Cristina tried to shove the sword back at Emma. “What? Where?”
But Emma was already running, kicking off the uneven floor to hurl herself at the steps to the throne. She heard the King bellow; she heard Julian cry out her name. She had reached the top of the steps. The throne loomed up before her, dark and granite, the printer-bound pages of the Black Volume resting on a great stone arm.
Emma seized the book and spun around just in time to hear Adaon cry out, a hoarse shout of pain. Eochaid had him trapped against the side of a massive boulder. The front of Adaon’s tunic was soaked with blood, and Eochaid’s sword kissed his throat.
“Shall I slay him, King?” Eochaid said in a gloating voice. Most of the bystanders in the room had frozen. Cristina had her hand over her mouth; she was the one who had brought Adaon here, after all. Even the redcaps were staring. “Your traitor son? Shall I end his life?”
The Queen began to laugh. Redcaps had caught her by the arms, but she was still smiling her strange, catlike smile. “Oh, my lord,” she said. “Is there a one of your sons that does not hate your name?”
The King bared his teeth. “Cut his throat,” he said to Eochaid.
Adaon’s muscles tensed. Emma’s brain worked frantically—she saw Kieran start forward, but there was no way he could reach Adaon in time—Eochaid raised his blade like an executioner, his other arm braced against Adaon’s chest—
There was a horrible choking cry. Adaon, Emma thought wildly, stumbling down the steps, but no, Eochaid was turning away from his captive, his sword still raised, his face contorted in surprise.
The King was sinking to his knees, blood running freely down the front of his rich doublet. Kieran’s hand was still raised in the air. Something protruded from the King’s throat—a sliver of what looked almost like glass. . . .
The elf-bolt arrowhead, Emma realized with a start. Kieran had flung his necklace at the King with incredible force.
Eochaid and Ethna rushed toward the King, their gleaming swords in hand, their faces pictures of dismay. Adaon, too, walked toward his father. Kieran did not move. He was leaning heavily on Cristina’s shoulder, his face expressionless.
Kneeling, the King clawed at his throat. To Emma’s shock, he seemed to be weakening—his hand scrabbled at the embedded elf-bolt, and then fell to his side, hanging uselessly.
Adaon looked down at him. “Father,” he said in a low voice. “Forgive me.”
Ethna’s face contorted into a mask. Jace and Clary, both bloody and filthy, were staring in amazement. Distantly, Emma knew she was seeing something remarkable. The dying of a King who had ruled for a thousand years.
Ethna whirled to glare at Kieran. “Kinslayer!” she cried. “Patricide!”
“He was trying to save Adaon!” Mark shouted back. “Are you blind, Rider?”
“Because he wants to be King,” snarled Eochaid. “Because he wants the throne!”
The Queen began to laugh. She drew free of the redcaps who had held her as if their touch were no more than spiderwebs, though several fell screaming to the floor, their palms burned and blackened, their fingers snapped.
“Already they scavenge for your throne like dogs worrying at a bone,” she said to the King, as blood ran out of the corners of his mouth and his eyes rolled up to the whites.
She seized Adaon by the arm. He cried out in shock and pain; the Queen’s hair whipped around them both as she grinned down at the King.
“You took my son,” she said. “Now I take yours.”
She vanished, and Adaon vanished with her. The King gave a cry and fell to the ground, scrabbling at the earth with gauntleted hands. His crown tumbled from his head and struck the stone floor as he choked out garbled words. Perhaps he was trying to say the Queen’s name, perhaps Adaon’s. Perhaps even Kieran’s. Emma would never know. The King’s body stiffened and slumped, and both Eochaid and Ethna cried out.
He had gone still. But his blood continued to run out around him, snaking across the floor in rivulets. The redcaps were scrambling back from the King’s body, their faces masks of horror.
Winter lowered the pikestaff he had been aiming at Emma. “The King is dead! King Arawn is dead!” he cried, and Emma realized it must be true: It was safe to speak the King’s true name now that he was no longer alive.
The redcaps fled—save Winter, who held his ground—pouring out of the throne room in a river of crimson. Cristina was shouting for the other Shadowhunters; she held Mark by one hand, and he gripped a stunned-looking Kieran. Jace and Clary were scrambling over a pile of boulders to get to them. Julian was only yards away; Emma began to run as the King’s body burst into flames.
She cast one look back over her shoulder. The King was burning and so was the ground everywhere his blood had spilled—small fires and larger ones, burning fierce and hot, consuming the stone floor as if it were kindling. The King’s body had already vanished behind a sheet of flames.
A figure reared up out of the smoke, cutting Emma off.
It was Ethna. She gleamed all over like a weapon, her bronze armor unsmudged, her metallic eyes gleaming with bloodlust. “My oath to the King died with him,” she said, baring her teeth. “Your life is forfeit now, murderer!”
She lunged at Emma. Emma’s sword was gone; she flung up the copy of the Black Volume, and Ethna’s sword plunged into it. Ethna flung it aside in disgust; the shredded remains of the book landed on the burning ground, its pages bursting into flames.
Emma could hear Clary calling out to her, and the others, shouting for her to come quickly. She realized with a sinking heart that they must not be able to see her; they wouldn’t know she needed help, they wouldn’t know—
Ethna’s blade flew through the air, bronze cutting through smoke. Emma twisted aside and fell to the ground, rolling to avoid the slashing blows that followed. Each time Ethna’s blade barely missed her, it cut a deep gouge into the stone floor.
It was getting harder for Emma to breathe. She scrambled to her knees, only to have Ethna plant a booted foot in her shoulder. She shoved, and Emma sprawled backward, hitting the ground hard.
“Die on your back, bitch,” Ethna said, raising her sword high.
Emma flung her hands out as if they could ward off the blade. Ethna laughed, swung down—
And toppled sideways. Emma scrambled upright, choking on smoke and disbelief.
Julian.
He had thrown himself onto Ethna and was kneeling on her back, stabbing her over and over with something clutched in his fist. Emma realized with a shock that it was the iron figurine that Simon had given to him. Ethna was screaming, trying to writhe away from the iron. Emma whirled around: The room was blazing with fire, the boulders glowing like red-hot coals. Hot pain stabbed her side; a coal had landed on the sleeve of her jacket. She yanked it off furiously and stomped on it, putting the fire out. Sorry, Clary.
She thought she could still see the dim figures of the others through the smoke. The surface of the Portal seemed to ripple like melting glass.
“Julian!” she screamed, and held out her hand. “Leave her! We have to get to the others!”
He looked up, his eyes wild with rage, and Ethna wrenched away from him with a yelp of anger and pain. Julian landed on his feet, already racing toward Emma. Together they fled toward the sound of Cristina’s voice, rising and desperate, shouting their names. Emma thought she could hear Mark, too, and the others—
A sheet of flame blazed up from the ground, knocking them backward. They swung around, looking for a way around it, and Emma gasped: Ethna and Eochaid were striding toward them, Ethna bloodied and glaring, Eochaid gleaming and deadly.
The Riders were at the heart of their power. Emma and Julian were starving, exhausted, and weakened. Emma’s heart sank.
“Cristina!” she screamed. “Go! Go! Get out of here!”
Julian caught hold of her wrist. “There’s only one way.”
His eyes flicked toward the wall—she tensed, then nodded—and the two o
f them took off running, just as the Riders began to raise their blades.
Emma heard them cry out in confusion and disappointed bloodlust. She didn’t care; the Portal was looming up in front of her like the dark window of a high-rise building, all shadow and gleam.
She reached it and leaped, Julian’s hand in hers, and together they sailed through the Portal.
* * *
Diego wasn’t sure how long he’d been in the barren stone cell. There were no windows, no sense of time passing. He knew Rayan and Divya were in the same prison, but the thick stone walls of the cells kept them from being able to shout or call to each other.
It was almost a relief when there were footsteps in the corridor and—instead of the usual guard who came twice a day with a plate of bland food—Zara appeared, resplendent in Centurion gear. He would have thought she would be smirking, but she was oddly expressionless. Cortana was strapped to her side, and she caressed its hilt absently as she looked at him through the bars, as if she were stroking the head of a dog.
“My dear fiancé,” she said. “How are you finding the accommodations? Not too cold and unwelcoming?”
He said nothing. The rune of Quietude the Cohort had put on him had been removed almost immediately after the meeting, but that didn’t mean he had anything to talk to Zara about.
“And to think,” she went on. “If you’d played your cards a little differently, you might have been living in the Gard tower with me.”
“And that wouldn’t have been cold and unwelcoming?” spat Diego. “Living with someone I hate?”
She flinched a little. Diego was surprised. Surely she knew they hated each other?
“You have no right or reason to hate me,” she said. “I’m the one who was betrayed. You were a convenient marriage prospect. Now you’re a traitor. It would shame me to marry you.”
Diego let his head fall back against the wall. “Good,” he said wearily. “You have taken everything from me. At least I no longer have to pretend to love you.”
Her lips tightened. “I know you never intended to go through with the marriage. You were just trying to buy time for your vigilante brother. Still—I’ll make you a deal. You claim Jaime still has the faerie artifact. We want it. It should be in government hands.” Her lips twisted into an ugly smirk. “If you tell us where to find it, I’ll pardon you.”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea,” said Diego. “And carrying that sword around won’t make you Emma Carstairs.”
She glared at him. “You shouldn’t have said that. Or the thing about how I’ve taken everything from you already. You still have a lot left to lose.” She turned her head. “Milo? Bring the second prisoner forward.”
There was a blur of movement in the shadowy corridor, and the cell door opened. Diego strained forward as a dark figure was hurled into the cell alongside him.
Milo slammed the door shut and locked it as the new arrival groaned and sat up. Diego’s heart turned over in his chest. Even bruised and bloody, with his lip cut and a burn scar on his cheek, he would recognize his younger brother anywhere.
“Jaime,” he breathed.
“He seems to know no more about the artifact than you do,” said Zara. “But then, without the Mortal Sword, we can’t make him tell the truth. So we have to fall back on more old-fashioned methods of dealing with liars and traitors.” She traced the hilt of Cortana with loving fingertips. “I’m sure you know what I mean.”
“Jaime,” Diego said again. The ceiling was too low for him to stand up; he crawled across the floor to his brother, pulling Jaime against him.
Jaime, half-conscious, lolled against his shoulder, his eyes almost slitted shut. His clothes were torn and wet with blood. Diego felt a cold fear at his heart: What wounds lay underneath?
“Hola, hermano,” Jaime whispered.
“During his discussions with the Inquisitor about the location of the artifact, your brother became overexcited. He needed to be subdued.” Now Zara did smile. “The guards accidentally, shall we say, injured him. It would be a shame if his injuries were to become infected or if he were to die because he lacked proper medical care.”
“Give me a stele,” hissed Diego. He had never hated anyone more than he hated Zara in that moment. “He needs an iratze.”
“Give me the artifact,” said Zara. “And he can have one.”
Diego said nothing. He had no idea where the Eternidad was, the heirloom that Jaime had suffered so much to protect. He held his brother tighter, his lips pressed together. He would not beg Zara for mercy.
“No?” she preened. “As you like. Perhaps when your brother is screaming with fever you will feel differently. Call upon me, Diego dear, if you ever change your mind.”
* * *
Manuel strode into the throne room, smirking, Oban on his heels.
Manuel couldn’t help the smirking; as he sometimes told people, it was just the natural expression of his face. It was true that he also liked chaos, though, and right now, there was chaos aplenty to please him.
The throne room looked charred, the rock walls and floor smeared with black ash. The place reeked of blood and sulfur. Bodies of redcaps were strewn on the floor, one covered by an expensive-looking tapestry. On a far wall, the shrinking Portal showed a beach at night, under a red moon.
Oban clicked his tongue, which Manuel had learned was the faerie equivalent of letting out a low whistle. “What happened in here? It looks like the aftermath of one of my more famous parties.”
Manuel poked at the tapestry-covered mound with his toe.
“And the fields outside are full of fleeing Seelie fey, now that their Queen is gone,” Oban went on. “Manuel, I demand an explanation. Where is my father?”
Winter, the somber redcap leader, came over to them. He was streaked with blood and ash. “Prince,” he said. “Your father lies here.”
He indicated the mound Manuel was poking with his toe. Manuel bent over and yanked the tapestry back. The thing beneath did not look human, or fey, or as if it had ever lived at all. It was the blackened, crumbling outline of a man drawn in ash, its face a rictus. Something gleamed at its throat.
Manuel knelt to take it. An etched glass vial of scarlet liquid. Interesting. He placed it in his jacket pocket.
“What’s that?” said Oban. For a moment Manuel felt a spark of worry that Oban had chosen to take an interest in something important. Fortunately, it was not the case—Oban had caught sight of a gleaming elf-bolt necklace among his father’s remains. He bent to grab the shining thing, letting it dangle from his fingers. “Kieran?” he said incredulously. “Kieran killed our father?”
“Does it matter?” said Manuel in a low voice. “The old man is dead. That is good news.”
It was indeed. The previous King had been an uneasy ally, if one could call him an ally at all. Though the Cohort had helped him spread the blight in Idris and that had pleased him, he had never trusted them or interested himself in their greater plans. Nor had he warned them of his intention to seize the Black Volume, an event which had irritated Horace greatly.
Oban would be different. He would trust those who had put him in power.
He was a fool.
“It might give Kieran claim to the throne if it were known,” said Oban, his slack, handsome face darkening. “Who saw the King slain? What of Kieran’s Nephilim companions?”
“My redcaps saw, but they will not speak,” said Winter as Oban moved to the throne. The King’s crown rested on its seat, gleaming dully. “Prince Kieran has fled with most of the Nephilim to the human world.”
Oban’s face tightened. “Where he might brag of slaying our father?”
“I don’t think he will do that,” said General Winter. A look of relief crossed Oban’s face. He did tend to respond like putty to anyone in authority, Manuel thought. “He seems to love dearly those Nephilim he has befriended, and they him. I do not think he wants the throne, or would endanger them.”
“We will keep a watch out,”
said Oban. “Where is Adaon?”
“Adaon was taken prisoner by the Seelie Queen.”
“Adaon taken prisoner?” asked Oban, and when Winter nodded, he laughed and tumbled into the throne’s seat. “And what of the Queen’s son, the brat?”
“Gone with the undead witch, through the Portal,” said Winter. “It does not seem likely they will survive long.”
“Well, the kingdom cannot go on without a ruler. It seems my destiny has found me.” Oban handed the crown to Winter. “Crown me.”
With the death of the King, the Portal was disappearing. It was now the size of a porthole on a boat. Through the small circle, Manuel could see a dead city, ruined towers and broken roads. Something lay in a heap on the floor near the Portal, among the signs of a fight. Manuel stopped to pick it up; it was a bloody jean jacket.
He frowned, turning it over in his hands. It was a small jacket, a girl’s, slashed and bloody, one sleeve partially burned. He slipped his fingers into the breast pocket and withdrew a ring stamped with butterflies.
Fairchild.
Manuel returned to Oban just as Winter placed the crown on the prince’s head, looking extremely uncomfortable.
Manuel shook the jacket in Winter’s direction. “You said most of the Nephilim returned to the human world. What happened to the girl who wore this? The girl and the boy, the Nephilim prisoners?”
“They went through the Portal.” Winter gestured toward it. “They are as good as dead. That land is poison, especially to those such as they.” He stepped back from Oban. “You are King now, sire.”
Oban touched the crown on his head and laughed. “Bring wine, Winter! I am parched! Empty the cellars! The most beautiful maidens and youths of the Court, bring them to me! Today is a great day!”
Manuel smiled down at the bloody jacket. “Yes. Today is indeed a day for celebration.”
PART TWO
Thule
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Queen of Air and Darkness (The Dark Artifices #3) Page 37