Lord of Shadows

by Cassandra Clare

  "Thank you, Inquisitor," she echoed, and Robert looked surprised. She suspected no one had ever thanked him for a sentence of exile before.

  *

  Cristina had never been in the Gard's Council Hall before. It was a horseshoe-shaped space, rows of benches marching toward a slightly raised dais; a second balcony level, containing more benches and seats, rose high above. Above the dais hung a huge golden clock, gorgeously made with delicate scrollwork and a repeated Latin phrase, ULTIMA THULE, marching around the rim. Behind the dais was an incredible wall of windows, giving out onto a view of Alicante below. She raised herself a little bit on tiptoe, to see the winding streets, the blue slashes of the canals, the demon towers rising like clear needles against the sky.

  The Hall was beginning to fill. Annabel and Kieran had been taken to a waiting room, along with Magnus. The rest of them had been allowed in early and had claimed two rows of benches near the front. Ty, Kit, and Livvy were sitting, engaged in conversation. Dru sat quietly on her own, seeming lost in thought. Cristina was about to start toward her when she felt a light tap on her shoulder.

  It was Mark. He had dressed carefully for the Council visit, and she felt a pang as she looked at him--he was so gorgeous in his pressed, old-fashioned clothes, like a marvelously colored old photograph. The dark jacket and waistcoat fit him well, and he had brushed his blond hair so that it covered the tips of his ears.

  He had even shaved, and nicked himself slightly on the chin--which was ridiculous because Mark had no facial hair to speak of. He looked to Cristina like a little boy wanting to make a good impression on the first day of school. Her heart went out to him--he cared so much about the good opinion of a group of people who had agreed to abandon him to the Wild Hunt despite the pleas of his family, just because of who he was.

  "Do you think Kieran will be all right?" Mark said. "They ought to treat an envoy from the Court with more honor. Instead they practically ran to put the wards back up as soon as we arrived."

  "He'll be fine," Cristina reassured him. Both Kieran and Mark, she thought, were stronger than the other one could believe, maybe because they'd been so vulnerable in the Hunt. "Though I can't imagine Annabel is much of a conversationalist. At least Magnus is with them."

  Mark gave a strained smile as a low murmur swept through the room. The Centurions had arrived in full dress. They wore their uniforms of red, gray, and silver, with their silver pins on display. Each carried a staff of solid adamas. Cristina recognized some from Los Angeles, like Zara's friend Samantha, with her thin, nasty face, and Rayan, looking around the room with an expression of concern.

  Zara led the procession, her head held high, her mouth a slash of bright red. Her lips curled in distaste as she passed Mark and Cristina. But why wasn't Diego beside her? Had he not come with them? But no, there he was, almost at the end of the line, looking gray and tired, but definitely present.

  He paused in front of Mark and Cristina as the other Centurions passed by. "I got your message," he said to Cristina, in a low voice. "If it's what you want--"

  "What message?" Mark said. "What's going on?"

  Zara appeared at Diego's side. "A reunion," she said. "How nice." She smiled at Cristina. "I'm sure you'll all be pleased to hear how well everything went in Los Angeles after you left."

  "Very impressive of you, killing Malcolm," said Mark. His eyes were flat and glittering. "It seems to have resulted in quite a bit of advancement. Well-earned, I'm sure."

  "Thank you." Zara laughed breathlessly, laying her hand on Diego's arm. "Oh," she said, with a sharply artificial enthusiasm. "Look!"

  More Shadowhunters had entered the room. They were a mix of ages, from old to young. Some wore Centurion uniforms. Most wore gear or ordinary clothes. What was unusual about them was that they were carrying placards and signs. REGISTER ALL WARLOCKS. DOWNWORLDERS MUST BE CONTROLLED. PRAISE THE COLD PEACE. APPROVE THE REGISTRY. Among them was a stolid brown-haired man with a bland sort of face, the kind of face where you could never really remember the features later. He winked at Zara.

  "My father," she said proudly. "The Registry was his idea."

  "What interesting signs," said Mark.

  "How wonderful to see people expressing their political views," said Zara. "Of course the Cold Peace has truly created a generation of revolutionaries."

  "It is unusual," said Cristina, "for a revolution to call for fewer rights for people, not more."

  For a moment Zara's mask slipped, and Cristina saw through the artifice of politeness, the breathy little-girl voice and demeanor. There was something cold behind it all, something without warmth or empathy or affection. "People," she said. "What people?"

  Diego took hold of her arm. "Zara," he said. "Let's go sit down."

  Mark and Cristina watched them go in silence.

  *

  "I hope Julian's right," Livvy said, staring at the empty dais.

  "He usually is," Ty said. "Not about everything, but about this sort of thing."

  Kit sat between the twins, which meant they were talking over him. He wasn't entirely sure how he'd ended up in this position. Not that he minded or even noticed at the moment. He was stunned into near silence--something that never happened--by where he was: in Alicante, the heart of the Shadowhunters' country, gazing at the legendary demon towers.

  He'd fallen in love with Idris at first sight. He hadn't expected that at all.

  It was like walking into a fairy tale. And not the sort he'd grown used to at the Shadow Market, where faeries were another kind of monster. The kind he'd seen on TV and in books when he was little, a world of magnificent castles and lush forests.

  Livvy winked at Kit. "You've got that look on your face."

  "What look?"

  "You're impressed by Idris. Admit it, Mr. Nothing Impresses Me."

  Kit was going to do no such thing. "I like the clock," he said, pointing up at it.

  "There's a legend about that clock." She wiggled her eyebrows at him. "For a second, when it chimes the hour, the gates to Heaven open." Livvy sighed; a rare wistfulness flashed across her face. "As far as I'm concerned, Heaven is just the Institute being ours again. And all of us going home."

  That surprised Kit; he'd been thinking of this trip to Idris as the end of their chaotic adventure. They'd return to Los Angeles and he'd start his training. But Livvy was right: Things weren't that assured. He glanced over at Zara and her immediate circle, bristling with their ugly signs.

  "There's still the Black Volume, too," said Ty. He looked formal and neat-haired in a way he didn't usually; Kit was used to him being casual in his hoodies and jeans, and handsome, older-looking Ty left him a bit tongue-tied. "The Queen still wants it."

  "Annabel will give it to Jules. I believe in his ability to charm anything out of anyone," Livvy said. "Or trick anything out of anyone. But yeah, I wish they didn't have to actually meet with the Queen afterwards. I don't like the sound of her."

  "I think there's a saying about this," said Kit. "Something about bridges and crossing them when you get there."

  Ty had gone rigid, like a hunting dog spotting a fox. "Livvy."

  His sister followed his gaze, and so did Kit. Coming toward them through the crowd was Diana, a smile breaking across her face, her koi fish tattoo shimmering across one dark cheekbone.

  With her were two young women in their early twenties. One resembled Jia Penhallow more than a little; she also had dark hair and a decided chin. The other looked incredibly like Mark Blackthorn, down to the curling, pale blond hair and pointed ears. They were both bundled in unseasonably warm clothes, as if they'd come from a cold climate.

  Kit realized who they were a moment before Livvy's face lit like the sun. "Helen!" she screamed, and bolted into her sister's arms.

  *

  The clock in the Council Hall was chiming through the Gard, signaling that all Nephilim were to gather for the meeting.

  Robert Lightwood had insisted on leading Julian from his office to the room
where Magnus, Kieran, and Annabel were waiting. Unfortunately for Emma, that meant she was stuck with Manuel as her escort to the Council Hall.

  Emma had wished she could have a moment alone with Julian, but it wasn't going to happen. They exchanged a wry look before going their separate ways.

  "Looking forward to the meeting?" Manuel asked. He had his hands in his pockets. His dirty-blond hair was artfully tousled. Emma was surprised he wasn't whistling.

  "No one looks forward to meetings," said Emma. "They're a necessary evil."

  "Oh, I wouldn't say no one," said Manuel. "Zara loves meetings."

  "She seems in favor of all forms of torture," Emma muttered.

  Manuel spun around, walking backward down the corridor. They were in one of the larger hallways that had been built after the Gard burned in the Dark War. "You ever thought about becoming a Centurion?" he said.

  Emma shook her head. "They don't let you have a parabatai."

  "I always figured that was kind of a pity thing, you and Julian Blackthorn," said Manuel. "I mean, look at you. You're hot, you're skilled, you're a Carstairs. Julian--he spends all his time with little kids. He's an old man at seventeen."

  Emma wondered what would happen if she threw Manuel through a window. Probably it would delay the meeting.

  "I'm just saying. Even if you don't want to go to the Scholomance, the Cohort could use someone like you. We're the future. You'll see." His eyes glittered. For a moment, they weren't amused or joking. It was the glitter of real fanaticism, and it made Emma feel hollow inside.

  They had reached the doors of the Council Hall. There was no one in view; Emma kicked her leg out and swept Manuel's feet out from under him. He went over in a blur and hit the ground; he pushed up instantly on his elbows, looking furious. She doubted she'd hurt him, except maybe where his dignity was located--which had been the point.

  "I appreciate your offer," she said, "but if joining the Cohort means I have to spend my life stuck halfway up a mountain with a bunch of fascists, I'll take living in the past."

  She heard him hiss something not very nice in Spanish as she stepped over him and walked into the Hall. She reminded herself to ask Cristina for a translation when she got a chance.

  *

  "You don't need to be here, Julian," said Jia firmly.

  They were in a massive room whose picture window gave out onto views of Brocelind Forest. It was a surprisingly fancy room--Julian had always thought of the Gard as a place of dark stone and heavy wood. This room had brocade wallpaper and gilt furniture upholstered in velvet. Annabel sat in a wing-backed armchair, looking ill at ease. Magnus was leaning against a wall, seemingly bored. He looked exhausted, too--the shadows under his eyes were nearly black. And Kieran stood by the picture window, his attention fixed on the sky and the trees outside.

  "I would like him to be with me," said Annabel. "He is the reason I came."

  "We all appreciate that you're here, Annabel," said Jia. "And we appreciate that you had past bad experiences with the Clave." She sounded calm. Julian wondered if she'd have sounded so calm if she'd seen Annabel rise from the dead, covered in blood, and stab Malcolm through the heart.

  Kieran turned away from the window. "We know Julian Blackthorn," he said to Jia. He sounded much more human to Julian than he had when they'd first met, as if his Faerie accent was fading. "We don't know you."

  "By which you mean you and Annabel?" Jia said.

  Kieran made an expressive faerie gesture that seemed to encompass the room in general. "I am here because I am the messenger of the Queen," he said. "Annabel Blackthorn is here for her own reasons. And Magnus is here as he puts up with all of you because of Alec. But do not think that makes it a good idea for you to order us around."

  "Annabel is a Shadowhunter," Robert began.

  "And I am a prince of Faerie," said Kieran. "Son of the King, Prince of the Frost Court, Keeper of the Cold Way, Wild Hunter, and Sword of the Host. Do not annoy me."

  Magnus cleared his throat. "He has a point."

  "About Alec?" said Robert, raising an eyebrow.

  "More generally," said Magnus. "Kieran is a Downworlder. Annabel suffered a fate worse than death at the Clave's hands because she cared for Downworlders. Out there in the Council Hall is the Cohort. Today is their grab for power. Preventing them from taking it is more important than rules about where Julian should or shouldn't be standing."

  Jia looked at Magnus for a moment. "And you?" she said, surprisingly gently. "You're a Downworlder, Bane."

  Magnus gave a slow, tired shrug. "Oh," he said. "Me, I'm--"

  The glass he was holding slipped out of his hand. It hit the floor and broke, and a moment later Magnus followed it. He seemed to fold up like paper, his head striking the stone with an ugly thump.

  Julian lunged forward, but Robert had already grabbed him by the arm. "Go to the Council Hall," he said. Jia was kneeling next to Magnus, her hand on his shoulder. "Get Alec."

  He turned Julian free, and Julian ran.

  *

  Emma fought her way through the Council Hall in a state of numb horror. Any pleasure she'd felt over knocking Manuel on his butt had dissolved. The whole room seemed to be a whirlwind of ugly shouting and waving signs: MAKE THE CLAVE PURE and WEREWOLF CONTAINMENT IS THE ANSWER and KEEP DOWNWORLDERS CONTROLLED.

  She pushed past a knot of people, Zara at the center, heard someone saying, "Can't believe you had to kill that monster Malcolm Fade yourself, after the Clave failed!" There was a chorus of agreement. "Shows what comes of letting warlocks do what they like," said someone else. "They're too powerful. It doesn't make practical sense."

  Most of the faces in the room were unfamiliar to Emma. She should have known more of them, she thought, but the Blackthorns had lived a life of isolation in their way, rarely leaving the L.A. Institute.

  Among the cluster of unfamiliar faces, she caught sight of Diana, tall and regal as always. She was striding through the crowd, and hurrying along in her wake were two familiar figures. Aline and Helen, both of them pink-cheeked, wrapped in massive coats and shawls. They must have just arrived from Wrangel Island.

  Now Emma could see the rest of the Blackthorns--Livvy, Ty, and Dru were spilling out of the seats, running to Helen, who bent down to open her arms and gather them all in, hugging them tightly.

  Helen was brushing back Dru's hair, hugging the twins, tears sliding down her face. Mark was there too, striding toward his sister, and Emma watched with a smile as they threw their arms around each other. In a way, it hurt--she would never have that with her parents, never hug them or squeeze their hands again--but it was a good sort of pain. Mark lifted his sister off her feet, and Aline watched smiling as the two embraced.

  "Manuel Villalobos is limping," said Cristina. She had come up behind Emma and wrapped her arms around her from behind, resting her chin on her friend's shoulder. "Did you do that?"

  "I might have," Emma murmured. She heard Cristina giggle. "He was trying to talk me into joining the Cohort."

  She turned around and squeezed Cristina's hand. "We're going to take them down. They won't win. Right?" She glanced at Cristina's pendant. "Tell me the Angel is on our side."

  Cristina shook her head. "I am worried," she said. "Worried for Mark, for Helen--and for Kieran."

  "Kieran's a witness for the Clave. The Cohort can't touch him."

  "He's a prince of Faerie. Everything they hate. And I do not think I realized, until we arrived here, how much they hate. They will not want him to speak, and they will absolutely not want the Council to listen."

  "That's why we're here to make them listen," Emma began, but Cristina was looking past her, a startled expression on her face. Emma turned to see Diego, miraculously without Zara, beckoning to Cristina from an empty row of seats.

  "I must go and talk to him," Cristina said. She squeezed Emma's shoulder, looking suddenly hopeful. Emma wished her luck and Cristina disappeared into the crowd, leaving Emma looking around for Julian.

&n
bsp; She didn't see her parabatai anywhere. But what she did see was a tight group of Shadowhunters, Mark among them, and the sudden silver flash of weapons. Samantha Larkspear had pulled a wicked-looking blade. Emma headed toward the raised voices, her hand already reaching for Cortana's hilt.

  *

  Mark loved all his brothers and sisters, none more than the others. Still, Helen was special. She was like him--half-faerie, drawn to its temptations. Helen even claimed she could remember their mother, Nerissa, though Mark couldn't.

  He set Helen down on her feet, ruffling her pale hair. Her face--she looked different, older. Not in lines around her eyes or coarsening skin, just in a certain cast of her features. He wondered if she had named the stars through the years, as he did: Julian, Tiberius, Livia, Drusilla, Octavian. And she would have added another, that he never had: Mark.

  "I would speak to you," he said. "Of Nene, our mother's sister."

  An echo of faerie formality was in her voice when she replied. "Diana told me you met her in Faerie. I knew of her, but not where she could be found. We should speak of her, and of other matters as pressing." She looked up at him and sighed, touching her hand to his cheek. "Such as when you got so tall."

  "I think it happened when I was in the Hunt. Should I apologize?"

  "Not at all. I was worried--" She stepped back to look at him quizzically. "I think I may owe Kieran Kingson some thanks for his care of you."

  "As I owe Aline, for her care of you."

  Helen smiled at that. "She is the light of my days." She glanced up at the large clock over the dais. "We have little time now, Mark. If all goes as we hope, we will have forever to confer with one another. But either way, Aline and I will remain this night in Alicante, and from what Jia says, so will you. It will give us a chance to talk."

  "That depends how tonight goes, doesn't it?" A sharp voice interrupted them. It was Samantha Larkspear. Mark vaguely remembered that she had a brother who looked a great deal like her.

  She wore Centurion gear and carried a placard that said THE ONLY GOOD FAERIE IS A DEAD FAERIE. There was a blob of what looked like black paint at the bottom of the sign.

  "Pithy," Mark said. But Helen had paled with shock, staring at the words on the placard.