards.

  “Riders!” the King cried, spittle flying from his lips. “Stop him! Stop Adaon!”

  Eochaid sprang, leaping over the heads of a group of redcaps to land in front of Adaon. The prince’s broadsword moved with incredible speed, parrying Eochaid’s blade. Adaon shouted at Cristina and Julian to get to Mark and Kieran, and turned back to Eochaid just as Ethna strode up to them, her sword drawn.

  Emma ducked low, cutting at the redcap’s legs; she said a silent prayer of thanks for Isabelle’s bracelet, powering her blows as her own body weakened. The guard went down in a welter of blood as Jace raced to Adaon’s side. His sword slammed against Ethna’s with a ringing clang.

  And Emma remembered why she had always wanted to be Jace Herondale when she was a kid. His sword flew around him like sunlight dancing off water, and for several moments he drove Ethna back, while Adaon pressed Eochaid, driving him farther away from the throne and from Kieran and Mark.

  Clary leaped over a boulder, landing beside Emma; she was panting and her sword was drenched in blood. “We have to hold the redcaps off,” she said. “Come with me!”

  Emma darted after her, slashing at guards as she went. A group of redcaps including General Winter had surrounded Cristina and Julian, preventing them from getting near Kieran and Mark.

  Emma sprang for the rough wall of the throne room. She s
crambled up one-handed, looking down on the chaos below. The Queen and King were battling back and forth before the throne. Adaon and Jace were holding their own against the Riders, though Adaon had a long cut across one shoulder that was bleeding freely. And Clary was spinning, quick and fast, jabbing at the redcap guards and then darting back out of reach with startling swiftness.

  Emma flung herself off the wall, air rushing past her as she flipped and twisted, landing boots-first and sending Winter sprawling. The other redcaps rushed her and she swung her blade in an arc, slicing the tips from their pikestaffs. She sprang away from Winter and advanced on the other guards, her sword arcing in the air. “I slew Fal the Rider,” she said in her most menacing voice. “I will slay you, too.”

  They paled markedly. Several fell back, as behind them Julian and Cristina rushed to Mark and to Kieran. Julian hauled Mark to his feet, bringing his sword down to sever the chain that connected Mark’s wrists. They swung free, each one still bearing an iron wristband.

  Mark caught hold of his brother with his manacled arms and hugged him quickly, fiercely. Emma’s eyes prickled but there was no time to look at them; she spun and kicked and slashed, the world a chaos of silver and ice and blood.

  Emma heard Cristina call her name.

  Ice turned to fire. She ran toward the sound, leaping over toppled rocks, and found Cristina standing with a shattered blade in her hand. Kieran was still kneeling, pieces of the broken sword scattered around the chain that bound his wrists to the earth.

  “Emma, please—” Cristina began, but Emma was already bringing her blade down. It wasn’t Cortana, but it held; the chain shattered and Kieran leaped to his feet. Cristina seized him by the arm.

  “We must go,” she said, her eyes frantic. “I can use the artifact to return us—”

  “Call everyone to you,” Emma said. She pressed her sword into Cristina’s hand. “I need to get the copy of the Black Volume.”