“It doesn’t matter right now,” Cristina said fiercely. “You are not King yet. And if you ever are, we will find a way.”
Mark inclined his head, a faerie gesture. “As Cristina says. My heart goes with her words, Kieran.”
“I want to be with you both,” said Cristina. “I want to be able to kiss you both and hold you both. I want to be able to touch you both, sometimes at the same time, sometimes when we are just two. I want you to be able to kiss and hold each other because it makes you happy and I want you to be happy. I want us to be together, all three.”
“I think of each of you all the time. I long for you when you are not there.” The words seemed to burst from Kieran like undammed water. He touched Mark’s face with his long-boned fingers, light as the brush of wind on grass. He turned to Cristina next and, with his other hand, caressed her cheek. She could feel that he was shaking; she put her hand over his, pressing it to her face. “I have never wanted anything so desperately as this.”
Mark placed his own hand over Kieran’s. “I too. I believe in this, in us. Love wakens love, faith wakens faith.” He smiled at Cristina. “All this time we were waiting for you. We loved each other, and it was a great thing, but with you, it is even greater.”
“Kiss me, then,” Cristina whispered, and Mark pulled her close and kissed her warmly, then hotly. Kieran’s hands were on her back, in her hair; she leaned her head against him as he and Mark kissed over her shoulder, their bodies cradling hers, their hands linked in each other’s.
Kieran was smiling like his face would break; they were all kissing each other and laughing with happiness and touching each other’s faces with wondering fingers. “I love you,” Cristina said to both of them, and they said it back to her at the same time, their voices mingling so she was not sure who spoke first or last:
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
* * *
Kit had seen Lake Lyn before in pictures, the endless images of the Angel rising out of it with the Mortal Instruments that were inside every Shadowhunter building, on every wall and tapestry.
It was a different thing entirely in real life. It moved like an oil slick under the moonlight: The surface was silver-black but shot through with bursts of chromatic splendor, streaks of violet blue and hot red, ice green and bruise violet. For the first time, when Kit imagined the Angel Raziel, massive and blank-faced, rising out of the water, he felt a shiver of awe and fear.
Ty had set up his ceremonial circle by the edge of the lake, where the water lapped at a shallow sandy beach. It was actually two circles, one smaller within another larger, and in the border between the two circles Ty had etched dozens of runes with a pointed stick.
Kit had seen ceremonial circles before, often in his own living room. But how had Ty become an expert at making them? His circles were neater than Johnny’s had ever been, his etchings more careful. He wasn’t using Shadowhunter runes but a runic language that looked far spikier and more unpleasant. Was this where Ty had been all those times Kit had turned around to find him gone? Learning how to be a dark magician?
Ty had also set up their ingredients in neat rows beside him: the myrrh, the chalk, Livvy’s baby tooth, the letter from Thule.
Having placed the velvet bag containing a lock of Livvy’s hair carefully among the other objects, Ty looked up at Kit, who was standing close to the water’s edge. “Did I do it right?”
A wave of reluctance came over Kit; the last thing he wanted was to get close to the magic circle. “How would I know?”
“Well, your father was a magician; I thought he might have taught you some of this,” Ty said.
Kit kicked at the edge of the water; luminous sparks flew up. “Actually, my dad kind of kept me away from learning real spells. But I know a little.”
He scuffed across the beach toward Ty, who was sitting with his legs crossed on the sand. Kit had often thought night and darkness seemed like Ty’s natural environment. He disliked direct sunlight and his pale skin looked as if it had never been burned. In moonlight, he shone like a star.
With a sigh, Kit pointed at the glowing red ball Ty had gotten from the Shadow Market. “The catalyst goes in the middle of the circle.”
Ty was already picking it up. “Come sit next to me,” he said. Kit knelt down as Ty started to place the objects into the ceremonial circle, murmuring in a low voice as he did so. He reached up, undid the chain of the locket, handed it to Kit. With a deep sense of dread, Kit placed the locket near the edge of the circle.
Ty began to chant more loudly. “Abyssus abyssum invocat in voce cataractarum tuarum; omnia excelsa tua et fluctus tui super me transierunt. Deep calls to deep in the voice of your waterfalls; all your whirlpools and waves have passed over me.”
As he chanted, one by one the objects in the circle caught fire, like fireworks going off in a row. They burned with a clean white blaze, without being consumed.
A strong wind started to blow off the lake: It smelled of loam and grave dirt. Kit started to hear a clamor of voices and twisted around, staring—was someone there? Had they been followed? But he saw no one. The beach was deserted.
“Do you hear that?” he whispered.
Ty only shook his head, still chanting. The lake shimmered, the water moving. Pale white figures rose from the dark water. Many were in gear, some in more old-fashioned armor. Their hair flowed down and around them, translucent in the moonlight. They reached their arms out toward him, toward Ty, who could not see them. Their lips moved silently.
This is really happening, Kit thought, chilled to the bone. Whatever tiny hope he’d had that this wouldn’t work had vanished. He turned to Ty, who was still chanting, spitting out the memorized words like machine-gun fire. “Hic mortui vivunt, hic mortui vivunt—”
“Ty, stop.” His hands shot out, grabbed Ty’s shoulders. He knew he shouldn’t—Ty didn’t like to be startled—but terror was fizzing in his blood like poison. “Ty, don’t do this.”
The Latin choked off midsentence: Ty stared at Kit, confused, his gray eyes darting from Kit’s collarbone to his face and back down again. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”
“Don’t do this. Don’t raise her from the dead.”
“But I have to,” Ty said. His voice sounded stretched, like a wire pulled taut. “I can’t live without Livvy.”
“Yes, you can,” Kit whispered. “You can. You think this will make your family stronger, but it will destroy them if you bring her back. You think you can’t survive without Livvy, but you can. We will go through it together.” Kit’s face was cold; he realized he was crying. “I love you, Ty. I love you.”
Ty’s face went blank with surprise. Kit plowed on, regardless, hardly knowing what he was saying.
“She’s gone, Ty. She’s gone forever. You have to get through this. Your family will help you. I will help you. But not if you do this. Not if you do this, Ty.”
The blankness was gone from Ty’s face. His mouth twisted, as if he were trying to hold in tears; Kit knew the feeling. He hated seeing it on Ty’s face. He hated everything that was happening.
“I have to get her back, Kit,” Ty whispered. “I have to.”
He pulled away from Kit’s grasp, turning back toward the circle, where the various objects were still burning. The air was full of the scent of char. “Ty!” Kit said, but Ty was already chanting Latin again, his hands outstretched to the circle.
“Igni ferroque, ex silentio, ex animo—”
Kit threw himself at Ty, knocking him onto the sand. Ty tumbled backward without a struggle, too surprised to defend himself; they rolled down the slight incline toward the water. They splashed into the shallows and Ty seemed to come back to life; he shoved at Kit, elbowing him hard in the throat. Kit coughed and let go; he grabbed for Ty again and Ty kicked at him. He could see that Ty was crying, but even crying, he was a better fighter than Kit was. Though Ty looked fragile as moonbeams, he was a Shadowhu
nter born and trained. He struggled free and darted up the sand toward the circle, thrusting his hand out to the fire.
“Ex silentio, ex animo!” he shouted, panting. “Livia Blackthorn! Resurget! Resurget! Resurget!”
The flame in the center of the circle turned black. Kit sank back on his heels, tasting blood in his mouth.
It was over. The spell was done.
The dark flames rose toward the sky. Ty stepped back, staring, as they roared upward. Kit, who had seen dark magic before, staggered to his feet. Anything could have gone wrong, he thought grimly. If they had to run, he’d knock Ty out with a rock and drag him away.
The water of the lake began to ripple. Both boys turned to look, and Kit realized the shimmering dead were gone. There was only one transparent figure now, rising out of the water, her hair long and streaming silver. The outline of her face, her eyes, came clear: her floating hair, the locket around her throat, the drifting white dress that didn’t seem like something Livvy would have chosen.
“Livvy,” Kit whispered.
Ty ran to the edge of the lake. He stumbled, fell to his knees at the waterline as Livvy’s ghost made its way toward them across the water, scattering luminous sparks.
She reached the banks of the lake. Her bare feet trailed in the glowing water. She looked down at Ty, her body transparent as a cloud, her expression unfathomably sad. “Why have you disquieted me?” she said in a voice as sorrowful as winter wind.
“Livvy,” Ty said. He reached a hand out, as if he could touch her. His fingers passed through the skirt of her dress.
“It’s not really her.” Kit wiped blood from his face. “She’s a ghost.”
Relief battled with misery in his chest: She wasn’t undead, but surely raising a ghost against its will wasn’t a good idea either.
“Why aren’t you here?” said Ty, his voice rising. “I did everything right. I did everything right.”
“The catalyst you used was corrupted. It wasn’t strong enough to fully bring me back,” Livvy said. “It might have other consequences as well. Ty—”
“But you can stay with me, right? You can stay with me like this?” Ty interrupted.
The outlines of Livvy’s body blurred as she swayed toward her brother. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes. That’s why I did all this,” Ty said. “I want you with me in any way you can be. You were there with me before I was born, Livvy. Without you, I just—there’s nothing if you aren’t there.”
There’s nothing if you aren’t there. Pity and despair ripped through Kit. He couldn’t hate Ty for this. But he would never mean anything to Ty and never had: That much was clear.
“I loved you, Ty, I loved you even when I was dead,” said Livvy’s ghost. “But you have upended the universe, and we will all pay for it. You’ve ripped a hole in the fabric of life and death. You don’t know what you’ve done.” Tears ran down Livvy’s face and splashed into the water: individual, glowing drops like sparks of fire. “You cannot borrow from death. You can only pay for it.”
She vanished.
“Livvy!” Ty didn’t scream the word so much as it was ripped from him; he curled up, hugging himself, as if desperate to keep his body from shattering apart.
Kit could hear Ty crying, awful dark sobs that sounded pulled out of him; an hour ago he would have moved Heaven to make it stop. Now he was unable to take a step, his own pain a searing agony that held him frozen in place. He looked up at the ceremonial circle; the flames were burning white again, and the objects inside were beginning to be consumed. The velvet bag turned to ash, the tooth blackened, the chalk and myrrh destroyed. Only the necklace still gleamed whole and unharmed.
As Kit watched, the letter from Thule caught fire and the words on the page flared up to burn a glowing black before vanishing:
I love you. I love you. I love you.
* * *
At the door of the Gard prison, Dru paused, picks in hand. She was breathing hard from her climb up the hill. She hadn’t taken the normal paths, but crept through the underbrush, staying out of sight. Her wrists and ankles were torn from the whiplash scratches of branches and thorns.
She barely felt the pain. Now was the moment of reckoning. On the other side of this action there was no turning back. No matter how young she was, if Horace and the others prevailed and learned what she’d done, she’d be punished.
Julian’s voice echoed in her ears.
You are part of Livia’s Watch. Don’t forget it.
Livvy wouldn’t have hesitated, Dru knew. She would have hurtled forward, desperate to right any injustice she saw. She would never have held back. She would never have hesitated.
Livvy, this is for you, my sister.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
She went to work on the lock.
* * *
The entrance to the Silent City was just as Emma remembered it. A barely marked trail cut through a corner of Brocelind Forest, surrounded by thick greenery. It was clear that few passed this way, and rarely—her witchlight revealed a path almost unmarked by footsteps.
She could hear the twitter of night birds and the movement of small animals among the trees. But something was missing from Brocelind. It had always been a place where one might have expected to see the glint of will-o’-the-wisps among the leaves or hear the crackle of a campfire around which werewolves were gathered. There was something very present about its current silence, something that made Emma walk with extra care.
The trees grew together more thickly as she reached the mountainside and found the door in among the rocks. It looked just as it had three years ago: pointed at the top and carved with a bas-relief of an angel. A heavy brass knocker hung from the wood.
Acting mostly on instinct, Emma reached behind her and drew the Mortal Sword from its scabbard. It had a weight in her hand that no other sword, not even Cortana, had, and it gleamed in the night as if it emitted its own light.
She had taken it from Julian’s tent where it had been hidden beneath the bedroll, wrapped in a velvet cloth. She had replaced it with another sword. It wouldn’t pass close examination, but he had no reason to be racing to the tent every five minutes to check on it. After all, the camp was guarded.
She placed her hand against the door. Brother Shadrach’s message had said that the Silent City would be empty tonight, the Silent Brothers serving as guards on the city walls the night before the parley. And still the door seemed to pulse against her palm, as if it beat like a heart.
“I am Emma Carstairs, and I bear the Mortal Sword,” she said. “Open in the name of Maellartach.”
For an agonizingly long moment, nothing happened. Emma began to panic. Maybe the Mortal Sword of Thule was different, somehow, its atoms too altered, its magic alien.
The door opened all at once, soundlessly, like a mouth yawning open. Emma slipped inside, glancing once over her shoulder at the silent forest.
The door slid shut behind her with the same silence, and Emma found herself in a narrow, smooth-walled passage that led to a staircase going down. Her witchlight seemed to bounce off the marble walls as she descended, feeling as if she were passing through memory. The Silent City in Thule, empty and abandoned. Circles of fire in rooms of bones as she sealed her parabatai ritual with Julian. Her greatest mistake. The one that had ended with this journey.
She shivered as she came out into the main part of the City, where the walls were lined in skulls and femurs and delicate chandeliers of bones hung from the ceiling. At least in Thule, she hadn’t been alone.
At last she entered the room of the Speaking Stars. It was just as it had been in her dream. The floor glimmered like the night sky turned upside down, the stars curving in a parabola before the basalt table where the Silent Brothers sat when in session. The table was bare, and no Sword hung behind it in its usual place.
Emma stepped onto the stars, her boots clanking softly against the marble. In her dream, the floor had simply opened. Now, nothing happe
ned. She rubbed at her exhausted eyes with her knuckles, feeling inside herself for the instinct that had guided her in opening the door of the City.
I am a parabatai, she thought. The magic that binds me to Julian is woven into this place, into the fabric of Nephilim. Hesitantly, she touched a finger to the blade of the Mortal Sword. Ran her fingertip down it gently, letting her memory fall back to that moment she had stood in the fire with Julian—thy people shall be my people, thy God my God—
A bead of blood formed on her fingertip and splashed down onto the marble at her feet. There was a click, and the floor, which had appeared seamless, opened and slid back, revealing a black gap below it.
In that gap was a tablet. She could see it far more clearly than she had in her dream. It was made of white basalt, and on it was a parabatai rune painted in blood so ancient that the blood itself had long dissolved, leaving behind only a red-brown stain in the shape of the rune.
Emma’s breath caught in her throat. Despite everything, being in the presence of something so old and so powerful caught at her heart. Feeling as if she were choking, she raised the Sword in her hands, the tip of the blade pointed downward.
She could see herself doing it, driving the Sword down, splitting the tablet apart. She imagined the sound of it breaking. It would be the sound of hearts breaking, all over the world, as parabatai were cut apart. She imagined them reaching for each other in uncomprehending horror—Jace and Alec, Clary and Simon.
The pain that Julian would feel.
She began to sob silently. She would be an exile, a pariah, cast out like Cain. She imagined Clary and the others turning from her with looks of loathing. You couldn’t hurt people like that and be forgiven.
But she thought again of Diana in Thule. Their runes began to burn like fire, as if they had fire in their veins instead of blood. People said that the blades of those who fought them shattered in their hands. Black lines spread over their bodies and they became monstrous—physically monstrous. I never saw it happen, mind you—I heard this all thirdhand. Stories about ruthless, massive shining creatures, tearing cities apart. Sebastian had to release thousands of demons to take them down. A lot of mundanes and Shadowhunters died.
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