Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy

by Cassandra Clare

  “Simon Lewis, if you would please come with me for a moment?”

  People from other tables glanced over. George looked down and poked at his pizza-fry.

  “Sure?” Simon said. “Am I in trouble?”

  “No,” she said, her voice flat. “No trouble.”

  Simon pushed back his chair and stood.

  “I’ll see you back at the room, yeah?” George said. “I’ll bring you some cake.”

  “Sure,” Simon said.

  Many people watched him go, because that is what happens when the dean gets you in the middle of dinner. Most of the elites, though, had clustered around Julie and Beatriz. There were laughs and squeals and everyone was talking very loudly. Simon worked his way around them to get to the dean.

  “This way,” she said.

  Simon tried to pause by the fire just for a second, but the dean was already moving toward the door that teachers used to enter and leave the cafeteria. The teachers didn’t eat with them all the time. There was clearly some other place, some other dining room somewhere in the Academy. Catarina Loss was the only one who came regularly, and Simon got the impression that she did so because she would rather brave the terrible student food than sit around with a bunch of Shadowhunters in a private room.

  Simon had never been in the hall that the dean led him down. It was more dimly lit than the halls the students used. There were tapestries on the stone walls that were certainly as threadbare as the ones in the rest of the school, but they also looked more valuable. The colors were brighter and the gold threading had the glint of real gold. There were weapons along these walls. The student weapons were all in the weapons room, and those had some kind of safety to keep them in place. If you wanted a sword, you needed to undo several straps to get it down. These were placed in simple holders, making them easy to snatch at a second’s notice.

  The noise of the cafeteria shrank away within the first few steps, and then there was quiet all around. The hall was a series of closed doorways, and the silence crowded him in.

  “Where are we going?” Simon asked.

  “To the reception room,” the dean said.

  Simon looked out of the windows as they passed. Here, the glass was a quilt of tiny panes, held together by lead piping. Each diamond of glass was old and warped, and the overall effect was like a cheap kaleidoscope, one that showed only dark and a very lightly falling snow. It was the kind of snow that didn’t amount to anything on the ground. It would just dust the dead grass. The technical term for that level, he decided, was an “annoyance” of snow.

  They reached a turn in the hall. The dean opened the first door after the turn and revealed a small but grand room, with furnishings that were not in the slightest bit broken or threadbare. Every chair in the room had legs of the same length, and the sofas were long and comfortable-looking with no visible sags or stuffing. Everything was upholstered in a lush, grape-purple velvet. There was a low table made of cherrywood, and on it was a massive and elaborate silver tea set with china cups. And sitting around the table on the fine-quality chairs and sofas were Magnus Bane, Jem Carstairs, Catarina Loss, and Clary, her red hair bright against her light blue sweater. Magnus and Catarina were together at the end (near the fire—of course it was, as in all other rooms, at the far end). Clary looked up at Simon, and though she smiled as soon as she saw him, her expression suggested that her invitation to this little party had also been recent and not well explained.

  “Simon,” Jem said. “So good to see you. Please have a seat.”

  Simon had only had a few encounters with Jem Carstairs, who was apparently as old as his wife, Tessa Gray. They both looked amazingly fit for 150 years. Tessa even looked pretty hot. (Maybe Jem looked hot too? As Simon had thought once before, he probably wasn’t the greatest judge of male attractiveness.) Was it weird to think people who were twice as old as your grandparents were good-looking?

  “I’ll leave you to it,” the dean said, and again there was something missing in her tone. It was like she had just said, “I’ll just give you this dead snake.” She closed the door.

  “We’re having tea,” Magnus said. He was measuring out spoonfuls of loose tea leaves into the strainer of a tiny teapot. “One for each cup. One for the pot.”

  He set the tiny tea canister aside and picked up one of the large silver pots and poured steaming water through the strainer into the teapot. Catarina was watching him do this with a strange fascination.

  Jem looked at ease in a white sweater and dark jeans. His black hair had a single, dramatic streak of silver in it that stood out against his brown skin. “How are you finding the training?” he asked, leaning forward.

  “I don’t bruise as much anymore,” Simon said, shrugging.

  “That’s excellent,” Jem said. “It means you’re finding your feet and deflecting more blows.”

  “Really?” Simon said. “I thought it was because I was dead inside.”

  Magnus dropped the lid back onto the tiny tea canister very suddenly, making a loud clanking noise.

  “I’m very sorry to interrupt your dinner,” Jem said. He had a formal way of speaking that was the only thing about him that really showed his age.

  “Never be sorry about that,” Simon muttered.

  “I take it the food in the Academy isn’t its best feature.”

  “I’m not sure it has a ‘best’ feature,” Simon replied.

  Jem smiled, his face lighting up. “We have cakes here, and scones. I think these are of a slightly higher quality than you are currently used to.”

  He indicated a china plate full of small cakes and scones that looked very edible. Simon didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the closest scone and shoved it into his mouth. It was a bit dry, but it was better than anything he’d had in a while. He knew crumbs were falling out of his mouth and onto his dark T-shirt, but he found himself not caring.

  “Okay, Magnus,” Clary said. “You said you would explain why you brought me here when Simon got here. Not that I’m not happy to see you, but you’re making me nervous.”

  Simon nodded and chewed to show he agreed and backed Clary up 100 percent, as best friends were supposed to do. At least he hoped he was communicating that.

  Magnus pulled himself up. When a very tall warlock with cat eyes pulls himself up to attention, it changes the mood in the room. There was suddenly a real air of purpose, with an undercurrent of strange energy. Catarina sank back into the sofa, dropping into Magnus’s shadow. It wasn’t like Catarina to be so silent. Catarina was the blue-tinted voice of reason and minor rebellion in the hallowed halls of the Academy.

  “I’ve been asked to bring you both a message,” Magnus said, twisting one of the many rings that adorned his long fingers. “Emma Carstairs and Julian Blackthorn are to become parabatai. The ceremony requires two witnesses, and they have asked for you to be those witnesses.”

  Clary raised an eyebrow and looked over to Simon.

  “Of course,” she said. “Emma’s a sweetheart. Definitely. I’m in.”

  Simon was midreach for another scone. He drew back his arm.

  “Definitely,” he said. “Me too. But why couldn’t they just send us a letter?”

  Magnus paused for a moment and looked at Catarina, then turned to Simon with a wink.

  “Why send a letter when you can send something truly magnificent?”

  It was a very Magnus thing to say, but it rang a little hollow. Something about Magnus seemed a little hollow. His voice, maybe.

  “The ceremony will be performed in the Silent City tomorrow,” Jem said. “We have already arranged permission for you to attend.”

  “Tomorrow?” Clary said. “And we’re just being asked now?”

  Magnus shrugged elegantly, indicating that sometimes things like this just happened.

  “What do we have to do?” Simon asked. “Is it complicated?”

  “Not at all,” Jem said. “The position of the witness is largely symbolic, much like a wedding. You have nothing
you have to say. It’s just a matter of standing with them. Emma chose Clary—”

  “I can understand that,” Simon said. “But Julian wouldn’t choose me. We hardly know each other. Why not Jace?”

  “Because Julian isn’t particularly close to him, either,” said Jem, “and Emma made the suggestion that you and Clary, as best friends, would be meaningful witnesses for them. Julian agreed.”

  Simon nodded as if he understood, though he wasn’t sure he did, really. He remembered having spoken to Julian at Helen and Aline’s wedding, not long ago. He remembered thinking what a weight he had on his slight shoulders, and how much he seemed to hold contained, hidden and within. Perhaps it was simply that there was no one else Julian cared for enough to stand as his witness? No one he looked up to? That was incredibly sad, if so.

  “In any case,” said Magnus, “you are to stand with them as they go through the Fiery Trial.”

  “The what?” Simon asked.

  “That is the true name of the ceremony,” Jem said. “The two parabatai stand inside rings of fire.”

  “Tea’s ready,” Magnus said suddenly. “Never let it sit for more than five minutes. Time to drink up.”

  He poured two cups from the small pot.

  “There’s only two cups,” Clary said. “What about you?”

  “The pot is small. I’ll make another one. These are for the two of you. Drink up.”

  The two cups were presented. Clary shrugged and sipped. Simon did the same. It was, to be fair, exceptional tea. Maybe this was why English people got so excited about it. There was a wonderful clarity to the flavor. It warmed his body as it went down. The room was no longer cold.

  “This really is good,” Simon said. “I don’t really do tea, but I like this. I mean, they give us tea here, but one time I had a cup that had a bone in it, and that was one of the best cups I had.”

  Clary laughed. “So what are we supposed to wear?” she said. “As witnesses, I mean.”

  “For the ceremony, formal gear. For the dinner afterward, regular clothing. Something nice.”

  “Wedding stuff,” Catarina finally said. “It’s a lot like a wedding but . . .”

  “. . . without the romance and flowers.”

  That was Jem.

  Magnus was now eying them intently, his cat eyes glistening in the dark. The room had gotten very dark indeed. Simon gave Clary a look that was supposed to mean: This is weird. She responded with a very clear look of response that said: Superweird.

  Simon drank his tea down in a few large gulps and returned the cup to the table.

  “It’s funny,” he said. “There was just another parabatai announcement at dinner. Two students from the elite track.”

  “That’s not uncommon for this time of year,” Jem said. “As the year draws to a close, people reflect, they make decisions.”

  The room suddenly got warmer. Had the fire gotten higher? Had it sneaked closer? It was definitely crackling loudly, but now it didn’t sound like laughter—it sounded like breaking glass. The fire was speaking to them.

  Simon caught himself. The fire was speaking? What was wrong with him? He looked around the room fuzzily, and heard Clary make an odd, surprised sound, as if she’d seen something she hadn’t expected.

  “I think it’s time to begin,” said Jem. “Magnus?”

  Simon could hear Magnus sigh as he stood up. Magnus was really tall. This, Simon had always known. Now he looked like he might hit the ceiling. He opened a door that Simon hadn’t noticed was there.

  “Come through here,” Magnus said. “There are some things you need to see.”

  Clary got up and went over to the door. Simon followed. Catarina caught his eye as he went. Everything was unsaid in this room. She didn’t quite approve of what was happening. Neither did Magnus.

  Whatever was on the other side of the doorway was utterly dark, and Clary hesitated for a second.

  “It’s fine,” Magnus said. “It’s just a bit cold in there. Sorry.”

  Clary went in, and Simon followed a step behind. They were in a shadowy space, definitely cold. He turned, but could no longer see the door. It was just him and Clary. Clary’s hair shone bright red in the dark.

  “We’re outside,” Clary said.

  Sure enough. Simon blinked. His thoughts were a little slow and stretched. Of course they were outside.

  “They maybe could have said we were going outside,” Simon said, shivering. “No one here believes in coats.”

  “Turn around,” Clary said.

  Simon turned. The door they had just come through—in fact, the entire building they had just come from—was gone. They were simply outdoors, surrounded by just a few trees. The sky above was a purple-gray parchment that seemed to be lit by a low haze of lights on the horizon, just out of sight. There was a web of brick paths all around, dotted with fenced-off areas of trees and urns that probably contained flowers in better weather and now stood as reminders of the season.

  It was familiar, and yet, it was like nowhere Simon had ever been.

  “We’re in Central Park,” Clary said. “I think . . .”

  “What? We . . .”

  But as soon as he said it, it became clear. The low metal fences that marked off the brick paths. But there were no benches, no trash cans, no people. There was no view of the skyline in any direction.

  “Okay . . . ,” said Simon. “This is weird. Did Magnus just completely screw up? Can that happen? You guys just came from New York. Did he just open up the same Portal?”

  “Maybe?” Clary said.

  Simon took a deep breath of the New York air. It was bitterly cold and burned the inside of his nose, waking him up.

  “They’ll realize in a second,” Clary said, shivering in the cold. “Magnus doesn’t make mistakes.”

  “So maybe it wasn’t a mistake. Maybe we just got a free trip to New York. Or, I did. I’m going to assume that we go wherever we want until they come and get us. You know they have their ways. Might as well take advantage!”

  This unexpected and utterly sudden trip home had completely reinvigorated Simon.

  “Pizza,” he said. “Oh my God. They stir-fried pizza tonight. It was the worst. Maybe coffee. Maybe there’s time to get to Forbidden Planet? I just . . .”

  He patted his pockets. Money. He had no money.

  “You?” he asked.

  Clary shook her head.

  “In my bag. Back there.”

  That didn’t matter. It was enough to be home. The suddenness of it only made it more wonderful. Now that he looked more carefully, Simon could see clearly the outlines of the skyscrapers that lined the south end of the park. They looked like the blocks he used to play with as a kid—just a series of rectangles of various sizes set side to side. Some had the faint glow of signs above them, but he couldn’t read the writing. He could, however, see the colors of the signs with an unusual clarity. One sign was a pink rose, a bright bloom. The next was the color of electricity. It wasn’t just the colors that were sharp. He could smell everything in the air. The metallic tang of the cold. The sea funk of the East River, blocks away. Even the jutting bits of bedrock that reached up and made the many tiny mountains of Central Park seemed to have an odor. There was no garbage, though, and no smells of food or traffic. This was elemental New York. This was the island itself.

  “I feel a little weird,” Simon said. “Maybe I should have finished dinner. And now that I’ve just said that, I know there must be something wrong with me.”

  “You need to eat,” Clary said, giving him a light punch. “You’re turning into a big muscle man.”

  “You noticed?”

  “It’s hard not to notice, Superman. You’re like the after photo on some commercial for home workout equipment.”

  Simon blushed and looked away. It wasn’t snowing anymore. It was just dark and open, with many trees around. There was a bright bitterness to the cold.

  “Where do you think we are?” Clary said. “I’m guess
ing about . . . midway?”

  Simon knew it was possible to walk for some time in Central Park without really having a sense of where you are. The paths wind. The trees create a canopy. The land goes up and down in sharp inclines and declines.

  “Over there,” he said, pointing at a low pattern of shadows. “It opens up over there. It’s the entrance to something. Let’s go that way and look.”

  Clary rubbed her hands together and huddled against the cold. Simon wished he had a coat to offer her, almost more than he wished he had a coat to offer himself. Still, being cold in New York was better than being cold in the Academy. He had to admit, though, that Idris was more temperate. New York weather went to more extremes. This was the kind of cold that would give you frostbite if you stayed out in it too long. They probably needed to figure out where they were and get out of the park and into a building—any building. A store, a coffee shop, whatever they could find.

  They walked toward the opening, which revealed itself to be a collection of elaborately carved stone plinths. There were several of these, in sets. Eventually they led to an equally elaborately carved staircase that bent on its way down to a wide terrace with a massive fountain. There was a lake just beyond, covered in ice.

  “Bethesda Terrace,” Simon said, nodding. “That’s where we are. That’s in the Seventies, right?”

  “Seventy-Second,” Clary said. “I’ve drawn it before.”

  The terrace was just a large, ornamental area inside of the park and not really somewhere to be on a cold night—but it seemed to be the only place to be. If they walked toward it, at least they would know where they were, as opposed to wandering around in the trees and looping paths. They walked down the stairs together. Strangely, the fountain was going tonight. It was often turned off in the winter, and certainly when it was freezing cold. But the water flowed freely, and there was no ice on the water in the fountain base. The lights were on and all focused on the statue of the angel that stood in the middle of the fountain on top of two layered tiers and four tiny cherubs.

  “Maybe Magnus did mess up,” she said.

  Clary walked right up to the low edge of the fountain, sat down, and wrapped her arms around herself. Simon stared at the fountain. Funny, he thought, how they hadn’t noticed any lights a few minutes ago as they approached. Maybe they’d just come on. The angel of the Bethesda Fountain was one of the most famous statues in all of Central Park—wings extended, water pouring off her outstretched hands.