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

by Cassandra Clare

  “Emma,” Julian said. “Are you ready?”

  She looked at him. For a moment it was as if no one was there but the two of them, as if they faced each other across the floor of the parabatai chamber in the Silent City, the connection between them shimmering with its force. Julian’s face was pale above the black of his gear; his blue-green eyes burned as he looked at her. She knew what he was thinking. He had come this far, to the edge of where there was no turning back. He needed her to take the last step with him.

  She lifted her chin. “We choose to rise up,” she said, and, stepping onto the grass of the Fields, they began to march toward the walls of Alicante.

  * * *

  And the sky was full of angels.

  Dru stood by the side of the canal in front of the Graymark house, holding Tavvy’s hand. All through Alicante, Shadowhunters old and young lined the streets, gazing up at the sky.

  Dru had to admit that what Horace had done was impressive. It was like looking at a massive movie screen, an IMAX or something bigger. When they had first come out of the house, Maryse shooing Rafe and Max ahead of her, they’d stopped dead to gawk at the enormous square in the sky. All they’d been able to see then was the green of the Fields and a piece of gray-blue sky.

  Then Horace and Zara had come into the frame, striding across the grass, and because of the size of the Projection and the angle, they had looked like angels striding across the sky. Horace looked as he always had, with one marked difference: the sleeve covering his left arm hung empty from the elbow down.

  Zara had her hair loose, which was impractical for fighting but dramatic as a visual. She also had golden Cortana strapped to her side, which made Dru’s stomach turn.

  “That’s Emma’s sword,” Tavvy said crossly. Dru didn’t reprimand him. She felt no less annoyed.

  Horace and Zara were followed by a small group of guards—Vanessa Ashdown and Martin Gladstone among them—and a contingent of Centurions. Dru recognized some from the time they’d stayed at the Institute, like Mallory Bridgestock, Jessica Beausejours, and Timothy Rockford. Manuel wasn’t with them, though, which surprised her. He’d always struck her as someone who liked to be at the center of things.

  As they took their places on the field, Maryse shook her head and muttered something about Gladstone. She had been trying to corral Max and Rafe, neither of whom were interested in the dull sky-pictures, but now she looked at Horace and frowned. “The Circle all over again,” she said. “This is just how Valentine was—so sure of his own rightness. So sure it gave him the right to decide for others how they should believe.”

  An audible gasp ran through the watching Shadowhunters. Not a reaction to Maryse’s words—they were all staring upward. Dru craned her neck back and saw with a shock that the Unseelie Court army was now marching across the Fields toward the Cohort.

  They seemed vast, a countless array of faeries in the dusky livery of the King of Unseelie. Knights on horseback with spears of silver and bronze gleaming in the early light. Squat goblins with stern-looking axes; dryads with stout wooden staffs and kelpies gnashing their knife-sharp teeth. Marching at the front were redcaps in their blood-dyed uniforms, their iron boots ringing on the earth. They surrounded a crowned man on a horse—the new King of Unseelie. Not the one Dru was familiar with from pictures; this King was young. His crown was cocked insouciantly to the side.

  As he came closer, Dru could see that he resembled Kieran slightly. The same straight mouth, the same inhumanly beautiful features, though the King’s hair was coal-black and streaked with purple. He rode up to the Inquisitor and the rest of the Cohort and gazed down at them coldly.

  Maryse made a noise of surprise. Other Shadowhunters were gasping, and a few standing on Cistern Bridge clapped. As much as Dru hated Horace, she could tell this was good theater: The small band of the Cohort facing down a great Faerie army.

  She was just glad she had some theater of her own planned.

  “Greetings, my lord Oban,” said Horace, inclining his head. “We thank you for agreeing to take parley with us this morning.”

  “He’s lying,” Tavvy said. “Look at his face.”

  “I know,” Dru said in a low voice. “But don’t say it where people can hear you.”

  Oban slid gracefully from his horse. He bowed to Horace. There was another collective gasp that rocketed up the streets of Alicante. Faeries did not bow to Shadowhunters. “The pleasure is mine.”

  Horace smiled expansively. “You understand the gravity of our situation,” he said. “The death of two of our own—especially such famed Shadowhunters as Jace Herondale and Clary Fairchild—leaves a hole in the heart of our community. Such a wound cannot be borne by a civilized society. It demands recompense.”

  He means retribution, thought Dru. She knew the two were different, though she doubted she could have explained exactly how.

  “We of the Lands of Unseelie do not disagree,” said Oban pompously. “It seems to us proved that Downworlders and Shadowhunters cannot occupy the same space in safety. Better for us to be separated and respect one another from a distance.”

  “Quite,” said Horace. “Respecting one another from a distance seems very fine.”

  “Seriously,” Maryse muttered. “No one can be buying this crap, can they?”

  Dru glanced sideways at her. “You really sound like a New Yorker sometimes.”

  Maryse smiled crookedly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  There was a sudden stir. Dru looked up and saw that Horace, who had been nodding in agreement with King Oban, was staring into the distance, his mouth open in shock.

  Oban turned, and a scowl—the first genuine expression he’d shown—spread across his face. “What is this intrusion?”

  Unable to stop herself, Dru clapped her hands together. Coming into the Projection’s focus, striding across the green fields toward the Cohort, were Julian, Emma, and the rest of their group. Against all odds, they had arrived.

  * * *

  The wind had risen and whipped across the Fields, its force unbroken by walls or trees. The grass bent in front of Emma and the others, and Horace’s Inquisitor robes flapped around him. Zara pushed her hair out of her face and glared furiously at Julian before turning her look of loathing on Emma.

  “You,” she hissed.

  Emma grinned at Zara with all the hatred sparked by the sight of Cortana hanging at Zara’s side. “I always wanted someone to hiss ‘you’ at me,” she said. “Makes me feel like I’m in a movie.”

  Horace sneered. “What are you brats doing here? How dare you interrupt this parley? This is a serious matter, not a game for children.”

  “No one said this was a game, Dearborn.” Julian stopped in between Horace and a milling crowd of faerie knights and redcaps, flanked by Mark and Alec on one side, Emma and Cristina on the other. “Nor are we children.”

  “I’m certainly not,” Alec pointed out mildly.

  A man standing in the center of the milling redcaps pointed at Mark. He had a look of Kieran about him, with messy purple-black hair and a gold circlet tilted slightly on his head. “I know you.”

  Mark glared. “Unfortunately, that’s true.” He turned to the others. “That is Prince Oban.”

  “King Oban,” Oban snapped. “Horace—Inquisitor, see that they show me respect.”

  “They shouldn’t be here at all,” said Horace. “My apologies for this intrusion.” He flipped a smug hand in their direction. “Ashdown—Gladstone—get rid of this trash.”

  “You heard him.” Vanessa stepped forward, her hand at the blade at her waist.

  “It’s really hard to imagine what Cameron did to deserve relatives like you,” Emma said to her, and had the satisfaction of watching her turn a blotchy color.

  Alec raised his bow. So did Mark.

  “If you do not surrender your arms,” said Horace, “we will be forced to—”

  “Is this really what you want everyone to see?” Julian interrupted. “After ev
erything you said about the deaths of young Shadowhunters—you want to be the cause of more of them?” He turned away from Horace, toward the walls of Alicante, and spoke in a clear, hard voice. “This parley is false. It is entirely for show. Not only is the Inquisitor allied with the Unseelie Court, but he has placed Oban on the throne as his puppet.”

  Zara gasped audibly.

  Where Horace had looked smug, he now looked stunned. “Lies. These are disgraceful lies!” he roared.

  “I suppose that you’re going to say that he killed Jace and Clary as well,” said Zara.

  Julian didn’t bother to look at her. He kept staring toward Alicante. Emma imagined the Shadowhunters in the city. Could they see him, hear him? Did they understand?

  “I wasn’t going to say that,” said Julian. “Because they’re not dead.”

  * * *

  They’re not dead.

  A roar went up around Dru. There was chaos in the streets: She could hear people calling out in happiness and others in surprise or anger; she could hear Jace’s and Clary’s names, spoken over and over. Tavvy raised his fists to the sky, where the image of Julian towered above them, flanked by Emma and their friends.

  That’s my brother, Dru thought proudly. My brother Julian.

  * * *

  “It’s in very bad taste to make such jokes,” Gladstone snapped. “The world of Nephilim still mourns Jace and Clary—”

  “And we found their bloodstained clothes,” said Zara. “We know they’re dead.”

  “People drop jackets sometimes, Zara,” said Alec. “Jace is my parabatai. If he were dead, I would know.”

  “Oh, feelings,” Horace said nastily. “This is all about your feelings, is it, Lightwood? We at the Cohort deal in facts! Our facts!”

  “No one owns facts,” Cristina said quietly. “They are immutable.”

  Horace gave her a look of disgust and turned to Oban. “Jace Herondale and Clary Fairchild are dead, aren’t they?”

  Oban’s expression was a mixture of anger and unease. “One of my redcaps told me it was so, and as you know, my people cannot lie.”

  “There you have it,” said Horace. “I am out of patience with you, Blackthorn! Guards, come and take them to the Gard. Their punishment will be decided later.”

  “We’ll take them.” Zara stepped forward, Timothy Rockford at her side. She slid Cortana from its sheath and raised it to gesture at the intruders. “Emma Carstairs, I arrest you in the name of—”

  Emma reached out her hand. She reached out as she had through all the years since Julian had placed Cortana in her arms at the start of the Dark War. She reached out as she had in the thorn hedge of Faerie, as if she were reaching down through the past to touch the hands of all the Carstairs women who had held Cortana through the years.

  Zara’s hand jerked. Cortana’s grip tore free of her fingers and the blade sailed across the space between them.

  The hilt smacked into Emma’s hand. Reflexively, she grasped it, and raised the sword high. Cortana was hers again.

  * * *

  They had been sitting on one of the campfire logs, chatting, though Helen was too nervous to keep her mind firmly on the conversation. She couldn’t keep her mind off Jules and Mark, and the danger they were now facing.

  “They’ll be all right,” Magnus said after he’d asked her a question twice and she hadn’t answered. She was staring off into the profusion of trees, her whole body tensed. “Horace wouldn’t harm them in front of so many people. He’s a politician.”

  “Everyone’s got a breaking point,” said Helen. “We’ve seen people do some pretty strange things.”

  Magnus’s cat eyes flashed. “I suppose we have.”

  “It’s nice to see you again,” Aline said to him. “We haven’t spent much time together since Rome.”

  She smiled at Helen; Rome was where they had met, years ago.

  “I keep telling myself I’m going to avoid wars and battles in the future,” said Magnus. “Somehow they keep coming to me. It must be something about my face.”

  The sound of the whistle brought Helen to her feet, along with Aline. It wasn’t much of a warning. The trees around them shook; Helen had just drawn her sword when a group of fifty or sixty heavily armed Cohort members burst from them, led by Manuel Villalobos, and headed straight for the camp.

  Magnus hadn’t bothered to get up off his log. “Oh my,” he said in a bored voice. “A terrifying and unexpected attack.”

  Aline hit him on the shoulder. The Cohort members pounded up the slight hill and burst into the camp, encircling Magnus, Helen, and Aline. Manuel wore his full Centurion gear; his red-and-gray cloak swirled impressively as he seized Aline and yanked her back against his chest, his dagger out.

  “Which tent is Jace and Clary’s?” he demanded. He gestured with his dagger. “You two! Milo, Amelia! Grab the warlock’s hands. He can’t do magic without them.” He shot Magnus a look of loathing. “You ought to be dead.”

  “Ah, indeed, but the thing is, I’m immortal,” Magnus said cheerfully, as a beefy Shadowhunter—Milo, apparently—yanked his hands together behind him. “Someone ought to have told you.”

  Helen wasn’t having as easy a time being cheerful. Aline shot her a reassuring look, but the sight of her wife in Manuel’s grip was still more than she could stand. “Let her go!” she demanded.

  “As soon as you tell me where Jace and Clary are,” said Manuel. “In fact, let me phrase it in words you might understand. Tell me where they are or I’ll cut your wife’s throat.”

  Helen and Aline exchanged a look. “It’s that blue one over there,” said Helen, and pointed in what she hoped seemed a reluctant manner.

  Manuel shoved Aline away from him. Helen caught her and they embraced tightly. “I hated that,” Helen muttered against Aline’s neck as Cohort members shot by them, their unsheathed blades flashing.

  “I didn’t love it either,” Aline replied. “He reeks of cologne. Like a pinecone. Come on.”

  They glanced back at Magnus, who was whistling cheerfully and ignoring his guards, who looked sweaty and worried. Magnus nodded at them and they hurried after Manuel and the others, who were just approaching the blue tent.

  “Grab them,” Manuel said, indicating the tent stakes. “Yank it out of the ground.”

  The tent was seized, lifted off the ground, and hurled aside, collapsing in a pile of fabric.

  Revealed beneath were Jace and Clary, sitting cross-legged on the dirt, facing each other. They had been playing tic-tac-toe on the ground with sticks. Clary had her hair in a ponytail and looked about fifteen.

  Manuel made a sputtering noise. “Kill them,” he said, turning to his companions. “Go on. Kill them.”

  The Cohort looked nonplussed. Amelia took a step forward, raising her blade—then started visibly.

  The trees around the campsite were rustling loudly. The Cohort members who had remained at the treeline, weapons drawn, were glancing around in puzzlement and dawning fear.

  Jace drew the third in a line of X’s on the ground and tossed aside his stick. “Checkmate,” he said.

  “Checkmate is chess,” Clary pointed out, entirely ignoring the Cohort surrounding them.

  Jace grinned. It was a bright, beautiful grin, the sort of grin that made Helen understand why, all those years ago, Aline had kissed him just to see. “I wasn’t talking about our game,” he said.

  “I said kill them!” Manuel shouted.

  “But, Manu,” said Amelia, pointing a shaking finger. “The trees—the trees are moving—”

  Aline grasped Helen’s hand as the forest exploded.

  * * *

  There was a moment of stillness. Genuine wonder showed on nearly every face, even Oban’s. As a faerie, perhaps he understood the significance of Cortana’s choice, whether he liked it or not.

  Emma’s gaze met Julian’s. He smiled at her with his eyes. Julian understood what this meant to her. He always did.

  Zara gave a screech. “Gi
ve that back!” She advanced on Emma, who raised Cortana in triumph. Her blood sang in her veins, a song of gold and battle. “You cheaters! Thieves! Coming here, trying to spoil everything, trying to ruin what we’re building!”

  “Cortana doesn’t want you, Zara,” Julian said quietly. “A sword of Wayland the Smith can choose its bearer, and Cortana does not choose liars.”

  “We are not liars—”

  “Really? Where’s Manuel?” Mark demanded. “He was in Faerie when I was there. I saw him plotting with Oban. He spoke of an alliance with the Cohort.”

  “Then he spoke of this parley!” Horace roared. “This is an alliance—it is no secret—”

  “That was long before you told the Clave that Jace and Clary had died,” said Cristina. “Can Manuel see the future?”

  Horace actually stamped his foot. “Vanessa! Martin! Get rid of these intruders!”

  “My redcaps can take them,” said Oban. “Shadowhunter blood makes a fair dye.”

  The Cohort froze. Julian gave a small, cold smile.

  “Really, Prince?” said Mark. “How would you know?”

  Oban whirled on him. “You will address me as your King! I rule the Lands of Unseelie! I took the title from my father—”

  “But you didn’t kill him,” said Cristina. “Kieran did that. Kieran Kingson.”

  The army of Unseelie had begun to mutter. The redcaps looked on stonily.

  “End this farce, Dearborn,” Julian said. “Send the Unseelie army home. Come and face your people in the Council Hall.”

  “Face them?” Horace said, his mouth working in disgust. “And how do you suggest I do that when I have not yet arranged for justice? Would you simply forget those brave Shadowhunters, the ones who you claim as friends, who have died at the hands of Downworlders? I will not abandon them! I will speak for them—”

  “Or you could let them speak for themselves,” Alec said mildly. “Since, you know, here they are.”