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

by Cassandra Clare

  “There could be another King, another prince of Faerie who is worthy,” said Mark. “It could be you.”

  “You forget what I saw in the pool,” Kieran said. “The way I hurt people. The way I hurt you. I should not be King.”

  “Kieran, you have become a different person, and so have I,” Mark said. He could almost hear Cristina’s voice in the back of his mind, the soft way she had always defended Kieran—never excusing, only understanding. Explaining. “We were desperate in the Hunt, and desperation can make people unkind. But you have changed—I have seen you change, even before you touched the waters of the pool. I have seen how kind you were when you lived in your father’s Court, and how you were loved because of it, and while the Wild Hunt cloaked that kindness, it did not erase it. You have been only good to me, to my family, to Cristina, since you returned from the Scholomance.”

  “The pool—”

  “It is not only the pool,” said Mark. “The pool helped to uncover what was already there. You understand what it means for another to suffer and that their pain is no different from your own. Most kings never understand such a thing as true empathy. Think what it would be like, to have a ruler who did.”

  “I do not know if I have that faith in myself.” Kieran spoke quietly, his voice as hushed as the wind across the desert.

  “I have that faith in you,” said Mark.

  At that, Kieran turned fully to Mark. His expression was open, the way Mark had not seen it in a long time, an expression that hid nothing—not his fear, nor his uncertainty, nor the transparency of his love. “I didn’t know—I feared I had broken your faith in me and with it the bond between us.”

  “Kier,” Mark said, and he saw Kieran shiver at the use of that old nickname. “Today you stood up and offered all your powers as a prince and faerie to save my family. How can you not know how I feel?”

  Kieran was staring at his own hand, where it hovered at the edge of Mark’s shirt collar. He gazed as if hypnotized at the place where their skin touched, his fingers against Mark’s collarbone, sliding up to brush his throat, the side of his jaw. “You mean you are grateful?”

  Mark caught Kieran’s hand, brought it to his chest, and pressed Kieran’s open palm against his hammering heart. “Does that feel like gratitude?”

  Kieran looked at him with wide eyes. And Mark was back in the Hunt again, he was on a green hill in the rain, with Kieran’s arms around him. Love me. Show me.

  “Kieran,” Mark breathed, and kissed him, and Kieran gave a small harsh cry and caught Mark by the sleeves, pulling him close. Mark’s arms hooked around Kieran’s neck, drawing him down into the kiss: Their mouths slid together and Mark tasted their shared breath, an elixir of heat and yearning.

  Kieran pulled back from the kiss at last. He was grinning, the wickedly joyous grin Mark suspected no one else ever saw but him. Holding Mark by the arms, he walked him back several paces until Mark fetched up against the side of a boulder. Kieran leaned into him, his mouth against Mark’s throat, his lips finding the hammering pulse point and sucking gently at it until Mark gasped and buried his hands in Kieran’s silky hair.

  “You are killing me,” Mark said, laughter bubbling up softly from the depths of his chest.

  Kieran chuckled, his hands moving to slip under Mark’s shirt, caress his back, skate over the scars on his shoulder blades. And Mark answered his touch. He stroked his fingers through Kieran’s hair, caressed his face as if mapping the curves of it, let his fingers stray to touch the skin he remembered like the substance of a dream: Kieran’s sensitive throat, collarbone, wrists, the beautiful and unforgotten terrain of what he had thought was lost. Kieran breathed in harsh low moans as Mark slid his hands under the prince’s shirt, stroking his uncovered skin, the silk-hardness of his flat stomach, the curves of his rib cage.

  “My Mark,” Kieran whispered, touching Mark’s hair, his cheek. “I adore you.”

  Te adoro, Mark.

  Mark’s skin went cold; it all seemed suddenly wrong. He dropped his hands abruptly and slid away from Kieran. He felt as if he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

  “Cristina,” he said.

  “Cristina is not what keeps us apart,” said Kieran. “She is what brings us together. All that we have said, all the ways we have changed—”

  “Cristina,” Mark said again, clearing his throat, because she was standing just in front of them.

  * * *

  Cristina felt as if her face might actually catch on fire. She had come out to tell Mark and Kieran that she and Aline were prepared to take over on watch, without even once thinking that she might be interrupting them in a private moment.

  When she had come around the boulder, she had frozen—it had reminded her so much of the first time she had seen them together. Kieran leaning against Mark, their bodies together, their hands in each other’s hair, kissing as if they could never stop.

  I am an awful idiot, she thought. They were both looking at her now: Mark seemed stricken, Kieran oddly calm.

  “I’m so sorry,” Cristina said. “I only came out to tell you that your watch was ending, but—I—I will go.”

  “Cristina,” Mark said, starting toward her.

  “Don’t go,” Kieran said. It was a demand, not a request: There was a rich darkness in his voice, a depth of yearning. And though Cristina had no reason to listen, she turned slowly to look at them both.

  “I really think,” she said, “that I probably ought to. Don’t you?”

  “I was recently given a piece of advice by a wise person not to remain silent about what I wished for,” said Kieran. “I desire you and love you, Cristina, and so does Mark. Stay with us.”

  Cristina couldn’t move. She thought again of the first time she’d seen Mark and Kieran together. The desire she’d felt. She’d thought at the time she wanted something like what they had: that she wanted that passion for herself and some unnamed boy whose face she didn’t know.

  But it had been a long time since any face in her dreams had not been either Mark’s or Kieran’s. Since she had imagined any eyes looking into hers that were both the same color. She had not wanted some vague approximation of what they had: She had wanted them.

  She looked at Mark, who seemed pinned between hope and terror. “Kieran,” he said. His voice shook. “How can you ask her that? She’s not a faerie, she’ll never talk to us again—”

  “But you will leave me,” she said, hearing her own voice as if it were a stranger’s. “You love each other and belong together. You will leave me and go back to Faerie.”

  They looked at her with expressions of identical shock. “We will never leave you,” said Mark.

  “We will stay as close to you as the tide to the shore,” said Kieran. “Neither of us wishes for anything else.” He reached out a hand. “Please believe us, Lady of Roses.”

  The few steps across the sand and scrub grass were the longest and shortest Cristina had ever taken. Kieran stretched out both arms: Cristina went into them and lifted up her face and kissed him.

  Heat and sweetness and the curve of his lips under hers nearly lifted her off her feet. He was smiling against her mouth. Saying her name. His hand on her side, thumb gently caressing the inward dip of her waist.

  She leaned into him and reached out with her free hand. Mark’s warm fingers closed around her wrist. As if she were a princess, he kissed the back of her fingers, brushing his lips across her knuckles.

  Her heart was beating triple time as she turned in Kieran’s arms, her back to him. He drew her hair away from the nape of her neck and pressed a kiss there, making her shiver as she reached out to Mark. His eyes glittered blue and gold, alive with desire for her, for Kieran, for the three of them together.

  He let her draw him in and they tangled together as one. Mark kissed her lips as she leaned back against Kieran’s chest, Kieran’s hand in Mark’s hair, trailing down Mark’s cheek to trace the line of his collarbone. She had never felt such love; she had never been
held so very close.

  A great clamor burst out in the sky above them—a clamor they all knew, though Kieran and Mark knew it best.

  They drew apart quickly as the air rushed around them: The sky swirled with movement. Manes and tails whipped in the wind, eyes glowed a thousand colors, warriors roared and shouted, and at the center of it all was a great black brindle horse with a man and woman seated on its back, pausing to look down at the earth below as the sound of a hunting horn faded on the air.

  Gwyn and Diana had returned, and they were not alone.

  * * *

  Julian had always thought his studio—which had been his mother’s—was the most beautiful room in the Institute. You could see everything through the two glass walls: ocean and desert; the other walls were creamy and bright with his mother’s abstract paintings.

  He could see it now, but he couldn’t feel it. Whatever feeling it was that looking at beauty had always raised in his artist’s soul was gone.

  Without feeling, he thought, I am dissolving, like royal water dissolves gold. He knew it, but he couldn’t feel that, either.

  To know you were despairing but not to be able to feel that despair was a strange experience. He looked at the paints he’d arranged around the plain white cloth stretched over the central island. Blue and gold, red and black. He knew what he ought to shape with them, but when he picked up the brush, he only hesitated.

  Everything instinctual about drawing had left him, everything that told him what would make one curve of the paintbrush better than another, everything that matched shades of color to shades of meaning. Blue was just blue. Green was green, whether light or dark. Blood red and stoplight red were the same.

  Emma is avoiding me, he thought. The thought didn’t bring pain, because nothing did. It was just a fact. He remembered the desire he had felt in her room the night before and set his paintbrush down. It was strange to think of desire as divorced from feeling: He had never desired anyone he hadn’t already loved. Never desired anyone but Emma.

  But the night before, with her in his arms, he had felt almost as if he could break through the dullness that surrounded him, that choked him with its nothingness; as if the blaze of wanting her could burn it down and he would be free.

  It was better that she did avoid him. Even in this state, his need for her was too strange, and too strong.

  Something flashed past the glass of the studio window. He went to look out and saw that Gwyn and Diana were on the lawn and that several of the others surrounded them: Cristina, Mark, Kieran. Gwyn was handing a glass jar to Alec, who took it and went running back toward the Institute, flying across the grass like one of his own arrows. Dru was dancing up and down with Tavvy, spinning in circles. Emma hugged Cristina and then Mark. Gwyn had an arm around Diana, who was leaning her head on his shoulder.

  Relief washed through Julian, brief and cool as a splash of water. He knew he should feel more, that he should feel joy. He saw Ty and Kit standing a little apart from the others; Ty had his head tipped back, as he often did, and was pointing at the stars.

  Julian looked up as the sky darkened with a hundred airborne riders.

  * * *

  Mark could not help but be conscious of Kieran’s tension as the Wild Hunt began to land all around them, alighting on the grass like dandelion seeds blown by the wind.

  He could not blame him. Mark himself felt dizzy with shock and the aftereffects of desire—already those moments with Cristina and Kieran by the boulder seemed like a fever dream. Had it happened? It must have—Cristina was smoothing down her hair with quick, nervous movements, her lips still red from kissing. Mark checked his own clothes quickly. He no longer had faith that he had not ripped off his own shirt and cast it into the desert with the announcement that he would never need shirts again. Anything seemed possible.

  Kieran, though, had drawn himself up, his face a mask Mark knew well—it was the look he had always worn when the rest of the Hunt mocked him and called him princeling. Later he had won their respect and been able to protect both himself and Mark, but he had had no friends in the Hunt besides Mark—and perhaps Gwyn, in his own odd way.

  Mark, though, had never won their respect. Or so he had always thought. As he gazed around the group of silent Hunters on their steeds, some faces familiar and some new, he saw that they regarded him differently. There was no contempt in their eyes as they noted the fresh Marks on his arms, the gear he wore, and the weapons belt at his waist, bristling with seraph blades.

  The riotous celebration that had followed the arrival of Gwyn and Diana had quieted down upon the arrival of the Hunt. Helen had taken Dru and Tavvy and marched them back to the house, over their protests. Diana slid from Orion’s back and went to stand beside Kit and Ty as Emma headed back to the Institute with Aline to see if they could help Alec.

  Gwyn dismounted, removing his helmet as he did so. To Mark’s astonishment, he inclined his head to Kieran. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Gwyn bow his head to anyone before.

  “Gwyn,” said Kieran. “Why have you brought all the Hunt here? I thought they were delivering the water.”

  “They wished to acknowledge you before they left upon their mission,” said Gwyn.

  One of the Hunt, a tall man with an impassive, scarred face, bowed from his saddle. “We have done your will,” he said. “Liege lord.”

  Kieran blanched.

  “Liege lord?” echoed Cristina, clearly stunned.

  Diana touched Gwyn lightly on the shoulder and strode back toward the Institute. Mark’s head was spinning: “Liege” was what the Hunt often called a monarch, a King or Queen of Faerie. Not a mere prince, and not one sworn to the Hunt.

  Kieran inclined his head, at last. “My thanks,” he said. “I will not forget this.”

  That seemed to satisfy the Hunt; they turned their horses and took to the air, bursting up into the sky like fireworks. Ty and Kit ran to the edge of the clearing to watch them as they hurtled across the sky, riders and steeds blurring into the same silhouettes. Their hooves churned the air, and a deep boom of thunder sounded across the beaches and coves.

  Kieran turned to stare at Gwyn. “What was that?” he demanded. “What are you doing, Gwyn?”

  “Your mad brother Oban sits upon the throne of Unseelie,” said Gwyn. “He drinks, he whores, he makes no laws. He demands loyalty. He musters an army to bring to his parley with the Cohort, though his advisers warn against it.”

  “Where is my brother?” said Kieran. “Where is Adaon?”

  Gwyn looked uneasy. “Adaon is weak,” he said. “And he is not the one who slew the King. He has not earned the throne.”

  “You would put a Hunter on the throne,” said Kieran. “A friend to your causes.”

  “Perhaps,” said Gwyn. “But regardless of what I want, Adaon is a prisoner in Seelie. Kieran, there will be a battle. There is no avoiding it. You must take the mantle of leadership from Oban as all look on.”

  “Take the mantle of leadership?” said Mark. “Is that a euphemism?”

  “Yes,” said Gwyn.

  “You can’t honestly be telling him to kill his brother in the middle of a battle,” said Cristina, looking furious.

  “Kieran killed his father in the middle of a battle,” said Gwyn. “I should think he could do this. There is hardly family feeling between Kieran and Oban.”

  “Stop!” Kieran said. “I can speak for myself. I will not do it, Gwyn. I am not fit to be King.”

  “Not fit?” Gwyn demanded. “The best of my Hunters? Kieran—”

  “Leave him be, Gwyn,” Mark said. “It is his choice alone.”

  Gwyn placed his helmet on his head and swung himself onto Orion’s back. “I am not asking you to do this because it is the best thing for you, Kieran,” he said, looking down from the horse’s back. “I am asking you because it is the best thing for Faerie.”

  Orion sprang into the air. In the distance, Ty and Kit gave a small cheer, waving at Gwyn from the ground.

&
nbsp; “Gwyn has gone mad,” said Kieran. “I am not the best thing for any place.”

  Before Mark could reply, Cristina’s phone beeped. She picked it up and said, “It’s Emma. Magnus is recovering.” She smiled all over her face, bright as a star. “The lake water is working.”

  25

  BY LIFTING WINDS

  Sunlight poured into the library through every available window: They had all been flung open. It lay in squares on the floor and painted the table in bright stripes. It turned Mark’s and Helen’s hair to white gold, made Jace into a tousled bronze statue, and lit Magnus’s cat eyes to tourmaline as he sat curled on the couch, looking pale but energized and drinking Lake Lyn water out of a crystal vial with a brightly colored straw.

  He was leaning against Alec, who was grinning ear to ear and scolding Magnus to drink more water. Emma wouldn’t have thought it was possible to do both at once, but Alec was used to multitasking.

  “This water is making me drunk,” Magnus complained. “And it tastes awful.”

  “It contains no alcohol,” said Diana. She looked tired—not surprising, after her journey to and from Idris—but composed as always, in a tailored black dress. “It might have a slight hallucinatory effect, though.”

  “That explains why I can see seven of you,” Magnus said to Alec. “My ultimate fantasy.”

  Dru covered Tavvy’s ears, though Tavvy was playing with a Slinky Alec had given him and appeared deaf to the world.

  Magnus pointed. “That one of you over there is extremely attractive, Alexander.”

  “That’s a vase,” said Helen.

  Magnus squinted at it. “I’d be willing to buy it from you.”

  “Maybe later,” said Helen. “Right now we should all focus on what Diana has to tell us.”

  Diana took a sip of coffee. Emma had tea; everyone else was mainlining caffeine and sugar. Alec had gone out in a state of mad happiness and bought dozens of cinnamon rolls, doughnuts, and pies for breakfast. This had had the effect of getting everyone to rush at top speed to the library, including Kit and Ty. Even the most secretive fifteen-year-old boy wasn’t immune to glazed apple fritters.