Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instruments Series

by Cassandra Clare

  All around them the Hall was chaos as the Downworlders who had come from the North Gate poured in, spilling in through the doors, crowding against the walls. Clary recognized various members of Luke’s pack, including Maia, who grinned across the room at her. There were faeries, pale and cold and lovely as icicles and warlocks with bat wings and goat feet and even one with antlers, blue fire sparking from their fingertips as they moved through the room. The Shadowhunters milled among them, looking nervous.

  Clutching her stele in both hands, Clary looked around anxiously. Where was Luke? He’d vanished into the crowd. She picked him out after a moment, talking with Malachi, who was shaking his head violently. Amatis stood nearby, shooting the Consul dagger glances.

  “Don’t make me sorry I ever told you any of this, Simon,” Clary said, glaring at him. She’d done her best to give him a pared-down version of Jocelyn’s tale, mostly hissed under her breath as he’d helped her plow through the crowds to the dais and take her seat there. It was weird being up here, looking down on the room as if she were the queen of all she surveyed. But a queen wouldn’t be nearly so panicked. “Besides. He was a horrible kisser.”

  “Or maybe it was just gross, because he was, you know, your brother.” Simon seemed more amused by the whole business than Clary thought he had any right to be.

  “Do not say that where my mother can hear you, or I’ll kill you,” she said with a second glare. “I already feel like I’m going to throw up or pass out. Don’t make it worse.”

  Jocelyn, returning from the edge of the dais in time to hear Clary’s last words—though, fortunately, not what she and Simon had been discussing—dropped a reassuring pat onto Clary’s shoulder. “Don’t be nervous, baby. You were so great before. Is there anything you need? A blanket, some hot water . . .”

  “I’m not cold,” Clary said patiently, “and I don’t need a bath, either. I’m fine. I just want Luke to come up here and tell me what’s going on.”

  Jocelyn waved toward Luke to get his attention, silently mouthing something Clary couldn’t quite decipher. “Mom,” she spat, “don’t,” but it was already too late. Luke glanced up—and so did quite a few of the other Shadowhunters. Most of them looked away just as quickly, but Clary sensed the fascination in their stares. It was weird thinking that her mother was something of a legendary figure here. Just about everyone in the room had heard her name and had some kind of opinion about her, good or bad. Clary wondered how her mother kept it from bothering her. She didn’t look bothered—she looked cool and collected and dangerous.

  A moment later Luke had joined them on the dais, Amatis at his side. He still looked tired, but also alert and even a little excited. He said, “Just hang on a second. Everyone’s coming.”

  “Malachi,” said Jocelyn, not quite looking directly at Luke while she spoke, “was he giving you trouble?”

  Luke made a dismissive gesture. “He thinks we should send a message to Valentine, refusing his terms. I say we shouldn’t tip our hand. Let Valentine show up with his army on Brocelind Plain expecting a surrender. Malachi seemed to think that wouldn’t be sporting, and when I told him war wasn’t an English schoolboy cricket game, he said that if any of the Downworlders here got out of hand, he’d step in and end the whole business. I don’t know what he thinks is going to happen—as if Downworlders can’t stop fighting even for five minutes.”

  “That’s exactly what he thinks,” said Amatis. “It’s Malachi. He’s probably worried you’ll start eating each other.”

  “Amatis,” Luke said. “Someone might hear you.” He turned, then, as two men mounted the steps behind him: one was a tall, slender faerie knight with long dark hair that fell in sheets on either side of his narrow face. He wore a tunic of white armor: pale, hard metal made of tiny overlapping circles, like the scales of a fish. His eyes were leaf green.

  The other man was Magnus Bane. He didn’t smile at Clary as he came to stand beside Luke. He wore a long, dark coat buttoned up to the throat, and his black hair was pulled back from his face.

  “You look so plain,” Clary said, staring.

  Magnus smiled faintly. “I heard you had a rune to show us,” was all he said.

  Clary looked at Luke, who nodded. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I just need something to write on—some paper.”

  “I asked you if you needed anything,” Jocelyn said under her breath, sounding very much like the mother Clary remembered.

  “I’ve got paper,” said Simon, fishing something out of his jeans pocket. He handed it to her. It was a crumpled flyer for his band’s performance at the Knitting Factory in July. She shrugged and flipped it over, raising her borrowed stele. It sparked slightly when she touched the tip to the paper, and she worried for a moment that the flyer might burn, but the tiny flame subsided. She set to drawing, doing her best to shut everything else out: the noise of the crowd, the feeling that everyone was staring at her.

  The rune came out as it had before—a pattern of lines that curved strongly into one another, then stretched across the page as if expecting a completion that wasn’t there. She brushed dust from the page and held it up, feeling absurdly as if she were in school and showing off some sort of presentation to her class. “This is the rune,” she said. “It requires a second rune to complete it, to work properly. A—partner rune.”

  “One Downworlder, one Shadowhunter. Each half of the partnership has to be Marked,” Luke said. He scribbled a copy of the rune on the bottom of the page, tore the paper in half, and handed one illustration to Amatis. “Start circulating the rune,” he said. “Show the Nephilim how it works.”

  With a nod Amatis vanished down the steps and into the crowd. The faerie knight, glancing after her, shook his head. “I have always been told that only the Nephilim can bear the Angel’s Marks,” he said, with a measure of distrust. “That others of us will run mad, or die, should we wear them.”

  “This isn’t one of the Angel’s Marks,” said Clary. “It’s not from the Gray Book. It’s safe, I promise.”

  The faerie knight looked unimpressed.

  With a sigh Magnus flipped his sleeve back and reached a hand out to Clary. “Go ahead.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “The Shadowhunter who Marks you will be your partner, and I’m not fighting in the battle.”

  “I should hope not,” said Magnus. He glanced over at Luke and Jocelyn, who were standing close together. “You two,” he said. “Go on, then. Show the faerie how it works.”

  Jocelyn blinked in surprise. “What?”

  “I assumed,” Magnus said, “that you two would be partners, since you’re practically married anyway.”

  Color flooded up into Jocelyn’s face, and she carefully avoided looking at Luke. “I don’t have a stele—”

  “Take mine.” Clary handed it over. “Go ahead, show them.”

  Jocelyn turned to Luke, who seemed entirely taken aback. He thrust out his hand before she could ask for it, and she Marked his palm with a hasty precision. His hand shook as she drew, and she took his wrist to steady it; Luke looked down at her as she worked, and Clary thought of their conversation about her mother and what he had told her about his feelings for Jocelyn, and she felt a pang of sadness. She wondered if her mother even knew that Luke loved her, and if she knew, what she would say.

  “There.” Jocelyn drew the stele back. “Done.”

  Luke raised his hand, palm out, and showed the swirling black mark in its center to the faerie knight. “Is that satisfactory, Meliorn?”

  “Meliorn?” said Clary. “I’ve met you, haven’t I? You used to go out with Isabelle Lightwood.”

  Meliorn was almost expressionless, but Clary could have sworn he looked ever so slightly uncomfortable. Luke shook his head. “Clary, Meliorn is a knight of the Seelie Court. It’s very unlikely that he—”

  “He was totally dating Isabelle,” Simon said, “and she dumped him too. At least she said she was going to. Tough break, man.”

  Meliorn blinked at him
. “You,” he said with distaste, “you are the chosen representative of the Night Children?”

  Simon shook his head. “No. I’m just here for her.” He pointed at Clary.

  “The Night Children,” said Luke, after a brief hesitation, “aren’t participating, Meliorn. I did convey that information to your Lady. They’ve chosen to—to go their own way.”

  Meliorn’s delicate features drew down into a scowl. “Would that I had known that,” he said. “The Night Children are a wise and careful people. Any scheme that draws their ire draws my suspicions.”

  “I didn’t say anything about ire,” Luke began, with a mixture of deliberate calm and faint exasperation—Clary doubted that anyone who didn’t know him well would know he was irritated at all. She could sense the shift in his attention: He was looking down toward the crowd. Following his gaze, Clary saw a familiar figure cut a path across the room—Isabelle, her black hair swinging, her whip wrapped around her wrist like a series of golden bracelets.

  Clary caught Simon’s wrist. “The Lightwoods. I just saw Isabelle.”

  He glanced toward the crowd, frowning. “I didn’t realize you were looking for them.”

  “Please go talk to her for me,” she whispered, glancing over to see if anyone was paying attention to them; nobody was. Luke was gesturing toward someone in the crowd; meanwhile, Jocelyn was saying something to Meliorn, who was looking at her with something approaching alarm. “I have to stay here, but—please, I need you to tell her and Alec what my mother told me. About Jace and who he really is, and Sebastian. They have to know. Tell them to come and talk to me as soon as they can. Please, Simon.”

  “All right.” Clearly worried by the intensity of her tone, Simon freed his wrist from her grasp and touched her reassuringly on the cheek. “I’ll be back.”

  He went down the steps and vanished into the throng; when she turned back, she saw that Magnus was looking at her, his mouth set in a crooked line. “It’s fine,” he said, obviously answering whatever question Luke had just asked him. “I’m familiar with Brocelind Plain. I’ll set the Portal up in the square. One that big won’t last very long, though, so you’d better get everyone through it pretty quickly once they’re Marked.”

  As Luke nodded and turned to say something to Jocelyn, Clary leaned forward and said quietly, “Thanks, by the way. For everything you did for my mom.”

  Magnus’s uneven smile broadened. “You didn’t think I was going to do it, did you?”

  “I wondered,” Clary admitted. “Especially considering that when I saw you at the cottage, you didn’t even see fit to tell me that Jace brought Simon through the Portal with him when he came to Alicante. I didn’t have a chance to yell at you about that before, but what were you thinking? That I wouldn’t be interested?”

  “That you’d be too interested,” said Magnus. “That you’d drop everything and go rushing off to the Gard. And I needed you to look for the Book of the White.”

  “That’s ruthless,” Clary said angrily. “And you’re wrong. I would have—”

  “Done what anyone would have done. What I would have done if it were someone I cared about. I don’t blame you, Clary, and I didn’t do it because I thought you were weak. I did it because you’re human, and I know humanity’s ways. I’ve been alive a long time.”

  “Like you never do anything stupid because you have feelings,” Clary said. “Where’s Alec, anyway? Why aren’t you off choosing him as your partner right now?”

  Magnus seemed to wince. “I wouldn’t approach him with his parents there. You know that.”

  Clary propped her chin on her hand. “Doing the right thing because you love someone sucks sometimes.”

  “It does,” Magnus said, “at that.”

  The raven flew in slow, lazy circles, making its way over the treetops toward the western wall of the valley. The moon was high, eliminating the need for witchlight as Jace followed, keeping to the edges of the trees.

  The valley wall rose above, a sheer wall of gray rock. The raven’s path seemed to be following the curve of the stream as it wended its way west, disappearing finally into a narrow fissure in the wall. Jace nearly twisted his ankle several times on wet rock and wished he could swear out loud, but Hugo would be sure to hear him. Bent into an uncomfortable half crouch, he concentrated on not breaking a leg instead.

  His shirt was soaked with sweat by the time he reached the edge of the valley. For a moment he thought he’d lost sight of Hugo, and his heart fell—then he saw the black sinking shape as the raven swooped low and disappeared into the dark, fissured hole in the valley’s rock wall. Jace ran forward—it was such a relief to run instead of crawl. As he neared the fissure, he could see a much larger, darker gap beyond it—a cove. Fumbling his witchlight stone out of his pocket, Jace dived in after the raven.

  Only a little light seeped in through the cave’s mouth, and after a few steps even that was swallowed up by the oppressive darkness. Jace raised his witchlight and let the illumination bleed out between his fingers.

  At first he thought he’d somehow found his way outside again, and that the stars were visible overhead in all their glittering glory. The stars never shone anywhere else the way they shone in Idris—and they weren’t shining now. The witchlight had picked out dozens of sparkling deposits of mica in the rock around him, and the walls had come alive with brilliant points of light.

  They showed him that he was standing in a narrow space carved out of sheer rock, the cave entrance behind him, two branching dark tunnels ahead. Jace thought of the stories his father had told him about heroes lost in mazes who used rope or twine to find their way back. He didn’t have either of those on him, though. He moved closer to the tunnels and stood silent for a long moment, listening. He heard the drip of water, faintly, from somewhere far away; the rush of the stream, a rustling like wings, and—voices.

  He jerked back. The voices were coming from the left-hand tunnel, he was sure of it. He ran his thumb over the witchlight to dim it, until it was giving off a faint glow that was just enough to light his way. Then he plunged forward into the darkness.

  “Are you serious, Simon? It’s really true? That’s fantastic! It’s wonderful!” Isabelle reached out for her brother’s hand. “Alec, did you hear what Simon said? Jace isn’t Valentine’s son. He never was.”

  “So whose son is he?” Alec replied, though Simon had the feeling that he was only partly paying attention. He seemed to be casting around the room for something. His parents stood a little distance away, frowning in their direction; Simon had been worried he’d have to explain the whole business to them, too, but they’d nicely allowed him a few minutes with Isabelle and Alec alone.

  “Who cares!” Isabelle threw her hands up in delight, then frowned. “Actually, that’s a good point. Who was his father? Michael Wayland after all?”

  Simon shook his head. “Stephen Herondale.”

  “So he was the Inquisitor’s grandson,” Alec said. “That must be why she—” He broke off, staring into the distance.

  “Why she what?” Isabelle demanded. “Alec, pay attention. Or at least tell us what you’re looking for.”

  “Not what,” said Alec. “Who. Magnus. I wanted to ask him if he’d be my partner in the battle. But I’ve no idea where he is. Have you seen him?” he asked, directing his question at Simon.

  Simon shook his head. “He was up on the dais with Clary, but”—he craned his neck to look—“he’s not now. He’s probably in the crowd somewhere.”

  “Really? Are you going to ask him to be your partner?” Isabelle asked. “It’s like a cotillion, this partners business, except with killing.”

  “So, exactly like a cotillion,” said Simon.

  “Maybe I’ll ask you to be my partner, Simon,” Isabelle said, raising an eyebrow delicately.

  Alec frowned. He was, like the rest of the Shadowhunters in the room, entirely geared up—all in black, with a belt from which dangled multiple weapons. A bow was strapped across his
back; Simon was happy to see he’d found a replacement for the one Sebastian had smashed. “Isabelle, you don’t need a partner, because you’re not fighting. You’re too young. And if you even think about it, I’ll kill you.” His head jerked up. “Wait—is that Magnus?”

  Isabelle, following his gaze, snorted. “Alec, that’s a werewolf. A girl werewolf. In fact, it’s what’s-her-name. May.”

  “Maia,” Simon corrected. She was standing a little ways away, wearing brown leather pants and a tight black T-shirt that said WHATEVER DOESN’T KILL ME . . . HAD BETTER START RUNNING. A cord held back her braided hair. She turned, as if sensing their eyes on her, and smiled. Simon smiled back. Isabelle glowered. Simon stopped smiling hastily—when exactly had his life gotten so complicated?

  Alec’s face lit up. “There’s Magnus,” he said, and took off without a backward glance, shearing a path through the crowd to the space where the tall warlock stood. Magnus’s surprise as Alec approached him was visible, even from this distance.

  “It’s sort of sweet,” said Isabelle, looking at them, “you know, in kind of a lame way.”

  “Why lame?”

  “Because,” Isabelle explained, “Alec’s trying to get Magnus to take him seriously, but he’s never told our parents about Magnus, or even that he likes, you know—”

  “Warlocks?” Simon said.

  “Very funny.” Isabelle glared at him. “You know what I mean. What’s going on here is—”

  “What is going on, exactly?” asked Maia, striding into earshot. “I mean, I don’t quite get this partners thing. How is it supposed to work?”

  “Like that.” Simon pointed toward Alec and Magnus, who stood a bit apart from the crowd, in their own small space. Alec was drawing on Magnus’s hand, his face intent, his dark hair falling forward to hide his eyes.

  “So we all have to do that?” Maia said. “Get drawn on, I mean.”

  “Only if you’re going to fight,” Isabelle said, looking at the other girl coldly. “You don’t look eighteen yet.”

  Maia smiled tightly. “I’m not a Shadowhunter. Lycanthropes are considered adults at sixteen.”