A murmur ran through the crowd.
"We pay a price for the peace among our folk," said the King. His voice was like a ringing bell, lovely and echoing. Something touched Emma's shoulder. It was Julian's hand, the one that wasn't clasping Mark's arm. Emma looked at him in surprise, but he was staring ahead, toward the clearing. "No Unseelie faerie shall raise hand against another. The price of disobedience is justice. Death is paid with death."
Julian's fingers moved quickly against Emma's skin through her shirt, the age-old language of their shared childhood. S-T-A-Y H-E-R-E.
She whipped around to look at him, but he was already moving. She heard Mark's breath hiss out in a gasp and caught at his wrist, preventing him from going after his brother.
Under the starlight, Julian walked out into the clearing full of Unseelie gentry. Emma, her heart pounding, held tight to Mark's wrist; everything in her wanted to rush out after her parabatai, but he had asked her to stay, and she would stay, and hold on to Mark. Because Julian was moving as if he had a plan, and if he had a plan, she owed it to him to trust that it might work.
"What is he doing?" Cristina moaned, in an agony of suspense. Emma could only shake her head. Some of the faeries on the edge of the crowd had spotted him now and were gasping, drawing back as he approached. He had done nothing to cover the black, permanent runes on his skin--the Voyance rune on the back of his hand glared like an eye at the Fair Folk in their gaudy finery. The woman in the dress made of bones gave a screech.
"Shadowhunter!" she cried.
The King sat bolt upright. A moment later a row of faerie knights in black-and-silver armor--among them the princes who had dragged Kieran to the tree--had surrounded Julian, forming a circle around him. Swords of silver and brass and gold flashed up around him like a grim tribute.
Kieran raised his head and stared. The shock on his face as he recognized Julian was complete.
The King rose. His bifurcated face was grim and terrible. "Bring the Shadowhunter spy to me that I may kill him with my own hand."
"You will not kill me." Julian's voice, calm and confident, rose above the din of voices. "I am no spy. The Clave sent me, and if you kill me, it will mean open war."
The King hesitated. Emma felt a wild half urge to laugh. Julian had spoken the lie so calmly and confidently that she almost believed it herself. Doubt flickered across the King's face.
My parabatai, she thought, looking at Jules, standing with his back straight and his head back, the only seventeen-year-old boy in the world who could make the King of the Dark Court doubt himself.
"The Clave sent you? Why not an official convoy?" said the King.
Julian nodded, as if he'd expected the question. Probably he had. "There was no time. When we heard of the threat to Kieran Hunter, we knew we had to move immediately."
Kieran made a choked sound. There was a lash of thorned wire around his throat. Blood trickled down onto his collarbone.
"What cares the Clave or Consul for the life of a boy from the Wild Hunt?" said the King. "And a criminal, at that?"
"He is your own son," said Julian.
The King smiled. It was a bizarre sight, as half his face sprang into light and the other displayed a ghastly grimace. "No one can then," he said, "accuse me of favoritism. The Unseelie Court extends the hand of justice."
"The man he murdered," said Julian. "Iarlath. He was a kin-slayer. He plotted with Malcolm Fade to murder others of the Fair Folk."
"They were of the Seelie Court," said the King. "Not of our people."
"But you say you are the ruler of both Courts," said Julian. "Should not then the people who will one day be yours to rule expect your fairness and clemency?"
There was a murmur in the crowd, this one softer in tone. The King frowned.
"Iarlath also murdered Nephilim," said Julian. "Kieran prevented other Shadowhunter lives from being lost. Therefore we owe him, and we pay our debts. We will not let you take his life."
"What can you do to stop us?" snapped Erec. "Alone, as you are?"
Julian smiled. Though Emma had known him all her life, though he was like another part of herself, the cold surety of that smile sent ice through her veins. "I am not alone."
Emma let go of Mark. He strode forward into the clearing without looking back, and Emma and Cristina came after. None of them drew their weapons, though Cortana was strapped to Emma's back, visible to everyone. The crowd parted to let them pass through and join Julian. Emma realized, as they stepped into the circle of guards, that Mark's feet were still bare. They looked pale as a white cat's paws against the long dark grass.
Not that it mattered. Mark was a formidable warrior even barefoot. Emma had good cause to know.
The King looked at them and smiled. Emma didn't like the look of that smile. "What is this?" he said. "A convoy of children?"
"We are Shadowhunters," said Emma. "We bear the mandate of the Clave."
"So you said," said Prince Adaon. "What is your demand?"
"A good question," said the King.
"We demand a trial by combat," said Julian.
The King laughed. "Only one of the Fair Folk can enter a trial by combat in the Unseelie Lands."
"I am one of the Fair Folk," said Mark. "I can do it."
At that, Kieran began to struggle against his bonds. "No," he said, violently, blood running down his fingers, his chest. "No."
Julian didn't even look at Kieran. Kieran might be who they were there to save, but if they had to torture him to save him, Julian would. You're the boy who does what has to be done because no one else will, Emma had told him once. It seemed like years ago.
"You are a Wild Hunter," said Erec. "And half Shadowhunter. You are bound by no laws, and your loyalty is to Gwyn, not to justice. You cannot fight." His lip curled back. "And the others are not faerie at all."
"Not quite true," said Julian. "It has often been said that children and the mad are of the faerie kind. That there is a bond between them. And we are children."
Erec snorted. "That's ridiculous. You are grown."
"The King called us children," said Julian. " 'A convoy of children.' Would you call your liege lord a liar?"
There was a collective gasp. Erec went pale. "My Lord," he began, turning to the King. "Father--"
"Silence, Erec, you've said enough," said the King. His gaze was on Julian, the brilliant eye and the dark, empty socket. "An interesting one," he said, to no one in particular, "this boy who looks like a Shadowhunter and speaks like gentry." He rose to his feet. "You will have your trial by combat. Knights, lower your blades."
The flashing wall of bright metal around Emma and her friends vanished. Stony faces regarded them instead. Some were princes, bearing the distinct stamp of Kieran's delicate angular features. Some were badly scarred from past battles. Quite a few had their faces hidden by hoods or veils. Beyond them, the gentry of the Court were milling and exclaiming, clearly excited. The words "trial by combat" drifted through the clearing.
"You will have your trial," the King said again. "Only I shall pick which of you will be the champion."
"We are all willing," Cristina said.
"Of course you are. That is the nature of Shadowhunters. Foolish self-sacrifice." The King turned to glance at Kieran, throwing the skeletal side of his face into sharp relief. "Now how to choose? I know. A riddle of sorts."
Emma felt Julian tense. He wouldn't like the idea of a riddle. Too random. Julian didn't like anything he couldn't control.
"Come closer," said the King, beckoning them with a finger. His hands were pale like white bark. A hook like a short claw extended from each finger just above the knuckle.
The crowd parted to let Emma and the others closer to the pavilion. As they went, Emma was conscious of a strange scent that hung all around them. Thick and bittersweet, like tree sap. It intensified as they drew close to the throne until they stood looking up at it, the King looming above them like a statue. Behind him stood a row of knights whose fac
es were covered by masks wrought from gold and silver and brass. Some were in the shape of rats, some golden lions or silver panthers.
"Truth is to be found in dreams," the King said, looking down at them. From this angle, Emma could see that the odd splitting of his face ended at his throat, which was ordinary skin. "Tell me, Shadowhunters: You enter a cave. Inside the cave is an egg, lit from within and glowing. You know that it beats with your dreams--not the ones you have during the day, but the ones you half-remember in the morning. It splits open. What emerges?"
"A rose," said Mark. "With thorns."
Cristina cut her eyes toward him in surprise, but remained motionless. "An angel," she said. "With bloody hands."
"A knife," said Emma. "Pure and clean."
"Bars," Julian said quietly. "The bars of a prison cell."
The King's expression didn't change. The murmurs of the Court around them seemed confused rather than angry or intrigued. The King reached out a long white taloned hand.
"You there, girl with the bright hair," he said. "You will be the champion of your people."
Relief speared through Emma. It would be her; the others would not be risked. She felt lighter, as if she could breathe again.
Cristina turned her face toward Emma, looking stricken; Mark seemed to be holding himself in with main force. Julian caught Emma's arm, moving to whisper in her ear, urgency in every line of his body.
She stood still, her eyes fixed on his face, letting the chaos of the Court flow around her. The coldness of battle was already beginning to descend on her: the chill that dampened emotions, letting everything but the fight fall away.
Julian was part of that, the beginning of battle and the cold of the middle of it and the fierceness of the fighting. There was nothing she wanted to look at more in the moments before a battle than his face. Nothing that made her feel more fully at home in herself, more like a Shadowhunter.
"Remember," Julian whispered into Emma's ear. "You've spilled faerie blood before, in Idris. They would have killed you, killed us all. This is a battle too. Show no mercy, Emma."
"Jules." She didn't know if he heard her say his name. Knights surrounded them suddenly, separating her from the others. Her arm slipped away from Julian's grip. She looked one last time at the three of them before being guided roughly forward. A space was being cleared just in front of the pavilion.
A horn blew, the sharp sound parting the night like a knife. One of the princes strode out from behind the pavilion beside a masked knight. The knight wore thick gray armor like an animal's hide. His helmet covered his face. A crude drawing was painted onto the front of the helmet: wide eyes, a mouth stretched in a grin. Someone had touched the helmet with paint-wet hands, and there were red streaks along the sides that lent an ominous air to what might otherwise have been clownish.
The prince guided the masked knight to his side of the cleared space and left him there, facing Emma. He was armed with a longsword of faerie workmanship, its blade silver traced with gold, its hilt studded with gems. The edges gleamed sharp as razor blades.
A strong sword, but nothing could break Cortana. Emma's weapon would not fail her. She could only fail herself.
"You know the rules," said the King in a bored tone. "Once the battle commences, neither warrior can be helped by a friend. The fight is to the death. The victor is he or she who survives."
Emma drew Cortana. It flashed like the setting sun, just before it drowned in the sea.
There was no reaction from the knight with the painted helmet. Emma focused on his stance. He was taller than her, had greater reach. His feet were carefully planted. Despite the ridiculous helmet, he was clearly a serious fighter.
She moved her own feet into position: left foot forward, right foot back, arcing the dominant side of her body toward her opponent.
"Let it begin," said the King.
Like a racehorse bursting out of the box, the knight rushed toward Emma, sword leaping forward. Caught off guard by his speed, Emma spun out of the way of the blade. But it was a late start. She should have raised Cortana earlier. She'd been counting on the swiftness of her Sure-Strike rune, but it was no longer working. A sharp terror she hadn't known in a long time went through her as she felt the whisper of the tip of the knight's sword gliding inches from her side.
Emma remembered her father's words when she'd first been learning. Strike at your enemy, not his weapon. Most fighters went for your blade. A good fighter went for your body.
This was a good fighter. But had she expected anything else? The King had chosen him, after all. Now she just had to hope that the King had underestimated her.
Two quick turns brought her to a slightly raised hillock of grass. Maybe she could even their height difference. The grass rustled. Emma didn't need to look to know that the knight was plunging toward her again. She whirled, bringing Cortana around in a slicing arc.
He barely moved backward. The sword cut along the material of his thick leather armor, opening a wide slit. He didn't flinch, though, or seem hurt. He certainly wasn't slowed down. He lunged for Emma, and she slid into a crouch, his blade whistling over her head. He lunged again and she sprang back.
She could hear her own breath, ragged in the cool air of the forest. The faerie knight was good, and she didn't have the benefit of runes, of seraph blades--any of the armaments of a Shadowhunter. And what if she was tiring earlier? What if this dark land was sucking out even the power in her blood?
She parried a blow, leaped back, and remembered, oddly, Zara's sneering voice, Faeries fight dirty. And Mark, Faeries don't fight dirty, actually. They fight remarkably cleanly. They have a strict code of honor.
She was already bending, striking at the other knight's ankles--he leaped upward, nearly levitating, and brought his own sword down, just as she seized a handful of leaves and dirt and rose, hurling them at the gaps in the faerie warrior's mask.
He choked and stumbled back. It was only a second, but it was enough; Emma slashed at his legs, one-two, and then his torso. Blood soaked his armored chest; his legs went out from under him, and he hit the ground on his back with a crash like a felled tree.
Emma slammed her foot down on his blade, as the crowd roared. She could hear Cristina calling her name, and Julian and Mark. Heart pounding, she stood over the motionless knight. Even now, sprawled in the grass, blackened around him by his own blood, he didn't make a sound.
"Remove his helmet and end it," said the King. "That is our tradition."
Emma took a deep breath. Everything that was Shadowhunter in her revolted against this, against taking the life of someone lying weaponless at her feet.
She thought of what Julian had said to her just before the combat. Show no mercy.
The tip of Cortana clanged against the rim of the helmet. She wedged it beneath the edge and pushed.
The helmet fell away. The man lying in the grass beneath Emma was human, not faerie. His eyes were blue, his hair blond streaked with gray. His face was more familiar to Emma than her own.
Her hand fell to her side, Cortana dangling from nerveless fingers.
It was her father.
11
ON A BLACK THRONE
Kit sat on the steps of the Institute, looking out at the water.
It had been a long and uncomfortable day. Things were tenser than ever between the Centurions and the inhabitants of the Institute, though at least the Centurions didn't know why.
Diana had made a heroic effort to teach lessons, as if everything were normal. No one could concentrate--for once Kit, despite being completely at sea regarding the comparisons of various seraphic alphabets, wasn't the most distracted person in the room. But the point of the lessons was to keep up appearances in front of the Centurions, so they slogged on.
Things didn't get much better at dinner. After a long, wet day during which they hadn't found anything, the Centurions were testy. It didn't help that Jon Cartwright had apparently had some kind of temper tantrum and stalked off, hi
s whereabouts unknown. Judging by Zara's thinly compressed lips, he'd had an argument with her, though about what, Kit could only wonder. The morality of locking warlocks up in camps or escorting faeries to torture chambers, he guessed.
Diego and Rayan did their best to make cheerful conversation, but it failed. Livvy stared at Diego for most of the meal, probably thinking about their plan to use him to stop Zara, but it was clearly making Diego nervous, since he tried twice to cut his steak with a spoon. To make it worse, Dru and Tavvy seemed to pick up on the prickly vibes in the room and spent dinner peppering Diana with questions about when Julian and the others would be back from their "mission."
When it was all over, Kit thankfully slipped away, avoiding the washing-up after dinner, and found himself a quiet spot under the front portico of the house. The air blowing off the desert was cool and spiced, and the ocean gleamed under the stars, a sheet of deep black that ended in a series of unfurling white waves.
For the thousandth time, Kit asked himself what was keeping him here. While it seemed silly to disappear because of awkward dinner conversation, he'd been reminded sharply in the past day that the Blackthorns' problems weren't his, and probably never should be. It was one thing to be Johnny Rook's son.
It was another thing completely to be a Herondale.
He touched the silver of the ring on his finger, cool against his skin.
"I didn't know you were out here." It was Ty's voice; Kit knew it before he looked up. The other boy had come around the side of the house and was looking up at him curiously.
There was something around Ty's neck, but it wasn't his usual earphones. As he came up the stairs, a slim shadow in dark jeans and sweater, Kit realized it had eyes.
He pressed his back against the wall. "Is that a ferret?"
"It's wild," said Ty, leaning against the railing around the porch. "Ferrets are domesticated. So technically, it's a weasel, though if it was domesticated, it would be a ferret."
Kit stared at the animal. It blinked its eyes at him and wiggled its small paws.